If it seems like I've abandoned this fic, I'm so sorry. Hope this makes up for the wait. I know it's a little slow paced (most of it is basically Dean angsting :)) so I tried to speed things up a bit. Did it work? Or did it seem too out of place?

The grave would be poorly made, unmarked, and too shallow to hide much for too long. The only trouble would be locating its exact spot amongst all the rose bushes that were planted throughout the yard, seemingly at random, like a forest of blood red. Symbolic. Sticky thorns cradled the silken petals, grabbing hold of his skin and leaving him with many a stinging scratch and itchy fingers. These he shrugged off with a thrust of his shoulder through clawing green, eyes scanning the dark ground with calculated ease.

Honestly, though, Dean grumbled to himself as another branch threatened to tear a rip through his thick jacket, by all rights these stupid roses shouldn't even be there. An abandoned shack with rotting bark in the front and a paradise garden out back? A haunting if Dean ever saw one. And a pretty harmless one at that; maybe even benevolent, if all the pretty, pretty flowers were to be believed. But benign or not, a haunting was a haunting, and as debatable as it might have been, something would have happened eventually, Dean was sure of it. Ghosts and living people just didn't coexist peacefully forever. It was impossible. This one would have to go. Completely disregard the fact that this particular shack is out in the middle of Nowheresville. (come on; im bored) Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do, now was it?

It was frustrating, but he'd been running out of things to hunt lately. Slowly, the jobs he'd taken (alone) had dwindled to a trickle of sporadic, small-time disturbances he could practically finish in his sleep. Even those soon became few and far apart. There was a dreaded thought in the back of his mind that contemplated the idea of… (retirement? gah, kill me now and dump the ashes) Dean suspected the lack of decent hunts might have had something to do with Sam and whatever junk he was getting himself into, but he preferred to dump all the blame on the demon company his brother was hanging with these days. (that bitch)

A branch took advantage of Dean's distraction to whip him across the face, trailing a track of hot welts. He sputtered and flailed, spat out a few razor-edged leaves too, to his chagrin. Once he righted himself to his satisfaction, he grudgingly returned to the thankless task at hand. He huffed a sigh. These jobs just got more tedious and repetitive by the minute. (never thought id say it, but huntings getting to be a drag) Still, Dean shrugged to himself; it served as a pretty decent stress-reliever. And damn it all if he didn't need it.

It was at that exact moment that his foot came down on something unexpectedly smooth and round. And, as legs have the bad habit of doing when confronted by things both round and smooth, Dean's slid out from beneath him, effectively landing him on his ass with a jarring clack of teeth. He groaned aloud. (jesus, i feel old) He turned his flashlight onto the cause of his clumsiness with a grimace. His other hand crept to his back to rub a particularly sore spot. The beam lit on a gleaming sphere jutting from beneath the soil like a piece of treasure. It was a skull, half decayed and peppered with bits and pieces of rotting flesh. No doubt if he got too close, the stench would be enough to knock him out cold. (hmm. typical) Dean shrugged to himself; one man's dead thing, another man's career choice.

He nudged the white skull until the light shone on a thin fissure stretching from a shattered cheek bone, up around the side of the head. The line thickened as it went, until the top of the skull where the bone caved in completely in the shape of a triangle. A few dull red strands of wispy hair clung stubbornly at the base, the tip of the spinal chord looked twisted and out of place.

"Yahtzee,"Dean breathed. A smile snuck across his face.

The flashlight clicked off. His duffle dropped to the ground with a clatter of metal and nearly-hollow cans. He'd brought the shovel as a precaution, but by the looks of things—he worked the shiny white skull from out of the semi-firm soil and twisted it around till he could see the empty sockets, cracked and accusing—all he would really have to do would be to pull out a few bones and dust off the rest. Easy.

Yeah. "Easy."

"Easy" took about four hours, give or take a few minutes, each passing second more exhasperating than the last. Any second now, the sun would even begin peeking out from behind the horizon. And he'd started pretty early, too. Dean was beginning to consider just giving up and letting some other poor hunter deal with the consequences. The thought certainly held some appeal.

Dean swiped at the sweat tickling his eye with his dirty forearm, leaning back on his heels as his stiff back ached in protest. He eyed his handiwork critically.

A pile of dirt-smeared bones and shredded pieces of decayed clothing lay in semi-disarray to his left while a deep trench lay to his right. His fingers twitched in frustration. The stupid roses were getting in the way. Dean's scowl deepened. And no amount of prodding was going to budge those damn roots.

