Cassie wiped at the dry spittle at the corners of her mouth. Dean had fallen asleep, too, spooned behind her with his arms encircling her body like iron chains. It felt good to be held. To be with him. To be getting a second chance at this. But she had to pee.

She wiggled a little and tapped his hand, signaling that she needed to move. "Let me up."

He clung even tighter when she budged.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"Stay." The idea of letting her go was filling him with an irrational panic. He knew it was crazy, but that didn't ease the terror.

"I'll be right back. You want some water?"

"I don't want to let you go. I can't." Dean hoped he had managed to make it sound romantic, not obsessive, like he felt.

Cassie smiled over her shoulder at him. "Do you want me to pee on you?"

"Kinky. Try it."

"Dean." She started to pry his fingers from around her.

He held his breath; sank his teeth into his cheek. Drawing blood and focusing on the sting, he subdued the compulsion to strangle her to keep her from leaving the bed.

Bryce's perfectly sculpted, entirely nude body glistened in the wavering glow of black candles. He sat cross legged in the center of a circle he had chalked on the floor. His eyes were shut and the lids painted black.

The job should have been done, but somehow he had failed. Goddamn it if Dean Winchester wasn't a persistent cancer. The Commander had not communicated in more than a decade. There was no way to know for sure whether the Original Timeline was thwarted. He had once believed himself to have been a child with an overactive imagination, with his memories of men who spoke to him through mirrors. Then he had met Cassie Robinson, precisely when and where the Commander told him he would. The same was true of Winchester. And here those two were, together once again.

In a low voice, he murmured a prayer in a long-dead language. The muscles in his arms twitched as his hands worked feverishly, grinding dark, dried leaves in a large mortar and pestle.

"I am an idiot." Cassie stumbled from her bedroom, sleepily wiping the crust from her eyes.

What had started as a great night had ended horribly and her head still throbbed from forcing herself not to cry about it.

She pulled the cord that opened the blinds and squinted as the sunlight pierced the living room with a harsh light. The next step in her morning routine was to feed the black moor goldfish she'd received as a gag present from her father. According to her parents, she had requested Black Beauty as a kindergarten graduation present. As with every wish she ever made, her dad had promised to fulfill it, when the time was right. On the day of her high school graduation, instead of a horse, he had given her the fish.

"Oh, Marcus. No."

The poor little guy now floated on his side, body stiff as a stone, fins billowing limply on the surface of the water. Gingerly, Cassie scooped her pet out of the aquarium with a net and laid him in a round, steel tea tin. She pressed the lid firmly in place and dropped herself into a chair at the table in front of it. Then, she buried her face in her hands.

Cassie wasn't sure why she hadn't cried at her own father's funeral. Maybe it was because she knew she had to stay focused to solve the mystery of his murder. Or that someone needed be stay strong for her mother. As awful as their breakup had been, Cassie hadn't cried at seeing Dean again after all these years. As difficult as it had been to get over him back then, she hadn't shed a single tear. She had sucked it up, like she always did. Powered through it. Remained tough and pragmatic. Crying never brought anything or anyone back to you. It never fixed anything.

She had known the minute she agreed to go out with Dean that it was a dead-end relationship.

The differences between her parents were only superficial. Cassie was used to people craning their necks in curiosity and, occasionally, malice when they passed. She had grown up like that and didn't care when it happened when she was out with Dean. The trouble was that differences were all there were between the two of them. At least that was how it felt. All they had going for them was really great sex. He was like fire: alluring and hot and constantly threatening to scorch her to the ground. He was something she knew she had no business touching.

You couldn't build a future on sex. Why was she even kidding herself?

"What am I doing? What am I doing?"

She had dated men from around the world: highly educated, wealthy, older, smarter, infinitely more sophisticated men and even one or two whom she found more physically attractive. Among them, Dean was unique in that he was least like her dad, at least on the surface. Her father was a world traveled, well-read, gifted academic and businessman. Dean Winchester was, basically, a hick with a gun and an attitude.

Beneath all the obvious discrepancies, though, they were very much alike. The one thing Dean had in common with her dad was more heart than anyone she had ever met. It was an intangible quality: heart. One thing she knew beyond a shadow of doubt was that Dean cared. Sincerely, deeply. About her. About the whole dying, bleeding world.

What she didn't understand was why he acted out sometimes. It was like he just lost his mind.

Now, finally alone in her apartment, with no one to impress or disappoint, no one to stay strong for or appear weak in front of, she broke into loud, ugly sobs, letting the tears and snot stream down her face and spill salty into her open mouth and down her chin. Her body rattled as she wept like she would never stop crying again.

The guest room door creaked open. Cassie frantically wiped the tears from her face with both hands and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam wandered groggily out of the room. Seeing the bathroom door closed, he knocked gently. Cassie replied, so he walked toward the kitchen, praying for a coffee maker. Instead, he found the fish in a can and small, wet net on the table. He lifted the container and peered in through the transparent top. When Cassie finally emerged from the bathroom, Sam was standing by the table with the tin in one of his large palms. "Should we bury him?"

