Author's Note

If you are Emily and you know who you are - please don't do the thing. I'm warning you. It is serious this time.

Wanted to try something a little different here. I haven't character hopped in a while, so I thought I'd give it a go all in one chapter. October and early November were pretty damn busy for the boys what with the rising of Samhain and Anna Milton and all – so from an outsider's perspective I've found it interesting thinking about how their actions would affect the world around them e.g. when Samhain rose all those lil' nasties on the 31st. These are the Hunting Months, a chronicle of snippets that'll hopefully lavish each character with the attention I think they deserve.

Recommended Soundtrack:

Snow Patrol – The Golden Floor

Image Dragons – Demons

Adam Lambert/Jensen Ackles – Runnin'

Chapter Eleven: The Hunting Months

Unidentified

"You like them – don't you Castiel."

The park was filled with the raucous laughter of children, mothers and fathers hovering on the sand pitted side-lines, some intervening in the happenings of their offspring, others simply chatting amongst themselves as they allowed them to learn their own lessons and mistakes. Castiel sat and watched them each individually, silently marvelling at the difference between them, the sheer variety in his Father's creations, how soft yet how hardy they were as they fell and got back up, how they ate bugs and shoved pebbles up their noses. The Angel thought this behaviour most odd, it was not normal and adult humans did not do it, so why did their parents simply watch them and comment endearingly every now and again?

"I find them – interesting. Do you not?"

"Interesting is a term I would use, I do admit, though I cannot bring myself to use it in the same context."

"Speak your mind Uriel," Castiel muttered, clasping his hands in his lap.

"They are too simple – too stupid."

The trench-coated Angel turned, brow furrowed and eyes hooded against the glare of the sun as he regarded his companion. Uriel watched the human children as intently as he himself had, though his face was bereft of the look of wonderment and intrigue Castiel's own had radiated. Instead, there was simply a stony expression, a nothingness that confused the little Angel more than the children making the conscious decisions to inhale beetles.

"Do you not find them complex?"

"Their inherent predictability would say otherwise."

Castiel sighed, returning his attentions to the area of play, a mass of twisted metals of assorted colours, heights and textures, all things that seemed to hold the attentions of human children. Castiel couldn't grasp why children amassed to a field filled with bars and chains, was at a loss why parents would even take their offspring to such a place and actually allow them free there. Surely there was the risk of severe injury? They could fall, contract disease – something? It took him a small while to process the utterings of the colder Angel at his side, content as he was to observe the interactions of the earth-walkers, but something itched at him, something he couldn't quite shrug off. He took his time with it, mulled it over like a fine wine on his pallet, but eventually it dawned.

"You're still angered by the events of-"

"I am not angered."

Castiel raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. He elected not to push the situation further, but his brother's irritability was clear to see, thus proving his conclusions affirmative.

"Your own actions have confirmed my suspicions Castiel."

"And what would they be?" He muttered, query a half-hearted gesture to appease the man he shared a bench with.

He seemed smug, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing up the Angel with a look that just scraped past contempt.

"You're too soft."

"When has compassion," Castiel muttered, turning to face his accuser, "ever been-"

"You could find yourself compromised in times to come Castiel," he warned, eyes now turned away from the bristling Angel, "I say this because I want what is best for you."

At this point, Castiel hadn't yet come across a reason to dislike the 'Specialist'. Uriel was one of the more humorous of his kind, had a way with words and knew how to get a task done quickly and cleanly with little after effect. But there was something there, something the little Angel couldn't put his finger on, that gave the man an edge he didn't quite like, something he found himself shying away from. He felt ill-at-ease in his presence, shifting in his own skin, never comfortable to have the Angel at his back. So why Uriel had his best intentions in mind was beyond Castiel who, like all others of his kind, had long ago accepted that an Angel's own needs and intentions came before any other's save those of Heaven or those of the humans they'd been tasked with.

"I have not been compromised," he put simply, quietly observing a father bend down to scoop up his bawling infant, mother taking an antiseptic wipe to a graze on its knee which seemed to be causing all the fuss.

"Oh Castiel," he rumbled, smile lightning his lips in all the wrong ways. "I never said you had. Just that you would."