He stared at the mess foliage for a second, seriously mulling over the thought of quitting. Then he had one of those light bulb moments, and a crazed grin overtook his face.

Ten minutes later, he had all his gear packed in the trunk and a self-satisfied smirk on his lips as he revved the engine and high-tailed it out of that godforsaken dump. A plume of smoke trailed up towards the sky behind him, and he could see the bright orange flames licking hungrily at the tiny shack in the rear view mirror, charred rose petals floating down with ash. Behind it, the sun began it's climb up the dusty pink sky. He laughed out loud, a laugh that came out more like a cackle. A part of him stepped back to eye the stranger with his face warily, wondering if he'd finally gone off the deep end. Naturally, Dean ignored that particular thought. He snorted gleefully and gunned the engine till it roared and made his ears ring. She sounded just as juiced as he did and it brought out another roll with laughter.

(never liked roses much anyway)

"Whoo!"

It was a glorious day to be alive.

- - -

Within the first ten minutes of meeting, after Dean's blood calms and Aaron, the poor guy, quits wheezing, a few details dust off and make themselves apparent. One is that Aaron (last name Thomas, retired groundskeeper, and proud father of a graduate from… standford law—figures, dont it?) is far too trusting and agreeable by half. He gestures for Dean to follow with nary a wary glance, and acts as if finally greeted by salvation, as if Dean is somehow the answer to all his problems, instead of something else entirely. Dean knows all too well how easily this momentary lapse of good luck could slip and slide back to the opposite, and he's afraid the old man's faith was damned from the start.

"Um… here's the uh… the—kitchen," Aaron stammers, eyes darting nervously and frequently to his guest. Dean can't help but note that the unquestioning trust has turned into something else. The other man fidgets, watching Dean intently, as if this might all be in his imagination, each wide-eyed glance a confirmation that he is, indeed, not going crazy and this is the real thing. "Would you, like any… thing—?" Aaron gestures vaguely in the direction of his sparse kitchen counter, where a dented tea kettle, a pot, and an assortment of eating utensils lie haphazardly strewn across the dusty granite. A half panicked smile rushes across his face, disbelief still distinctly evident in the corners of the expression.

Dean knows the same look is mirrored on his own features, though he's trying not to reveal too much. "I—oh," he coughs uncomfortably, one hand stretching unconsciously to rub the back of his neck. (well. isnt this—lovely?) He grins shakily at his host, faintly embarrassed. "Sure, um. Got any coffee?"

Aaron breaths a nervous laugh and nods, turning away with obvious relief. Dean can't help the sigh that escapes him; it evaporates like steam, and he feels shaky. He is suddenly completely exhausted, his sinuses achy. The beginnings of a headache worm its way into his forehead, and he is slightly daunted with the prospect of spending hours alone with a stranger. (i dont have the energy to make friends right now)

It's like they don't know what to do with each other, Dean realizes as they tiptoe around each other cautiously. Praying and wishing for someone (human) in the midst of loneliness is one thing. Putting long-forgotten theories to test is on a completely different playing field. After all, Aaron haunted a lonely marble castle for a year, and Dean's been wandering around the remains of the former America with a troupe of hellions. He supposes neither situation would really encourage the development, or practice, of social skills. Whatever those were.

He wonders who he is without masks and guards and walls shielding every turn—a fake personality built on an actor's grin. And he wonders who this man sees in the grim-faced stranger standing so still behind him, barely breathing, raw emotions bitten to the bone. Can he see them? Dean himself doesn't know who he is when there's no one left to act for; his audience is gone, and the script cut him off in the last act. He doesn't know how this will end; no specific options have been left to him this time around.

"Don't mind, do you?" Aaron imposes hesitantly, tapping the worn, dim-colored kettle. Dean's not sure what he means by that, but shakes his head mutely, discomfort spiking at the movement. You could almost call it pain. He is still unable, and somewhat unwilling, to conjure any speck of his old charm—however forced it'd been—and he shies away from the uncomfortable smile Aaron forces onto his lips. They stand in silence, carefully distanced and awkward. The only sound is of a match being struck. Aaron ducks the flame beneath the tin kettle before waving it away in a faint scar of smoke.

"Electricity's been down since the beginning," he explains to Dean in a scratchy voice. He shakes his head to himself and falls silent again, leaving Dean to speculate. What happened, Dean wants to ask. What was it like, not knowing why this was happening, not understanding, and despairing at the cruelty, but choosing to see this life through anyway? Questions pound at his head in throbbing succession. Dean wishes he could just open his mouth and spit out everything he's been bottling up the past months but his jaw somehow locks itself, and he can't seem to make it move. (coward) He looks anywhere but at the hunched man before the old stove. Aaron returns the courtesy with a tactfulness that makes Dean's stomach twist.

