A/N: Giant apologies for the delay. I can promise that I've already written the next chapter and sent it off to my beta, so hopefully this marks the end of the two-month mini-hiatuses. Graduate school can be a little life-devouring sometimes. Hopefully the length of this chapter (somewhat) makes up for the extended wait. Spoilers ahead for the second half of SPN season 9.

Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to everyone!

February 16th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 1:25 p.m.

"The musical wasn't half bad."

"Mmm." Dean glanced away from the screen of his laptop, where an episode of the Wire was playing out with its customary gunfire, to the ghost who was pacing back and forth in front of the doorway.

"Don't get me wrong," Faith added, "I definitely think they could have used an editor and cut it down by half an hour, but the music was pretty okay."

The hunter slid his finger over the computer trackpad, pausing his show. "Ah. You were listening then. I wasn't sure."

Faith snorted. "As if I'd ever pass up the chance to watch you make Becka's fiancé wet himself? Please, Dean. You know me better than that."

"Good point." He clicked 'play' again, then casually wondered, "You okay?"

"Huh?" She stared at him in surprise.

Patiently, the man explained himself, "If you were there, then you saw everyone – Angel, Spike, Fred, Drew, the girls . . . That can't have been easy."

The ghost cocked her head to one side and blinked. "I – I don't . . ." She paused, frowning thoughtfully. "It's been a year, Dean. I don't feel things the way I used to. It's all fuzzy. Unless I super focus on something, it's all fuzzy. Funny thing is, it doesn't really bother me that much."

"Hmm." Dean flashed her a glance heavy with concern, but the Slayer shrugged it off. Honestly, she didn't mind the fuzziness. It kept the existential crises to a minimum.

"I overheard you, by the way," she continued, deciding to let the cat out of the bag. "Talking to Sam earlier. About Kevin."

The hunter's shoulders slumped. "So you know – "

"About the Veil being the sticky spider web of doom and all of us ghosties being the flies? Yeah, I know. Not that it really changes things for me – not with Crowley making his fricking deal and all."

"Speaking of Crowley," Dean turned the volume up on the computer and reached for the longneck beer that he had brought back with him from the kitchen, "I've been doing some thinking."

The Slayer perched her ghostly hindquarters on the edge of the bed and crossed one knee over the other, looking up at him. "Go on."

"He said his contact was dead, didn't he?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Then we work this one piece at a time. Step one, we get Cain's old blade. Step two, we get Crowley to cancel his end of the deal."

Faith's forehead wrinkled. "Why would he do that? I mean, other than the fact he's had a hard-on for you since like, ever."

Dean choked on his beer and burst into a spluttering coughing fit. When he could catch his breath, he sputtered, "Crowley doesn't – "

"Please." She cut him off with a smirk. "And he's not the only one, either. The way Castiel looks at you sometimes . . . "

The hunter's irritation was replaced by a flash of panic. "You haven't been . . . You don't show up around Cass, do you?"

"Why, don't want the new boyfriend to feel threatened by the ex?" Faith drawled sweetly, batting her eyelids.

"Faith!"

"Relax, cowboy. I'm just messing with you." The ghost tossed her head. "Don't worry. I keep my angel snooping to a strict minimum. I mostly just listen in on conversations when he's in the bunker. Somebody's gotta keep an ear out, see if he's convincing you and Sam to do something stupid."

Dean grit his teeth. "Could you quit with the suspicion?"

In response, the Slayer rolled her eyes. "Could he start acting like he has more than two brain cells? Besides, Cass has been mind-controlled and manipulated before. Who's to say it won't happen again?"

"Wow." He whistled through his teeth. "You really are almost as paranoid as me."

"Damn straight. It's what keeps me alive." Faith frowned. "Or, what kept me alive, I guess. Anyway, back to your brilliant plan. Step two, you get Crowley to swear off my soul in exchange for letting him stick his tongue down your throat."

"Faith!" Dean hissed again, this time more in amusement than outrage.

"What, you don't think Crowley kisses dirty? I bet he's –"

"Step three," the hunter said firmly. "Step three, we deal with Abaddon. Step four, we handle those winged nightmares. Once we take out Metatron, we'll fix the rest of the angels. Step five, we get the Veil re-opened and send you up to Heaven."

"What if I don't like Heaven?" Faith said in a quiet voice, derailing the conversation.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Everyone likes Heaven. That's why it's Heaven."

"What was it like?" the ghost wondered, her voice almost tentative. "That time that you remember?"

"Different," answered Dean slowly. "It's supposed to be made up of your favorite, happiest memories, I guess. And you just kind of wander between them. I only remember a couple, but my mom was there, Sam was there – not sure what the rest of it looks like, to be honest."

"O-kay. Back to the big plan. You really think it'll work out that easy?"

"Once we get the First Blade – "

"Who is this 'we' that you're referring to? You, me, Samwise, and Angel dust?" Fingers interlocked around her knee, she leaned forward. "You really gonna tell them about me? 'Cause you know what'll happen, right?"

Dean exhaled heavily. "They'll try to get rid of you. Like I tried. Only they aren't suckers like me, so they'll probably succeed. No," the hunter dismissed the idea. "This is . . ." He paused, then continued. "This is between you and me. And as long as you can keep it together, it's going to stay that way."

"Me, keep it together?" The Slayer said in tones of feigned shock. "Dude, I'm not the one who gets sloppy drunk, mistakes the waitress for a girl he slept with in high school, and got us kicked out of the bar before I'd even gotten my french fires."

Dean winced. He could remember the night she was referring to easily. It had been years ago, back when Sam was still at Stanford. They hadn't known each other too well in those days, and somehow through a combination of exhaustion and the greater portion of a bottle of Wild Turkey, he had lost control a little bit. "That was one time. I did that one time. It wasn't – wasn't a good day."

"Hey, don't do that," said Faith, watching his face, and catching the first hints of a slide into despondency. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. Guess my sense of humor's kind of messed up now, too, huh?"