Unidentified Motel, Unidentified, 1:07 a.m.

Thursday 23rd October 2008.

She couldn't remember his name. It had sounded to her like James – maybe even Jamie… Jason? For the life of her she found she couldn't recall it, swimming as she was in alcohol, blood pumping with the stuff, senses drowning in it. But she was alert to the hunger, constantly hyper aware that she was returning yet again to that state she feared so wholeheartedly, mouth dry, chest arid and tight and her body aching with desperation and a thirst that could not be quenched. And she was an Aston, and so when water and juices could not fix it she'd turned to drink, much to the Angel's dissatisfaction. But that was how things were, how things had been for at least the past two weeks. And, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, things didn't look as though they were going to be changing any time soon.

He fucked her relentlessly, hands hard against her body, marking it, claiming her, nails and teeth against skin and flesh as they clawed at each other like animals. The water was hot against her skin, tiny pin pricks of searing heat to match those rippling up from beneath, boiling her blood, making her body sizzle beneath his every touch. She didn't know who he was, remember his name, know his job, his favourite colour or the name of the dog she'd spotted in his back yard. All Rebekah knew was the fact he was incredibly 'thankful' for her ridding him of his spirit problem, an appreciation that had resulted in the client asking her out for a drink, a drink that had turned to many before they'd stumbled arm in arm back to her motel room, only just making it fully clothed to the front door as she'd fumbled with her key, his hands already having snaked their way beneath her shirt.

Jordan – that was it. His name was Jordan Carmichael.

Her job didn't often result in such perks, so Rebekah had promised herself a long time ago that when an opportunity such as the one she was currently partaking in presented itself she'd grab it by both hands (so to speak). And she certainly had. He'd been a pretty young thing, a Catholic boy, fearful, shy, a little quiet until you got a drink or two down his neck. But she liked them like that, didn't find herself drawn to those who had a little too much to say for themselves. The naïve ones didn't ask questions, didn't play you or try and lead you in a certain direction. Yet, she always found they shared the same passions and drives as those that knew how to work a situation, and so she got the best of both worlds, a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut yet still had all the knowledge and the tools to make her come undone.

They'd been beneath the showerhead so long she'd lost track of time. When they'd finally stumbled into the bathroom, bodies already fully intertwined, limbs knotted, lips even more so it had been twilight, a warm October evening settling on their skin in sheens of sweat and dust, something they'd both silently agreed had needed washing off even before they'd begun the arduous process of peeling back their layers, a trail of shirts and jeans and underwear marking their path like arrows on a road. And she'd lead him there, tempted him behind the curtain with soft touches and sweet kisses, trapped him there with her sinful words and a more than willing body. And that boy had complied, had allowed himself to be driven into a corner, to be preyed upon by the older and far more experienced party who'd looked upon his lithe and naked form with lust in her eyes and hunger on her tongue.

But the water had long ago numbed her skin, the pitter-patter of water droplets against her back and shoulders barely even registering with her as he drove her back into the corner, tailbone connecting sharply with the white wall tiles sending stinging sensations reverberating throughout her skeleton, shaking her from the inside out. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist as he pressed his body against hers, one hand combing its way through the roots of her hair before anchoring itself there, the hunter letting out a dull growl as he yanked her head back, teeth harsh against the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. The inexperienced were always so explorative, willing to try anything as they were, unsurprisingly, new to the vast majority of it. He'd gained independence from her remarkably quickly, something that had impressed her though Rebekah had never voiced it out loud, and she'd found her domination shockingly short-lived as her 'client' had turned the tables on her. But she didn't mind that – didn't mind it at all.

Her hands were everywhere, never able to find purchase enough to sate her. They raked their way through his short hair, her nails biting into his back and shoulders when she found herself teetering on the edge, always returning to cradle his face when he'd return to fucking her gentle, forehead against forehead, cheeks flush and lips even more so as they'd share a kiss, two bodies rocking against one another like waves. She teased his tongue into her waiting mouth, made him taste her, forced him to experience what she knew his girlfriend had never been able to offer him, the pretty little thing with the chastity ring that had been the first on the spirit's hit-list. She knew what she was doing, was well versed in the art of breaking vows and forcing others to do the same. She'd slept with married men, taken men, broken men and sworn men – all of the above either more than happy to reciprocate gratitude with sex or simply to get information or access to or for a job. It was the way of her world, so that chaste soul of yet another righteous man didn't weigh too heavily upon hers. A little it had to be said, but not much.