"It's a fish." She had been going for casual, but had a feeling she had come off sounding bitchy. She drew in her lips apologetically and nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Sam leaned on the shovel and watched Cassie gingerly place the tin into the two foot hole among the roots of an oak tree behind the building. She stood up and settled herself beside Dean's kindly little brother with a sigh.

'Kindly.' It was a word like 'heart.' You don't use it in everyday speech. It's kind of archaic and unusual, but Sam was like that: considerate in an almost weird, old-fashioned way. The word suited him. Kindly and youthful. He was an imposingly large man, maybe a foot taller than she was, with broad shoulders and a long gait. Still, he seemed so tender and young. Maybe it was that mop of hair or that Dean had always referred to him as his baby brother, Sammy, even back then.

"You want a stone or something?"

She shook her head silently, dusting her hands off on her denim skirt. "This is completely ridiculous, isn't it?"

"You've lived with this little guy for eight years. It would be disrespectful to flush him down the toilet."

Cassie nodded, took the shovel from him and filled the hole. "So, you and Dean are experts. Where do fish go when they die?"

Sam gave her a good-natured smile. "We haven't encountered any fish ghosts yet, which I would interpret to mean that most of them have finished their earthly business when they depart."

He was glad to see Cassie laugh. She had been through quite a lot in the last month and he had an idea how she felt. He took the shovel from her hands and began to accompany her back to the building.

"So, what else do you guys just have in your trunk besides shovels?"

Sam tensed at the question, "You probably don't want to know."

She considered who she was talking to and agreed, "No. I probably don't. Have you heard from Dean?"

Dean had texted his brother to meet him at this all-you-can-eat restaurant. When Sam finally found him in the crowded place, he was hunched over, clumsily shoveling a bacon double cheeseburger into his mouth with sloppily bandaged hands. A thick, pink gash ran down the side of his face, but obviously did not interfere with the enjoyment of his meal.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Dean grunted and gestured toward the buffet. After a few minutes, Sam slid into the opposite booth with his plate of salad. "Please tell me it's not another shapeshifter?"

Sometimes these things had families and cohorts who sought revenge. Maybe it wasn't so smart coming back to this town before getting the lay of the land. But was Dean really crazy enough to try to take them on alone?

"Sam. Eat," Dean ordered through a mouth full of food.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Sam raked his fork absentmindedly through the lettuce. "Where were you this morning?"

"Out."

Sam speared a tomato and forced himself to chew and swallow.

"Had some stuff to take care of," Dean answered through his last mega mouthful of burger.

The truth was, he had slept in the car, but he wasn't about to admit to it.

"Cassie's fish died." Sam continued to eat, more out of habit than hunger.

"Marcus Harvey?"

"Garvey. He was a… never mind." Sam shook a little salt over his plate and surveyed the salad. Maybe he should have it packed to go. Dean would have a field day with that.

Dean sucked his teeth. "She loved that fucking fish."

"Yeah, I know. I helped her bury it." He forced down another bite.

"Oh. Cool."

Nicole, their waitress, was a pretty blonde. The kind of girl Dean usually went nuts for. She leaned on the edge of the table, batting her lashes shamelessly and asked, "You boys need anything else?"

"I'm good. You?" Dean asked Sam without really looking at her.

As she walked away Sam gawked, "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

Sure, Dean had seen the girl. He wasn't dead. There were just more pressing matters on his mind. He threw a twenty on the table and started to get up. "Geek."

LAST NIGHT

It had been quite dark out by the time Cassie slipped from the bathroom. Unable to make himself let her go, Dean had followed her as far as the living room. Feeling needy and alone, he tried the locked doorknob before rubbing his hand pathetically down the bathroom door. Then he tapped lightly on it with his middle finger before compelling himself to back away

By the time she came back out, he had gratefully regained some measure of self-control and felt like himself again. Her hair was damp and dripping onto the shoulders of a grey t-shirt dress that skimmed her knees. She slowly ran a wide-toothed comb through her locks as she declared, "Okay. Water's nice and hot. You're up."

Dean left his post by the entertainment center and gave a lecherous smile. He took the comb from her hand. She looked up into his eyes as he carefully stroked her head with his palm after each pass of the comb through her thick hair. Reveling in the familiar, tropical scent of her shampoo, he worked meticulously, like a small girl grooming a cherished doll. When he was done, he returned the comb and smirked. "I smell like you. I'm not washing that off until I have to."

She swallowed thickly and swayed slightly where she stood, feeling dizzy and warm. Already, again, her body ached for his touch, but Dean stepped away to drop the needle on the record he had left spinning. He closed his eyes and reveled in that holy vinyl scratch before the song began to play.

His lips pursed like Jagger as he nodded in time to the opening guitar riff of one of the greatest songs ever written. Lip syncing the words, he started a slow two-step toward her. 'Baby, when I think about you, I think about looooove.'

Cassie scratched her neck and looked away, trying not to let on how much she adored his antics.