Dean flopped backwards onto his bed without bothering to crawl under the covers. "Your sense of humor's always been messed up," he countered.

Faith sent a pillow zooming at him with a flick of her fingers. He jerked his hands up in time to catch it. Half-smiling, the hunter stuck the pillow beneath his head and wriggled around on the mattress until he got comfortable. "Nap time," he announced. "If you're sticking around, turn up the heater."

"What do you think I'm gonna do, watch you sleep? Jeez, Dean, I'm not like Castiel. I got better things to do with my time than to watch you mouth-breathe."

"I do not mouth-breathe."

Taking pity on him, she retracted her accusation. "Okay, you don't always mouth-breathe. But you do sometimes. Hey," she added at his crestfallen expression, "At least you snore less than your brother."

"Well, now I feel all better," said Dean sarcastically. "Thanks for that."

The Slayer beamed, and she laid down on the far side of the bed, folding her arms across her chest and gazing up at the ceiling.

Dean turned his head to glance at her. "That do anything for you?"

"Not really," answered Faith mournfully. "Takes more work than I'd like not to fall through it onto the floor. But if I imagine hard enough, I can almost feel the mattress."

"G-d." He rolled back over until they were facing one another.

"Do you mind if . . . I mean, can I?" Faith gestured with ghostly hands to the dark red bulging Mark pressed into the flesh just above his right elbow.

Dean shrugged. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out, slim."

Faith reached out and traced the edge of the Mark with a single translucent finger. Then she glanced up into the hunter's green eyes. "It's burning," she said in surprise. "Does it feel that way to you, or is it just me?"

The hunter lifted his other hand up to touch the Mark, inadvertently passing through Faith's wrist as he did so. "It's warm," he replied shortly. "But not burning. You're frakking cold, though."

"But that's not new," the two said in unison.

Faith smiled, almost sadly, and she retracted her hand. "You should get that nap. Before another crisis hits."

"Yeah." Dean gave her a long, hard look, and then he turned onto his back with the ghost of a sigh. "You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right," said Faith, more cheerfully this time. "When am I ever not right?"

"That time you tried purple lipstick," Dean mumbled, already drifting off. "Gotta say Faith, violet just is not your color."

February 16th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 5:30 p.m.

By the time the hunter awoke, the glowing digital clock on the nightstand showed that four hours had passed. The lights had all been turned off, and the room was comfortably warm, for once. In the last year, he had gotten used to being cold more often than not, but that didn't mean that he liked it.

Still in the half-lucid land between dreaming and sleeping, Dean rolled over towards the other side of the bed. Yawning, he rubbed ineffectually at his gritty eyes. He'd left his phone somewhere over there, hadn't he?

Halfway across the mattress, the man found himself immersed in ice. The room plunged from warm to many, many degrees south of freezing, and in the deep spaces of his mind where there was usually nothing but silence, something uncomfortable and alien was suddenly crowding him.

"Get out!"he shouted, but the words never made it to his vocal cords. The ice expanded, filling every corner and crevice of his body, and something feral snarled inside his head, in the place where nothing that was not him should ever be.

"Get off!" He felt rather than heard a furious, high-pitched, equally panicked voice.

"Get. OUT!"

"Get. OFF!"

"OUT!"

"OFF!"

"OUT!"

"OFF!"

With a jerk and a sharp inhale, the hunter managed to fling himself off the bed and onto the rug that cushioned the concrete floor. Only belatedly did he recognize the voice that had been screaming inside his head. "What the hell was that?" he asked, rubbing at his chest where the cold and the pain continued to linger.

From above him on the bed, the dead Slayer stared down with wild eyes as she clutched at her throat. "I think . . ." She gulped audibly. "I think I just possessed you."

Dean scrambled onto his feet. "The frak, Faith?!"

The Slayer was instantly across the room, leaning against the far wall with her hands held up in a placating gesture. "Sorry," she said with a wince. "I didn't mean to do it. But you kinda rolled on top of me . . . And then it just kind of happened."

"Right." The cold finally receding from his chest, Dean took in a deep breath. "Right," he repeated, retreating towards the wall closest to him. He slowly slid down the plastered surface until he was sitting on the floor. The hunter was beginning to realize that it might be time for a conversation about co-sleeping and boundaries. "We need to get this Heaven and Hell thing figured out," he said at length, making the understatement of the century. "Cause this? Not working so hot."

"Yeah," murmured Faith in agreement. "I know."

"Like, really, really not so hot."

"Heard you the first time, Dean. I'm dead, not deaf."

"Yep. Well, guess at least I'm awake now." Dean stood abruptly and crossed to the door in three quick steps. "And I need a drink."

March 7th, 2016, Waterbury, Connecticut, 11:42 p.m.

Cold wind. A moonless night. Empty warehouses, their windows shattered and their insides gutted. The faint rumble of an adjacent highway. After the quiet of the bunker and of the Veil, the desolation of abandoned factories in post-Industrialization Connecticut was music to Faith's metaphorical ears and manna to whatever was left of her soul. She glanced to her left, a hundred feet away where Dean Winchester was rounding the far corner of the warehouse of interest tonight. Word on the street had it that there was a particularly nasty nest of vamps who like to squat in this district. And by street, Faith meant the demon bar that she had convinced Dean to drop into earlier this evening.

The more time that went by between her Fyarl-driven fatality and the present, the less she cared about policing her own thoughts. Her world had been stripped away, leaving her with little motivation and even fewer priorities. She had one job, namely to keep one Dean Winchester out of trouble. As a prime instigator of that trouble, Sam was sometimes on her sh-t list, alongside one particularly literal angel of the Lord. It wasn't that she disliked them, per se. It was just that they made her job harder.