"Will you be gone in the morning?" he exhaled, breaths heavy and warm against her ear.

"Yes," she murmured, recapturing his lips, "We have another job we need to get to."

"We?" he breathed.

He nearly dropped her when the shower water turned cold, their breaths stopping and starting with the shock of the sudden change, bodies barely able to acclimatise in time. Beck sputtered and choked back her shivers as they racked her body, forcing her even closer as she clung to him in a desperate bid for warmth. He too seemed somewhat taken aback, eyes wide, mouth even more so as goose bumps began to rise against his skin, her hands running over the erect hairs on his arms in a drunken fascination, blue eyes holding his wavering gaze as she found herself rolling her body against his, watching him wince a little as she shifted herself against his tender flesh. That seemed to break him out of whatever it was that had taken hold of him, his body reacting instinctively against her movements, hips rising to meet hers, arms wrapping tightly around her thighs, holding her to him as he returned to fucking her against the tiles.

"Rebekah Aston?"

Shit.

Both hunter and client froze, Beck's teeth setting to work against her bottom lip, her nails digging into the boy's right shoulder as panic shot through her trembling body. She turned to look at him, met a gaze that mirrored her own though confusion and not alarm ran rampant in his. She kissed him quickly in a bid to reassure, ran her fingertips across his jaw, felt the stubble scrape against her soft skin as her fingers came to rest against his lips, a sign he shouldn't make a sound. He nodded beneath her touch; his wide eyes and mussed hair making him look even more angelic. She'd despised herself much later on for making such a comparison, realising only then how much that sort of thing did weigh on her.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you still awake?"

She shot Jordan a look but she needn't have worried, the man's face was white as a sheet save the flush in his cheeks, his body rigid beneath hers.

"I'm er – takin' a shower. Felt dirty."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Are you alone?"

Double shit.

"Yeah?"

"Are you hell!"

Water erupted over their heads, chilling them to the very core, sleet following suite as the crazy bitch turned on the supernatural and froze the bloody water as soon as it exited the pipes and hit daylight. It was his turn to cling to her now, both man and woman closing up the space between their bodies to reduce their overall surface area, hail and sleet glancing off their shoulders to melt in freezing trails down their spines and ribs. She buried her face in his neck to stop herself from screaming, though all that seemed to come out were small fits of strangled giggles that he quickly mimicked, the sweet thing turning her body away from the primary onslaught of water to put himself in the immediate line of fire. She liked him – liked him very much. She was almost upset that she hadn't got the chance to find out his favourite colour or the name of the dog in the yard.

"Fuck this – stop that you son of a bitch!" She screeched, offering the boy a kiss in between. "What does it matter-"

"I laid down a clear set or rules when we began this venture Rebekah and I-"

"Fuck your rules," she offered back, her hands returning to his hair, her fingers tangling themselves up in his short curls.

"Now you listen to me-"

"Not a chance in hell," the hunter murmured.

Was she scared shitless that God's Divine Retribution was pacing the other side of the door whilst she was in the middle of fucking the virginity from one of Adam's sons? Yeah, yes she was. But, at the same time, if the Angel had wanted to harm her for breaking one of her petty rules she would have done the first time she'd done it, or the fifth, or the tenth. But thus far Rebekah had come out of every altercation fairly unscathed, though the Principality always found one way or another to exact her imaginative revenge, whether it was removing all manner of underwear from the premises until further notice or ridding her wheeled home of its chocolate shaped contents until cravings brought her begging to her knees. That was their game and that was how they played it, so her fear, although exceptionally real, would be very, if not incredibly, short-lived.

"Should we st-"

"You really think we're gonna' stop?"

Thus returned the shy, quiet, naïve creature she'd met five days ago, the Catholic boy whose jaw had nearly dropped at the sight if her at his front door, dressed as she was in her denim shorts and plaid, shotgun hanging at her back and dogs at her side. It took some semi-gentle coercion to coax him back into their rhythm, her teeth grazing his ear, dark and wicked things falling from her tongue as she felt him respond, electricity seeming to tumble from her fingertips as they danced across his shoulders and chest, pulling him into her. She'd have her way no matter how much trouble it'd get her into, she'd come too far not to finish her night on a high.