He fights the itch to fidget creeping over his limbs. He can see Aaron standing motionless out of the corner of his eye, a mourning statue. The haze of euphoria and utter, utter relief of finding another real, demon-free human being has worn off by now. It's as if Dean's now more prominent cynical side refuses to let him get too comfortable with that much optimism. As if to say, it'll all be ripped away soon enough—why invest so much to begin with? It won't be worth the trouble in the end.

And Dean is beginning to believe in that snide voice from some deep crevice of his mind. He can't afford such a hopeful attitude on life (isnt much of a life anymore, anyway); look how much it's cost him already. Think of how much it is going to take from him.

- - -

Riding high on the "success" of his "hunt", Dean pulled the Impala to a stop in front of their motel room. He stepped out jauntily, quietly grinning to himself. If he could, he'd whistle. To be honest, he didn't quite understand his sudden good mood, but it was the best he'd felt in a long while, and he'd take what he'd get. There hadn't been much to smile about as of late.

He'd left Sam snoring at his laptop yesterday to check out the rosebush thing on his own, since Sam had long since lost interest in those "trivial" hunts, and he was hoping his brother would still be asleep. At the very least, Dean was hoping his brother was still there. Lately, Sam had taken to disappearing for days at a time, leaving Dean to sulk alone and wonder whether or not he'd ever see his brother again. So far, Sam had come back. But every time he felt farther and farther away.

(only a matter of time…)

Dean hated inevitabilities.

He shuffled up the curb, feeling his exhaustion catch up with him now that the adrenaline had worn off. The anticipation of a nice warm shower made him uncomfortably antsy. He dug through his pocket for the key, uncovering more dirt than he was happy with, and fitted it clumsily into the lock before swinging the door open.

What he found struck him utterly speechless, making his blood boil and his mind freeze, disgusted horror bringing up bile.

"Sam?" he could hardly recognize his own voice. "What—are you—?"

- - -

Fifteen minutes ago, Dean might have told you he could save the universe with nothing more than his favorite pistol and a bespectacled, crooked-backed old man standing behind him—a poor replacement for the real thing. (taller, shaggier hair, hunched back because he hates towering over people, puppy eyes that make old ladies melt) Fifteen minutes ago it was like he'd been given a second chance at everything—a do over. Someone somewhere hadn't really given up on him, like he'd originally thought when the whole world literally went to hell. That same someone was opening a new door for Dean to step through and somehow end up the victorious hero. Now he could fix this.

Or so he thought. Fifteen revealing minutes later, he can only picture all the horrible, bloody ways this could all come crashing down on him, throwing him lower than he even wanted to think about. (optimism is overrated. so, for that matter, is hope) Besides, all of this only translates into one more thing for Dean to worry about on top of everything else on his mind, current raging headache included. Dean doesn't want to spend the rest of his life babysitting some old guy. He sighs to himself, unsure where the harsh thoughts are coming from.

A piercing whistle yanks him painfully back. Brief agony jabs behind his eyes, and his vision explodes white for a barely controls the involuntary jerk, and he just catches the hand in its twitch toward the gun resting at the small of his back (paranoid much?). He exhales slowly in an attempt to bring himself back together as Aaron turns away with a crack of aching bones and the kettle's shriek dies down, wailing.

"Sugar?" Aaron croaks over his shoulder. Dean shakes his head, the movement makes the room spin, and then realizes the man's back is still turned. "Nah," he says, clearing his throat. Then he pauses to wonder whether this habit of black coffee is his own or one imitated and copied from his father, just like so many other things in his life.

He takes the steaming mug from Aaron's knobby fingers and seats himself at the little round table in the center of the kitchen. The coffee scalds a stripe down his throat, almost like he's drinking liquid fire, and it tastes more like metal than coffee. He's not more than a quarter done when Aaron quickly refills the mug, eager to please. Steam rises between them like a fog, and Dean is grateful for the shield.

His eyes throb fiercely, and Dean wishes the silence would swallow him up so he could be done with this mess of complications. Since fate would never be so kind to a Winchester, he settles for letting the mug shadow his vision and the coffee burn off his taste buds. It's almost easy to pretend he's still alone moping over the state of the world, and not being childishly petulant and ungrateful. (what the hell is wrong with me?)