Sam had no idea what was going on tonight, which was exactly how Faith liked it. Dean had lied to his little brother, telling him that he was taking the night to look up an old friend in Bridgeport. Instead, he was an hour north, casing a different city for vampires, as both he and the Slayer were becoming uncomfortably antsy. Sam appeared to have taken the lie at face value – all for the better. Faith had long ago passed the point where she felt guilty about the Winchesters lying to one another. It was just one more thing their family excelled at, along with hunting, dying, and making deals with demons.

This was simply the latest in a series of hunting exercises. Faith and Dean had slowly been testing her limits in an attempt to determine how far she could be from the cross necklace before her ability to move and to manifest faded. Whenever too much distance grew between them, Faith would be snapped back to the cross, like a breaking rubber band. It was spectacularly uncomfortable, especially when she overshot too much and snapped herself right back into the Veil.

So far, they had managed to work her up to a hundred yards of distance. But even that had Faith feeling like she was on the verge of mental hemorrhoids. She focused and concentrated until every inch of her spectral soul ached, and she moved one foot in front of the next. She hesitated outside one of the warehouse windows, the upper right quarter of which had been shattered, with a gaping jagged hole and spidery cracks that spread their way out to the far corners of the windows.

Faith brushed a goopy, mucus-clumped lock of hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She counted slowly – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten – then drifted through the steel wall into the warehouse proper.

Once inside, the Slayer closed her eyes and listened. She heard the faint rustle of footsteps somewhere above her. Faith paused a moment more to reassure herself that the noises were not of the rodent variety, and then she flung her arms out to her sides and ascended upwards to the second floor. Stairs – and gravity – were constructs that applied more to the living than the dead.

She found herself standing solidly in the middle of a toilet. With a shake of her head, the ghost stepped forward through the porcelain bowl, past a warped wooden door, the white paint peeling in long, narrow strips, and along a low-ceilinged hallway. Were she alive, the abandoned building would have been mildly creepy.

As it was, Faith stifled a yawn. Creepy was among the many words that had lost its meaning since she became a ghost, along with 'nap time,' 'heart-racing,' and 'cheeseburger.' G-d, what Faith would do for a cheeseburger. Or a nap. Or a hot shower.

Focus, she reminded herself as the muted noise of angry voices reached her ears. Focus. She moved further down the hallway, and the crusty metallic tang of dried blood combined with the fetid reek of corruption filled her nostrils. Rounding the corner, the ghost entered a large room, its ceiling supported by rusty iron columns. The floor was scattered with human remains in various stages of decomposition. Paired wounds were visible at the wrists and necks of the fresher corpses. Faith wrinkled her nose in disgust. Vampires.

Gliding by the worst of the carnage, she approached the far end of the room, where five figures doing a fantastic impression of hobos were seated around a steel bin filled with burning trash. The figures – vampires, Faith concluded at the sight of fangs and heavily ridged foreheads – were grumbling to each other about something, but the ghost did not care enough to pay attention. She was far more interested in the wooden pallets that they were perched on.

Come on, Dean, thought the ghost impatiently. Time to get this show on the road.

She waited for what felt like an eternity (but was really only five minutes), when one of the bodies lying just outside the circle of vampires moaned and twitched.

The tallest of the vamps chuckled. "Well, lookie here. Guess we got ourselves a live one." He moved into a half-crouch and grabbed the whimpering human by the hair, dragging him back toward the fire. In the dim orange light, Faith could easily pick out the human's features. He was a boy, maybe all of twelve years old, his sandy blond hair matted across his forehead with still-glistening blood.

Time was up. She couldn't delay acting any longer. Her gut clenching, the Slayer forced herself to concentrate just a bit harder, and she manifested in the center of the circle of vamps.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said casually, crossing her arms over her leather jacket.

To a one, the vampires jumped to their feet.

"What the . . ." spluttered the sole female vampire.

"Is that a –" hissed one of the males.

"Ghost?" finished another.

"By G-d, it is," laughed the tall vamp, and he dropped the boy onto the hard floor. "Didn't realize these here digs were haunted. Where you been, girlie? We done been living here for a month. You sleepin' this whole time?"

Faith bared her teeth. "Let's just say I like to ramble." She grabbed the back of the boy's collar and then disappeared again, hauling him to the far side of the room, before returning to the vampires. They were frozen in shock, which gave Faith the moment that she needed to act.

As the ghost clenched her hands into fists, the wooden pallets creaked and splintered into a hundred fragments. "Say hello to my little friends," growled the Slayer, and then she opened her palms.

The shattered pallets exploded into the air, piercing the bodies of the vampires like buckshot scattering out of the barrel of a shotgun. The vampires hollered, then screamed as Faith used her remaining energy to grab them one by one by their coats and hurl them into the trash can fire, where they soon crumbled into ash.

Satisfied, Faith plodded one slow step at a time to the still-moaning boy. He had curled up around himself, clutching his elbow, which was twisted at an awkward angle. More likely a dislocation than a fracture, if Faith's instincts were anything to go by. She reached out to touch him, but instead was jerked into the icy mist of the Veil. The Slayer had finally overextended herself.

Faith drifted momentarily, and then panic filled her. She had to get back. She had to protect something. But she could no longer remember who or what that something was. Gradually, the urgency drained away to be replaced by apathy, until something startled her out of her daze.

"Hey! Faith!"

Even in the confusion of the Veil, she knew that furious voice. The Slayer gave one last push and flickered back to existence. She stared into a familiar pair of green eyes.

"Get the kid," she mumbled hoarsely, her gaze drifting from the man's face to the silver cross dangling from his neck. "Burn the . . . Burn the rest."

And then, utterly exhausted, she faded back into the Veil.

March 8th, 2016, Greenwich, Connecticut, 5:07 a.m.

"You did good."

While she had been out of things, the hunter had driven them halfway to New York. The Slayer now sat in the front seat of the Impala, her legs curled beneath her. Dean was blasting both AC/DC and the heater, and the ghost's necklace was once again hanging off the rearview mirror.

"Thanks," Faith croaked, and she turned her head to watch the dark telephone poles flashing by outside the window.