"Beck-"

She kissed him quiet, the kiss neither soft nor sweet, a moan escaping the confines of the barrier she'd created to trap all noise as she felt him come undone inside her, his body shuddering to a delicious halt. She felt herself unravel at the feeling, lost all sense of time and space as she threw her head back into the onslaught of freezing water, drowning herself in the heat that erupted throughout her body, setting every nerve ending on fire and causing sparks to ignite in the very pits of her being. It was a beautiful feeling, one she found was worth the sin, was worth pissing off one of God's own soldiers. His forehead came to rest against her chest, tip of his nose cold against where water had collected at her collarbone, breath warm and damp against her breasts despite the chill in the room. He stood ankle deep in slush and in hailstones, Rebekah laughing breathlessly, body still trembling. She planted a small kiss against his forehead before he lowered her down, a whisper of 'well done Catholic boy' just loud enough not to go unheard next door offered as verbal payment for the act, her body wobbling slightly as she leant against his.

"Are you happy now?"

"What d'you think?" She shouted back, leaning down for a towel.

She heard the sound of something soft brush up against the door, Beck wincing, knowing full well how the Angel would be bristling with anger like a pissed off pigeon, wings out, feathers puffed up. She'd be waiting for her on the other side, pacing, arms crossed over her chest, wingtips dragging across the lino and just waiting to sink her teeth into her and whomever it was she'd shared her company with that night. Jordan – oh Jordan Carmichael was as good as dead if she didn't screw her head back on and figure something out in time. With wrath in semi-human form lurking just beyond their wooden barrier Rebekah wrapped her boy in a towel, fingers lingering at his waist as she traced the lines of his body for what would more than likely be her last time, scanning it to memory. She stepped back and reached up to the window, unlocking the latches with a deft Pull, something that wouldn't have gone unnoticed if panic hadn't begun to take hold.

"Are you kidding?" He murmured as she motioned for him to climb out, his fingers fiddling nervously with the knot she'd tied at his hip. "Why can't I just leave out the-"

"Trust me on this one," Beck muttered, stepping back from the wall, away from the breaths of fresh air that threatened to turn her body to ice, "you don't wanna' go out there. I don't even wanna' go out there."

She did go out there though… eventually.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

How many times had she heard that to date? It had to be the eleventh time – maybe the fourteenth? She'd long lost count after the fifth, neither accepting nor throwing out the idea that there was in fact something seriously wrong with her, that the rules and regulations set down by a child of Heaven couldn't seem to penetrate the thickness of her skull, couldn't quench her thirst or restrict her actions enough that she'd actually take a step back and think. She didn't do a lot of that nowadays.

"You're the one with the problem not me," she muttered, scrubbing a hand through her damp hair.

She didn't dislike the Angel; they just weren't the 'two pees in a pod' companionship super team she was accustomed to. She'd long ago accepted her presence, accepted the fact that she'd been Charged with her, neither of them really knowing the reasons why but they'd come to terms with it as a pair all the same, Rebekah begrudgingly letting her ride with her in her wheeled home, letting her family loose on her. But she had known Meredith and Jo her entire life, knew their quirks, their personalities, their habits – things that took years to get to grips with. And other than her brothers she'd never ridden with anyone else, preferred her own company over that of other hunters or strangers, the companionship of her dogs and one night stands over other less frequent offers. And it wasn't as though the Angel had forced herself on her either, it just seemed as though she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Rebekah flopped down on her bed, body still trembling from its hormonal high though she felt herself beginning to float gently back down, shivering more now from cold than from pleasure. She realised then she'd tied the towel too tightly around her chest, a common mistake, the girl writhing uncomfortably on her front as she made to loosen it, allowing herself to breathe a little more freely.

"Well?"

Rebekah sighed, rolling her eyes so blatantly she could have sworn they'd made a sound.

"Well fuckin' what?"

"If you're going to act like a tempestuous teenager then-"

She snorted, "Tempestuous teenagers certainly don't fuck like that."