But what is he supposed to do now? By some twist of bizarre luck, he's finally found what he's been looking for, but hotheaded as he'd always been, Dean hadn't thought past that. Now he's stuck in a situation full of regrets and shouldn't-haves. (like thats anything new) His forehead throbs again.

"Too watery?" the timid voice jolts him out of his self-pity. It takes all his self control not to jump at the tiny sound. When he looks up, Aaron is watching him with a curious look, though it dips towards concern when Dean just stares blankly.

"Pardon?"

"The coffee," Aaron explains. "It's not the best, is it?" He says it apologetically, misunderstanding the light grimace on Dean's face. "I'm sorry. I've just gotten so used to it, so… you know. Hey—are you okay?"

Dean only grunts in response, his teeth clenched. The throbbing in his head has reached its peak, and his eyes water in pain. He blinks frantically. There's a loud clang by his foot, and Dean realizes he's dropped his mug. Scalding hot liquid splashes down his pant leg, but that pain is overpowered by the agonized pounding behind his eyes. He can hardly breathe. Distantly, he hears a voice as if from far away, calling or yelling or… something. Suddenly, the pain shoots up and takes Dean under.

Images flicker across his vision, too fast to see, whirling colors and flashes of blinding lights. There's a roaring in his ears that blocks out all other sound. He can't move, and the only thing keeping him from panicking is the memory of Cold Oak nearly three years ago.

Dean? Where are you?

Sam's voice hisses in his ears, leaving echoes in his head, as if they are calling to each other across a deep canyon. Dean's senses are filled with the stink of sulphur and ozone, and a heavy presence settles on his mind. It feels too much like suffocation.

(sam? dude, what the hell?)

Dean, I know who Lilith is possessing. Stay away from him.

(wait—what? him? sam—what does that—)

An image flashes behind his eyes; for the briefest moment Dean sees the form of a man, standing rigid and tall, eyes glowing an unearthly, milky white. It is a far cry from Lilith's favored meat suits—the ones with pitails and Sunday church frocks that smile innocently, and tinkle a laugh while they tear you to bits—but it still holds that same unnerving quality that marks Lilith as the possessor. The image flickers and disintegrates, bursting into a shower of fading dust leaving white spots imprinted on backs of his eyelids. The heavy weight crushing his senses slowly lifts, fading, and along with it, the echoes of the soft hissing voice and the muggy stench of demons.

Back in the real world, Dean gasps, jerking back to himself. He gulps air like he's drowning, his head spinning, he is disorientated. He's on the ground, he notes vaguely, still not able to get enough oxygen to fully function. His eyes burn with the afterthought of the forced vision and his jaw aches with tension. Dean looks up, squinting at the harsh light that beats down on his eyes and blinking to clear his blurry sight; his spine feels uncomfortably stiff. A silhouette bears down over him, big and black and eerily familiar. Dean can see the edges of the ceiling light spiking around the hard lines of the figure. Something nags at the back of his mind, sending chills of unease racing along his neck. (whats with the déjà vu?)

"Uh—Dean? What happened? You okay?" Light glints off the twin strips of narrow glass. The likeness makes Dean's blood freeze. His mind makes the connection with a click that was surely audible. He viciously shoves down the panic that surges in him.

"Dean—that is your name, right?"

He struggles with the similarities. But it couldn't (come on, what are the chances?)—coincidences like that just don't happen. Unless it isn't one.

The figure looms closer—menacingly, almost—and Dean can't help the flinch, horror settling in him, a huge boulder rocking against his center. He ignores the concern (fake) lurking in those murky blues hovering above him. Dark fear makes his limbs unbearably heavy, and it's all he can do to just breathe. There's no way out of this, Dean can see that. No point in trying to delude himself. Besides, he's is all out of bravado; that couldn't save him now anyway.

"Are you alright?"

The voice is soothing, still hiding behind the thin film of shyness, but full to the brim with worry—every bit the concerned host, played to perfection. (and i cant believe i actually bought it) Dean's expression hardens, he tucks away his bitter disbelief and anger at his own stupidity—any flicker of betraying emotion—and he raises his eyes to meet his fate head-on, resigned but defiant. It is too late for any last minute saves. And Dean is sure there's no going back or second chances this time. His insides seethe (toolatetoolatetoolategoddamnit!) and the silent realization thuds in his head, so obvious he can't believe he didn't see it before.

The man from the vision—Lilith—is Aaron.

Cliffhanger(s)! Honestly, it's just because I'm lazy. Hopefully, in the next chap, we'll actually have things happening. Just a warning: Since you have all undoubtedly already witnessed my rididulous slowness, then you know that it'll be a while before that update. Sorry 'bout that :)