"Took the kid to the local ER," said the hunter conversationally.

Leaning her shoulder against the chill of the glass, the Slayer managed a faint smile. "Good."

In a carefully controlled voice, he mused, "Had no idea you could do that. The pallet thing."

"Me either."

"Kinda more . . . intense than your usual. You feeling okay?"

The ghost swiveled in her seat long enough to give him a surprised look and a sardonic, "I'll live."

Dean snorted. "Nice one."

"I didn't mean it like . . . Never mind. What took you so long anyway?"

Chewing on his lip, he admitted, "Stairs were busted. Had to find a creative way to get past 'em."

"Oh." Faith glanced back to the window. She could already feel herself slipping away into the Veil. "I'm gonna . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"It's okay. You go recoup wherever it is you recoup."

Although the permission was unnecessary, the Slayer appreciated it regardless. "Mmm."

"And Faith?"

She twisted to see his pensive expression. "Yeah?"

"You did real good back there." Dean cleared his throat. "I mean it. I'm proud of you."

March 23rd, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 8:20 a.m.

He had planned on the Slayer being pissed when she found out about his little trip to visit Cuthbert Sinclair, sorcerer and Men of Letters reject. What he had not planned on, however, was for her to listen without saying a word until his story had spun to its end, and he tugged the donkey jawbone out from beneath the hem of his coat to show her the First Blade. The ghost's eyes sparked darker with interest, and then she pushed herself away from the wall of the hunter's bedroom.

"Allow me to dig the metaphorical wax out of my ears," Faith began lightly. "You did WHAT?!" Her voice leapt up an octave and boomed out several decibels. "Without me?"

"Look," soothed the hunter, "it's no big deal. We snuck in, I got the blade, I put Sinclair down, not a big thing. 'Sides," he glanced off to the side, scratching the back of his neck, "I was trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" The Slayer laughed, a dry, empty rattle that set Dean's teeth on edge. That . . . that was a not a Faith laugh. That was a ghost laugh. The old fear – held at bay for the last few months – surged again. If she was beginning to change . . .

Still laughing, the ghost continued, "Hate to wet the paper for you, Dean, but I'm dead. Ain't nothing I need protecting from."

That was enough. Dean crossed the room until only two feet of space remained between them. "You miss the part of the story where I told you how Sinclair hoarded magical artifacts?" he growled. "Well, guess what, Faith? A cross with the ghost of a damn Slayer attached to it? Last time I checked, that falls under the category of magical artifacts!"

Shaking his head, the hunter took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "If I'd brought you with me, he'd have twigged onto the necklace in a second, and it would have made the job a nightmare. Anyway," he stepped backward, "like I said, I've got the blade." Dean gave the weapon an experimental twirl. "No one but Sinclair died. Way I see it, that means mission accomplished."

"Doesn't make it better," snarled the ghost. The temperature in the room began to creep downwards towards freezing, one slow degree at a time.

Dean's foreboding grew. First weird laughs, now temper tantrums - this was not good. "The Hell it doesn't," he snapped back. "And quit messing with the heat just because you're pissy."

"Wrong." Faith tossed her head obstinately, but the temperature started to gradually climb again. "What if you hadn't gotten to the Blade, huh, genius? What if you didn't make it out? Without me to watch your back? You need me," she reminded him.

"I told you already." The man was beginning to lose his patience. "Sam was there, and we had Crowley on standby."

The Slayer rolled her eyes. As if that was good enough. "Right."

He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his new favorite weapon. "You got something to say? Say it."

Faith spread her arms out expansively. "What's the point, Dean?" she asked, her anger suddenly giving way to fatigue. "What's the frigging point to all of this? To me? Unless you let me in on a case, all I do is chill in the stupid Veil. And I'm . . . things . . . it's all slipping.

"Not so much memories," she added at his deepening frown, "but feelings. Like, I remember stuff that happened, but I don't remember why it was so important. You talk about protecting me?" The Slayer laughed again, another broken noise that made Dean's skin crawl. "G-d, why mess with a system that isn't broken?"

"Hey – "

"No." The Slayer prodded the man's chest with one frozen finger. "I'm the one that protects you, remember? I'm the one who hops up onto my white horse and flies across the ocean to help you out with all of your apocalyptic emotional sh-t. Living or dead. Doesn't seem to matter."

Retreating back to her wall, she continued in a calmer voice, "You know, the other day I found myself wondering – why was it that I came every damn time you called? Why was it that I never called you? Why weren't you the one coming to me?"

"I . . ." The hunter started weakly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. That had been a low blow, and they both knew it. "I know I wasn't there. I wasn't there in California, and I'm sor – "

"Whoa, Lone Ranger," Faith cut him off. "This isn't about you, actually. It's about me. So hold off on the martyrdom for a second, okay? The other day I forgot, but this morning I remembered. I didn't call because I had things under control," the ghost explained. "Because as much as we argued, I knew Buffy would come through with the Slayer girl power. Because I'd already survived prison and the explosion of the Hellmouth, and honestly, after that nothing seemed to suck too much in comparison."

Faith ran a hand through her hair and sighed. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, gentler. "And why did I get on that damn plane every damn time? Because you needed the backup, genius, and me – I needed you." She snorted. "Besides, it's not as if I could trust your brother or the feather duster to watch your six. Not like I did. You didn't have to come screeching up in the Batmobile to pay me back; you just had to pick up the phone.

"But it wasn't about owing," she finished. "Not ever. Now . . ." the woman glanced to the side in search of something to relieve the tension. "How about you show me that pretty new toy of yours? And then," as Dean brought the blade further into the light, "whaddya say we blow this place and find us something more fun?"

Dean forced some of the tension out of his shoulders. "Like what? Ghosts Gone Wild: Spring Break Edition?"

"Not quite." The Slayer grinned wolfishly. "I was thinking something more along the lines of a vampire or demon or two. A weapon that can kill anything? I wanna see this beauty in action."