Unidentified, Unidentified, 8.23 p.m.

Friday 31st October 2008.

Things certainly weren't going to plan.

Halloween was always fun, it was for all hunters. The Celts or Pagans or whatever had been right about one thing, the veil between their two worlds was certainly much thinner on the thirty first, leaving every hunter scrabbling around the trunks of their cars for whatever weapon they'd have to hand first to blow away the scum of the earth and the dregs of hell before they'd have a chance to munch on the multitude of ballerina's and dinosaurs that wandered the streets with their candy and their little to no supervision. It was like a buffet for the supernatural, kids wandering around chock full of sweet stuff, something Rebekah didn't even want to comprehend – how would that alter their taste? And she, like all of the other poor bastards in her line of work, had taken to the internet to spot signs of trouble before they'd really, truly begin to pull out all the stops.

The Angel had insisted on accompanying her, something Rebekah had refused to to begin with. She'd agreed around three and a half weeks ago, thought that having another pair of eyes on her back could do nothing but good in almost any given situation. But the Angel was as much a saviour as she was a pain in the ass, hunter deemed useless in a situation where nothing more than a click of fingers could render a spirit or a poltergeist incapacitated, leaving Rebekah sitting there on the sofa, legs crossed, gun and dogs at her side whilst she supped at a lemonade and gave her companion a sarcastic thumbs up. She'd not made that same mistake again, sent her away whenever a job had come up, thanked her for her time and patience and all but had made it sparklingly clear that hunting gave her existence a general purpose and without a clear path to ganking something she'd have nothing else to do with herself. It had taken some explaining, but on the third time the Angel had seemed to get the message, laid down the rules for the umpteenth time and Blinked out leaving a (rather pleased) Aston to her sabre-polishing.

But that was then, this was now.

It had been her usual salt and burn the bones thing. All had gone well, the path was clear and she could have done the research blind-folded. Clear cause of death, girl had been in a hit and run accident, taken it back out on the driver and his family, people that had covered for him and so on – family had even had the decency to create a Facebook wall in memory and actually bury the daughter instead of condemning her to the flames. There was no pissing about looking for lockets or hair strands or rings or all of the other guff they usually had her chasing after. No, this was the ideal case (if not a little boring). Grave had been easy to find, well-tended, fresh flowers, gorgeous, shiny headstone. And she'd dug that sucker up, Alistair at her side to lend a helping paw or two, cracked the casket open and doused her in lighter fuel, doing the usual intense stare at the match to make sure the damned thing wouldn't blow out (tended to if you took your eyes off it) and lit her ass up like the fourth of July.

It'd all gone quite swiftly downhill the moment she'd warmed her hands over the flames. It all didn't quite add up.

"Anna… Anna! Anna? Could use a little help here!" She shouted, drawing her sabre from the scabbard at her side, "if you're not too fuckin' busy," she added through gritted teeth.

She didn't expect an answer, rarely got one even if she pled for it, but this was one of those situations where no amount of training, no amount of studying or practice could ever prepare you for. Because it was common knowledge that burning a spirit's body would send it back through whatever door it had refused to go down in the first place. What her training or Joe's notes had failed to cover was what to do on the rare occasion the spirit decided to pay you another visit.

"Oh this should not be happening," she hissed, treading steadily backwards across the soft loam of the earth beneath her feet, freshly turned over grave dirt and turf a serious tripping hazard for someone as pathetic as her.

It bared its teeth at her, mouth blackened by decay and ectoplasmic remnants. The air was cold, hairs rising on her bare arms, grip of her sabre slick with her own sweat yet dead and frozen in her grasp. Her body was illuminated by the burning fires of her own remains, Sarah's eyes regarding what had once been her for a brief moment before turning her wild gaze back on the person that had tried to condemn her to her secondary death.

"Well this is awkward," Beck murmured, running a hand through her hair.