Dean spun and began to sing out loud, "And if I had those golden dreams…"

His voice wasn't great, but he was really into it. On the word "yesterday," he took her hand and drew her close. She laughed and let him have his way.

"I feel like makin'." Dean released her to get low with some funky air guitar. "Duh-dunt dun, duh-dunt dun. Duh-dunt dun."

His voice cracked on the high notes of the chorus, but he kept on singing and performing as if he was on stage in a stadium in front of forty thousand adoring fans. "Feel like making love to you."

When Paul Rodgers started crooning the second verse, Dean took his lady in his arms, mimicking the wisp of a memory of his dad with his mom. He planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, still whispering the words against her neck. He couldn't help bang his head just a little when the choruses rocked out so hard. Out of respect, he didn't speak a word until the guitar solo. "Yeah. Now this is music."

"What is this?" Cassie thought the song wasn't horrible.

Dean immediately stopped dancing and took a step back. They'd had countless moments like this back then. It was like they were from different planets. How had he managed to fall for a girl who didn't know this song? "You're kidding, right?"

She listened to a few more bars before shaking her head.

Dean didn't even try to conceal his disappointment. He clasped his head against his forehead and sighed. "It was in your stuff. Bad Company. Straight Shooter. Come on, Cassie. Meet me halfway."

"Oh. I got that from you. Remember?"

Now that she'd said it, he did remember. He'd bought it for her at a consignment store while she shopped for clothes. They'd listened to it that same night while making dinner over her hot plate. "Well, at least somebody in your life has good taste."

He pulled her close again, just enjoying the music and the feel of her small, warm body against his. Her slight curves so familiar. Just like back then, he couldn't believe this exquisite creature belonged to him, even if only for the time being. Dean thought about saying something like that and figured it would come across all wrong. She'd start a speech about slavery or human trafficking. Instead, he let himself get swept up by the music. "What do you have that comes close to this?"

Cassie was ripped out of her own reverie, but she reached for a good answer. "Mmmm. Luther Vandross."

"No way. God, no." The thought of that whining made Dean's balls shrivel just a little.

Cassie smiled. She had a very clear memory of Dean's reaction the first time she had put on a little smooth jazz to set the mood. He had nearly curled himself into a ball and started weeping in agony. "Okay. Barry White," she tried again.

Dean weighed the suggestion with a back and forth tilt of his head. He had to admit, the guy had a kickass speaking voice. He could just imagine all the ladies dropping their panties on command of that voice. He did his best Barry White impression: "Whatever whatever."

Cassie laughed and shoved him a little.

As "Weep No More" began to play, Dean picked up the pace of their dancing just a bit. He heard the lyrics in a way he hadn't before.

I hear your voice in the wind

And I feel your tears in the rain

Shadows of night are falling

Can't you hear me call your name

Somehow, just being close with Cassie jolted up a long gone image of his dad playing guitar while both of his parents sang harmonies. How could he have forgotten that? Was it even real? So much of his life was just dark and cruel. But not this. This was pure goodness. This girl was going to be his salvation. Dean knew that, like he always had.

Cassie swayed easily with him, her wrists locked behind his neck. Dean looked at her mouth. Just looked at it. Girls were always going on about his lips, but Cassie had, by far, the most succulent mouth he had ever kissed. Full lips that made him hungry. Made him want to slow fuck her into eternity. Back then, she always used to wear chapstick that he thought was watermelon flavored. Mentioning that had started fight.

Dean slid the tip of his tongue across the seam of those sumptuous lips. His intention was to drive her crazy, to wind it up and make it last until she never wanted to let him go. Instead she pushed him away. "Shit."

"What?" Dean furrowed his brow, uncertain what he had done wrong.

"I totally forgot. I have a deadline in two days. I haven't done a single thing. .. I don't know why I thought I'd get anything done back home… Shit."

"How can I help?"

"You can't. Just let me work." She peeled his hand from her arm.

A bitter twinge went through him, like a dagger twisting in his gut.

Sensing his disappointment, she touched his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"No. No problem."

As she started from the room, his fist battered the record player. The disc splintered. Unable to stop himself, he viciously hammered and banged the machine with his bare hands like an enraged primate. Every time he brought his hand down, it was her face he saw in his mind. He imagined blood spurting from her broken nose, splattering on his face. Those perfect lips bursting. Eyes bulging as he pummeled her. Finally, he ripped the thing from the socket and threw it against the opposite wall. He was panting out his breath, wanting nothing more than to end Cassie as she stood stock still, staring at him.

Before she could think of something to say, he was barreling toward her, wordlessly shouting his frustration, reaching for her with both bloody hands out like Frankenstein's monster. Cassie's eyes grew wide as her sense of self preservation kicked in. She grabbed a lamp from the table beside the sofa and swung hard.

The pain and the cracking sound of the porcelain against his own skull stunned Dean enough to bring him to his senses. His hand trembled, still yearning to crush her. He stumbled back a step, then turned and ran from the apartment.