March 28th, 2016, Pawhuska, Oklahoma, 11:00 p.m.

Word had come in the night before. Werewolves were running wild in Osage County, and a local shaman was requesting backup. The Brothers Winchester had packed up their gear and driven the three hours south, passing through the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve on their way to rendezvous with the shaman, Charles Mathews. Earlier this morning, they had met the man in question outside a Quik-Trip gas station, and he had filled them in on the case details.

After spending the afternoon reviewing Charles' notes and speaking to the families of the three dead girls, the hunters split up. Dean sent his brother off with the shaman, claiming that he would be all right on his own. In reality, the sound of the other man's pick-up had barely died away before Dean was digging the necklace out of his wallet and summoning the Slayer out of the Veil by holding a lighter to the base of the turquoise pendant.

"Morning, sunshine," he said to a particularly disoriented-looking Faith. "You been paying attention?"

"No." The ghost yawned. "What's the 411?"

Dean gave her the thirty-second version of the case, concluding with the location of the last murder.

"Gotacha," said Faith when he finished. "We're hunting wabbits – I mean werewolves."

"Cool it, Elmer Fudd," replied the hunter tersely but without heat. "We got work to do."

He drove another ten miles along rural highways out into the sticks before pulling off onto a dirt driveway that led through the loosely-timbered wood where the final victim had been found the previous morning. Faith followed the hunter out of the car and into a stand of scrub oak and cedar. From there on out, the two moved along the path without exchanging another word. As she kept to the hunter's heels, the ghost took advantage of her state of heightened awareness to do some thinking.

Beneath her equanimity, she was still pissed about the business with Sinclair. The Slayer had tried to pretend that it didn't matter, that she didn't care, but under her ennui and boredom ran a quiet thread of anger and resentment. She was more than half-tempted to punch Dean on his perfectly angled jaw. Unfortunately, Faith knew that it would not do anyone a lick of good.

They had been creeping their way through the trees for almost half an hour when Dean stiffened in front of her. The hunter rocked back onto his heels and jerked his head to the side. It was the only warning they had before something hairy and snarling leapt out, crashing into the man, its long yellowed claws piercing his jacket and raking along the side of his neck. Dean went down with an expletive and a thud beneath the heavy body of the werewolf.

Faith did not bother with hesitation or thought. She darted forward and slammed her fist through the creature's spine and ribs. Blood and bone and lungs squished along her path, burning her skin. The ghost splayed her fingers wide open and closed them around the werewolf's heart. And then with a great rip she tore the heart free from its vessel attachments and dragged it back through the ribs out into the night air. She threw the heart onto the spring grass beneath her feet with that hand, and with the other she flung the corpse, oozing blood, off of the hunter.

Shallow claw marks extended from Dean's jaw to his collarbone, and the spray of arterial blood from the werewolf had spattered liberally over the man's face and clothing. His green eyes were wide in shock and something that too closely resembled fear for the ghost's comfort. Faith felt the grin slowly sliding off her face.

"Oops."

April 2nd, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 7:15 p.m.

"What are you – Dean, what is that?" Faith asked worriedly. The rectangular box on the oaken work table looked innocuous enough, but something about its harsh, unforgiving lines and utter lack of decoration made her feel a little queasy. The last time that she had seen the hunter, she had just eviscerated the monster trying to chew his face off. He had not looked too pleased then, and he did not look pleased now.

"Ran an errand to a local welder," answered Dean, which was really no answer at all. He tugged his battered leather wallet out of his jeans pocket and thumbed past the fake IDs and phony credit cards until he came to the silver chain and turquoise cross. The hunter opened the box. Its insides were unlined – the same cold gray metal as the exterior. He dropped the necklace inside.

A freezing burn erupted along every inch of the ghost's skin, and she was dragged, unwilling step by unwilling step towards the box.

"Dean," she gasped hoarsely. "What the f-"

"Iron imbedded with salt. Got the idea from Bobby's panic room."

She was a third of the way across the concrete already, struggling against the compulsion by taking the tiniest steps that she could. "Why?"

The hunter folded his arms over his chest and regarded her coolly, "The hunt a couple of nights ago. You were out of control."

"So you thought it'd be good to have a little torture time?" she asked hysterically

Gritting his teeth, he said, "Until the veil becomes less of the Iron Curtain part two, you're benched."

"Frak you." Despite fighting for every single inch forward, Fatih was now less than a foot from the table.

"You'll thank me later." With a casual flick of his hand, Dean knocked the lid of the box closed.

The ghost was instantly plunged into darkness, trapped wholly in the Veil. Unable to move, unable to manifest, unable to see. Fury swelled within her, but it met no release – only the implacable fire of salt and iron. G-d damn him. How dare he? In that place that was not a place, hot anger coursed from her hairline to her feet, and Faith threw back her head and screamed.

April 6th, 2016, Esbon, Kansas, 10:53 p.m.

Dean Winchester was not generally one to corner other men in the bathrooms of dive bars, but tonight he was making an exception. He 'accidentally' knocked his whiskey into the King of Hell's lap, and then he gave the demon three minutes before following him into the grungy restroom. Reaching across to the creaking faucet, the hunter turned the water off. "Let's make a deal."

Unfazed, Crowley reached for a paper towel and began patting his hands dry. "I'm all ears."

Lowering his voice, Dean asked a rhetorical question. "You want Abaddon dead?"

"Don't act like you're doing me some sort of favor, Squirrel," the demon retorted. "You want to gank the red-headed bitch as much as I do."

The hunter tilted his head from side to side. "Maybe, maybe not. But I don't need your help to do it."

"You need me to find her," countered Crowley.

With a step forward, Dean crowded the demon against the stained porcelain sink. "Uh uh. No. What I need you for – all I need you for – is to burn up a certain contract you made with certain unnamed parties upstairs."

This forced the King of Hell to look up in order to maintain eye contact. "Allow me to hazard a guess. This revolves around your special spectral Slayer, does it not?"

"Watch it," Dean snapped.

"Please." Crowley brushed the man's irritation aside. "You're easy to read. And as touching as your sentimentality might be, the answer is no. I have no interest in being part of your little soap opera. The Brown-Eyed Ghost, the Green-Eyed Boy, and the Red-Eyed King of Hell who has quite enough of your endless drama? I think not. Yes," he added with an eye roll, "I've read those damn books. Oppo research, I believe they call it? Although I must admit there were some interesting," his gaze raked the hunter from head to toe, "parts."

"Enough with the chitchat." Whipping the first blade out from where it had been concealed by his jacket, the hunter shoved it against the soft edges of the demon's throat. "Your life, her freedom."

"Okay, okay," gasped the King of Hell, ever a survivor. "I'll cancel it. There – " He snapped his fingers. "All done. She's free to go upstairs – if the wankers will accept her."

Dean grinned. "You say that like I'm giving them a choice." He released the demon, giving him a push into the porcelain sink edge, and walked out of the bathroom.

"Oh dear," said the demon, sotto voce, as he watched the hunter leave. The King of Hell smirked to himself. A Winchester versus the powers of Heaven? Not entirely original, but at least it would be entertaining.

June 15th, 2016, Lebanon, Kansas, 2:45 p.m.

"You have the blade, now let's go before your brother and his feathery friends get back," hissed Crowley.

"No." Dean wiped the bloody vomit caking his mouth off on his sleeve. His fingers tightened painfully around the raw-hide wrapped bone handle of the First Blade, and he stumbled towards his bedroom. "One more thing I gotta grab."

"I wonder what it could be," muttered the demon under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Dean didn't bother responding. He merely shouldered open the door to his room and then knelt beside his bed. Reaching underneath, he pulled out a wooden casket with a multiplicity of protective and warding symbols burned into the top and sides and an iron padlock that shouted 'serious business.' The hunter placed the hand holding the Blade on top of the box, and then he fiddled with his keys until he found the one to the padlock.

Once he raised the lid of the casket, he looked down at the small iron container inside, ignoring the demon hovering over his shoulder. Dean frowned at the iron box. It maybe hadn't been his best idea - but he had been out of ideas at the time, and he simply hadn't had the energy to deal with a Slayer ghost going rabid on top of everything else. But now, his body was destroying itself from the inside out without blood to satisfy the Mark on his arm, which glowed like the embers of a dying fire, and he was ready to open his own personal Pandora's box.

Dean opened the iron box and carefully removed the necklace inside. As soon as the last links of the dangling chain cleared the iron, an icy wind yanked the cross out of his hands. The customarily Fyarl-snot encrusted form of the dead Slayer appeared, her grip tightening around the cross. Her brown eyes were fathomless pits in a translucent face. She kicked the wooden box closed and then raised her hand. The gesture lifted Dean off his feet and slammed him into the wall opposite, knocking his skull against the concrete with such force that everything went black.

When he came to, it couldn't have been much more than a minute later. Crowley leaned against the closed bedroom door, his eyebrows quirked in amusement. The ghost of the Slayer was hunched in half, bent in two at the waist and grabbing her knees for stability as she vomited chunks after chunks of black ectoplasm onto the threadbare rug.

Dean groaned and pushed himself off the floor with a wince. "You done?" he said when the loud retching paused.

The ghost straightened, flecks of dark goo lingering at the corners of her mouth. "I frakking hate you," she growled, but she made no move to attack him again. The necklace lay momentarily abandoned on the bed. "You have any idea what that thing's like?" She jerked her head towards the horrible box.

"No," admitted Dean truthfully.

"Total sensory deprivation. No sights, no sounds, no nothing. No sense of the Veil, even. Just black. You do that to me again, and it won't be some werewolf's heart I'm ripping out. It'll be yours."

Too exhausted to call her bluff, the hunter only muttered a half-hearted, "Sorry."

"Seriously?" Her voice hitched up several pitches in outrage. "That's it?"

Dean didn't have time for explanations right now. He needed to kill something – preferably Metatron – as soon as possible. "That's all I got. We're," he jerked his head towards Crowley, "gonna go deal with the angel overlord. Step four, remember?" he added with a token smile. "You in?"

The chill in the room abated, and the anger in the Slayer's face faded marginally. "I'm in."

"Good." Dean grabbed the cross from off the mattress and shoved it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt, then turned to the demon. "Let's go."

June 15th, 2016, Manhattan, Kansas, 5:00 p.m.

"No idea you were such a fan of Alice In Chains," Crowley pointed out sardonically two hours into their drive towards Murcie, Indiana.

Dean frowned at the demon for pulling him out of his thoughts. "What are you talking about?"

"It may have escaped your notice, but your radio has been playing Man in the Box for the last half hour."

The hunter fumbled with the stereo controls, but the speakers continued to blare the same damn song. He caught a flash of brown eyes gleaming with triumph from the back seat in the rearview mirror, and then returned to staring at the highway. The Slayer could be many things, he reflected in annoyance – but subtle was not one of them. After a moment, he said, "Knock it off, Faith."

The guitars on the radio cut to silence, and the ghost appeared, fully visible, sitting in the middle of the back seat, her elbows balanced on her knees. "I got some questions."

"Spit," said Dean brusquely. He could feel the weight of Crowley's inquisitive gaze, and it just added to the laundry list of the things that were driving him crazy.

Faith glanced from the hunter to the King of Hell, as if considering her options, and then back to the man. "What's the date today?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"June fifteenth."

"Of?"

"Twenty-sixteen."

"So I was in that box for – "

"Two and a half months, yeah." Dean risked a look in the rearview mirror. "You pissed?" he hazarded.

The ghost shook her head slowly from side to side. "Not as much as I was. Still think it was a sh-tty thing to do."

"You were ripping hearts out," he reminded her shortly.

She threw her hands up in frustration. "He was going to kill you! Don't argue with my methods, Dean. They're what saved your life."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want it to be saved," the man snapped back.

"You don't mean that," scoffed Faith. "Can it, Crowley," she added fiercely as the demon opened his mouth to comment.

"Whatever." Dean shifted in his seat. "Here's the deal. This whole ghost thing – it's finally starting to change you – or maybe I'm finally starting to see it. You never would have done something like that – before."

She sneered. "You really think you know what I would and wouldn't have done? All I do these days is think about my memories. And you know what? There's a lot of nasty things that I did. That I could have done. That I decided not to do. Not entirely sure why I didn't do them, now."

"Hold up –"

"And you know what else? I'm starting to come to the conclusion this isn't all about me. This's about you and that cherry-red sticker print you got tattooed with. You're projecting your crap onto me."

"I am not –"

"Dean."

He lapsed into begrudging silence. It wasn't the word itself that did it, but rather her voice. Exhausted and fading, but still laced with her characteristic undertone of 'Don't make me call you out on your bullsh-t in front of other people.'

After waiting to make sure that he stayed quiet, the ghost wondered, "You said we're on step four?"

"Yep," Dean bit off the final consonant.

"Which means that –"

"Steps two and three are taken care of."

"Okay. I'm . . ." Faith shuddered and dropped her head into her hands. "That damn box," she muttered to the floorboards. "I'm going radio silent. When you need me – "

"I'll call."

As she vanished, the stereo flared back to life, this time blasting 'Back in Black.' Dean instantly recognized it as a peace offering. Despite the shakes that were threatening to break loose in his hands and feet, some of the frustration eased out of his body.

"Well," said Crowley, his thoughtfully narrowed eyes never leaving the hunter's face, "that was quite the conversation. I almost needed a decoder ring."

"Crowley."

"Yes?"

"Shut the frak up."

June 16th, 2016, Muncie, Indiana, 1:05 a.m.

Faith answered the call of pain and fire, allowing it to draw her out of the Veil and back into the clamorous world of the living. She appeared beside the closed trunk of the Impala and raised her eyebrows at the sight of an unconscious Sam laid out flat on his back on the gravel. The ghost whistled, soft and low, then turned to the man who had summoned her.

Lowering his lighter from the silver cross, Dean tucked both lighter and cross back into his pockets. "It wasn't his fight," he said in reference to his brother. "He'll be safer this way." When the Slayer made no comment, he tugged the donkey jawbone out of the waistband of his jeans and tilted it this way and that, appreciating the way the streetlights overhead reflected on the sharp edge of the blade. He exhaled, walked a few steps away from the car, and then turned back to Faith. "You with me?" His voice was hesitant, uncertain.

With a shrug of her shoulders, the Slayer released the last of her resentment. The box had sucked, but she understood why he'd done it. Honestly, she probably ought to have predicted something like it happening, sooner or later. She caught up to him easily and knocked her elbow against his, taking care not to let it pass through him. "Where else?" she said lightly.

Dean cracked a hollow grin, and they set off across the damp, muddy parking lot towards the homeless encampment where Metatron – or Marv, or whatever he was calling himself these days – had set up camp.

Half in a trance, Faith stuck like an invisible burr to Dean's side as he followed the directions of the drifters and the bums towards Metatron. Empirically, she knew that she ought to have been excited – to have felt some sort of urgency. They were so close – so very close to extinguishing the obnoxious clerk angel who had wreaked so much destruction. Instead of excitement, Faith felt calm. Dean had the Blade. He would deliver the killing blow. All that she needed to do was to watch his back and make sure no acolytes snuck up on him. Faith smiled grimly to herself. That was easy. Watching Dean Winchester's back was pretty much the only thing keeping her from insanity these days.

They passed through a gutted packing plant into a deserted room at the back of the facility where a short, curly-haired man with watery eyes sat cross-legged on a shabby mat that proclaimed 'Welcome!' in pale red letters with a matching faded cherry. His eyes were closed in meditation. The angel looked up as the hunter approached.

"Welcome," he said peacefully, but there was something nasty lurking in his gaze.

Dean scowled. "You can save the humble-pie Jesus routine for somebody who gives a damn," he snapped.

Metatron shook his head. "The problem with you, Dean, is the cynicism. Always with the cynicism. But most people – even the real belly crawlers living in filth . . . Or Brentwood . . . They don't want to be cynical. They just want something to believe in. Like your dead girlfriend here." He snapped his fingers, and Faith was once again visible. The angel gave an exasperated sigh. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice her?"

"Dean –"

"Shoo." Metatron snapped his fingers a second time, and the ghost disappeared entirely, banished back to the Veil. "Now, as I was saying," he continued, ignoring the flash of fury in the hunter's green eyes, "your little dead girlfriend wants something to believe in as much as the rest of these people. It's obvious that she's chosen you – a foolish move on her part – but as for the others . . ." He grinned. "They've chosen me."

Damn damn double damn. No, no, no, no. This was not the time to be stuck in the g-ddamn frakking Veil. Faith howled, a primal, animal sound, and reached out for the slender thread that connected her to the turquoise cross still safely buttoned away in Dean's chest pocket. She sprinted through the icy mists of the Veil, chasing the faint strand that would lead her back to the man who desperately needed her. The one person that she still gave a damn about. The one thing that mattered.

Faith kept running, stumbling to her knees and getting up, falling and then rising again, scratching and clawing her way past wave after wave of gray fog, until her knees were bloody from the unforgiving ground and her clothes and body were soaked through to the bone from the damp air. Run as she might, the way out remained hidden from her. Something was blocking her, keeping her from manifesting.

The Slayer bared her teeth in an unholy snarl. Metatron. Scribe of God or not, when she laid hands on that damn angel, she was going to rip out his still-beating heart. She would tear the heart out of his chest and crumble it into a thousand pieces, even if it killed her. She only hoped that she could get to him in time.

Finally, the block disappeared, and Faith burst out of the Veil and back into the abandoned packing plant. The Slayer froze in place at the horrifying sight that awaited her. Metatron was nowhere to be seen, but Sam Winchester was crouched on the cement floor, cradling his brother in his arms. A ragged scarlet hole gaped in the center of the older man's chest. The ghost reached instinctively for her own collarbone, her fingers curving around the upper edge and pressing down painfully.

"Sammy," gasped Dean, his voice barely audible in the silent room. "Sammy, you got to get out of here before he comes back."

The younger man lowered his brother just long enough to pull his arms out of his shirt sleeves and press the fabric to Dean's wound. "Shh, shh," he babbled, panicked. "Shut up. Just save your energy, all right? Oh, man." He pulled the cloth away momentarily to check the bleeding and then pressed it back into place. "We'll stop the bleeding," he promised. "We'll – we'll get you a doctor or – or I'll find a spell. You're gonna be okay." He held his brother's hand to the shirt, now halfway saturated with blood.

Faith moved around the taller hunter's back, careful not to be seen, and then made herself visible. Dean's green eyes locked on hers, and he swallowed.

"Listen to me," Dean said as firmly as he could manage. He addressed his words to his brother, but he kept his eyes pinned on the dead Slayer. "It's better this way."

"What?" exclaimed Sam.

"The Mark . . ." He was running out of air now. "It's . . . It's making me into something I don't want to be."

"Don't worry about the Mark," Sam said heedlessly. "We'll figure out the Mark later. Just hold on, okay? We're gonna get you some help." Rising to his feet, the hunter slipped his arm under his brother's shoulders. He grabbed Dean around the waist and hauled him up from the concrete floor.

The older man groaned, his face going pale as a sheet. He struggled to keep the bloodied shirt holding pressure against his wound as they made their agonizingly slow way to the door. Faith abandoned visibility, and she darted up in front of the two men, extending her hand, palm flat, until it covered the back of Dean's hand. She pushed his hand harder against the cloth.

"What . . ." The hunter caught his breath and then asked Sam, "What happened to you being okay with this?"

"I lied."

A faint chuckle escaped Dean's lips. "Well. Ain't that a bitch."

They made it another twenty feet before Dean stumbled to a halt. "Sam, hold up," he begged. "Hold up. I got something to say to you."

Sam turned to his older brother, fear and concern mixed equally in his hazel eyes. "What?" The words were almost a croak.

Dean collapsed to his knees, and Sam dropped to the ground, pulling the dying man back into his arms. Gasping for air, Dean slowly lifted his free hand to touch his little brother's cheek. "I'm proud of us," he said on an exhale. His eyes drifted toward the side, and the hand clutching Sam's bloodstained shirt twitched purposefully upward, swiping through the ghost's wrist.

Faith knew he was trying to catch her attention. She concentrated as hard as she could and slipped her fingers in between his, then squeezed his hand.

The hunter's eyelids fluttered closed. "Proud of us."

His hand fell away from Sam's face, and Dean crumpled against his brother's chest. Sam jerked back in horror. "No, no," he mumbled. "Hey, wake up, buddy." He pulled his brother back upright, then took the older man's bloody face in both hands and shook him gently. "Hey. Dean. Dean!"

Slowly, the hunter realized what Faith had already accepted. Dean Winchester was dead. Tears began streaming down Sam's face as he drew his brother's head back to his chest. Sobbing so loudly that it echoed off the steel walls of the packing plant, Sam held the dead man as tightly as he could. At length, he lifted his head, took a deep breath, and got to work.

From a slight distance, the Slayer observed as Sam carefully hoisted his brotherover his shoulder and began the long, slow, staggering walk back to the Impala. For the first time since her own death, Faith felt weightless. Her feet seemed to be moving themselves, practically floating above the ground.

Watching the hunter lay the body on the ground, the ghost wondered if she should say something.

Hi, Sam. It's me. I've been haunting your brother. Maybe now he and I can haunt you together? Even in her head, it sounded stupid.

Faith lowered herself onto the cracked asphalt and tugged the collar of her leather jacket closer to her chin. Shifting her knees until she was sitting cross-legged, the Slayer kept her eyes fixed on the back of Sam's too-long hair while he fished in the body's pockets for the keys to the Impala.

With a grunt of effort, the man half-lifted, half-dragged his dead brother into the back seat of the car. It was a long process. Dean Winchester had been neither a short nor a small man. Sam locked his arms around the corpse's chest, underneath the armpits, and hauled him over the leather seats. Tears continued to trail freely down his dirt-streaked cheeks. After all, as far as he knew, there was no one here to judge him now.

Finally, when Sam had his brother's head pillowed on an old junky towel, his face turned up so that it would be visible from the rearview mirror, he closed the door to the backseat and sagged against the gleaming black steel of his brother's car. The hunter wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat, took two deep shuddering breaths, and stood up. "Okay," he said out loud. "Okay."

As he got behind the wheel, moving with the hesitant stiffness of an rheumatic octogenarian, Faith closed her eyes and relocated to the rear passenger floor board. Careful to remain un-manifested, the ghost drew her knees up to her chin. She sat with her back against the door frame, which put her face within a scanty handful of inches from the bloodied corpse's right shoulder. She reached out with her free hand to trace the stubbled edge of his jaw. Where once touching a human had felt like holding her hands over a bonfire, this body had already begun to cool. Life had gone, taking warmth with it. Her hand fell back to her side.

Faith glanced forward when the Impala's familiar engine grumbled its way into a full-on roar. Sam was still crying, although the waterfall had slowed itself to a trickle.

Funny, that. The Slayer leaned her head against the smooth black cotton-poly of the dead hunter's shoulder. She had imagined this particular moment – or some variation along this theme – over a hundred times since the night she first met a green-eyed stranger in a dumb Western bar. But never once had she imagined this.

Dean Winchester was dead, and she was not devastated or broken or taking the express train to Poltergeist-ville. He was dead, and she didn't feel a damn thing.