A gust of wind threw her off balance, the hunter falling back into the welcoming embrace of a bush as the very Angel she'd wished for Blinked in that little bit too close for comfort. Thorns and branches tugged and snagged at her clothes and skin, Rebekah bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from their damaging attentions, swearing under her breath as a firm hand wrapped itself around her ankle and tugged her non too gently from her cage, arms crossed over her chest, completely, one hundred per cent done with the entire situation. She opened her eyes the moment she felt herself come to a standstill, hair tangled and tugging at her scalp, thorns pricking her nine ways from Sunday in places she didn't even want to think about. Above her, eclipsing her world and the twilight that yawned around them was the face of an Angel, blue eyes, black hair and an expression that would have beamed smug if it weren't for the situation they were in. This struck a chord in the hunter, chilled her to her very core for reasons she could not yet even begin to imagine. The Angel was… worried?

"You need to go," she muttered under her breath, eyes roaming the steadily darkening graveyard.

"Why? I'm not do-"

"Don't test me on this child," she snapped, gaze pinning her to the ground, Rebekah squirming beneath it like an ant would a boot.

There was an urgency to her voice that stilled her tongue, a frantic quality to her tone that meant anything other than blind obedience would have to take a back seat. It was remarkable how much younger she became, how much weaker the scent of fear made even the most powerful being. Anna Elizabeth Partridge was eons old, older than the gnarled oaks that lined the paths of the graveyard, twisted branches leering at them like the hands and eyes of men, older than the dust and dirt plastered to the bottom of Rebekah's boots. And the hunter hadn't known her long, a mere blip on the Angel's timeline, another face, another name, another soul to sit amongst the millions of others she must have touched in her time. But there was something about her, something in the way she held herself at that very moment, that had the hunter fearing for her life and, dare she say it, the life of the Angelic thorn in her side that had managed to do what Rebekah could not, banish the evil thing back to its rightful place.

"We need to go – somewhere safe."

She was garbling all sorts of things to herself, place names, time zones, eras long gone and yet to come.

"Anna," she hissed, pushing up at her from where she'd leant over her body, Angel snapping out of her own mind to reach down and lift her, hands intertwined, touching each other for the first time in a way that was not bred of violence or of punishment. Rebekah recognised the look in the Angel's shifting eyes, red to blue to purple and back again, had seen the look a million times before when she'd been hunting with her brothers. It was a look she'd worn herself more times than one, though she'd never seen it on herself, more on the faces of Jake and Joe as they'd watched her fight the beings of hell, watched her fall, watched her fail. It was a look of pure, unadulterated concern – and it made her feel sick to her stomach.

"What's wrong?"

Her words were frantic, as though one breath wouldn't be swift enough. "Samhain – they have risen Samhain."

The Victoria, Salem, Washington 6.38 a.m.

Sunday 2nd Novemeber, 2008.

Sam couldn't sleep.

His mind tossed, his body turned, every moment spent unconsciously or subconsciously thinking over his conversations with that winged son of a bitch a few days previous, wondering where on earth his life had taken a left turn to a pile of shit. He knew he shouldn't have done it – knew they'd asked him not to. But what else could he have done? What had they expected him to fucking do? They'd had dozens of kids next door unaware that the baddest of bads had taken over their teacher and had been in the process of raising all matter of hell from beneath their feet. They'd have died, Sam wouldn't have been long after and then that left Dean. So what was he really supposed to have done – seriously?

The boy was haunted by it however, the look of horror on his brother's face, the look he'd caught this time round as he'd bled trying to pack that thing back to hell. A mess, a freak, something they'd hunt themselves if it had been anyone else doing the same but no – they made an exception… because he was Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood. Oh how he'd hummed with it, how it'd bubbled in his gut and fizzled through his veins, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. The sensation it created in his abdomen felt akin to sex, the burn of his throat similar to the warmth of a strong whiskey. It was no wonder he was addicted, blindingly clear why he still hung on, why he yearned for it. It was a permanent afterthought, festering at the back of his mind, scorching the backs of his eyes until he felt as though he'd be blinded by it. But he'd had a hold on it until then, until that son of a bitch Samhain had forced his hand.

He drowned himself beneath the power of the shower, water long ago losing its warmth. He couldn't sleep, not even with her teasing his hair. Even she'd slept, eyes heavy, day apparently long and arduous enough that her vessel had found itself worn and exhausted. His head was heavy, body a dead weight, but it simply wasn't enough. His mind was a chaotic mess of' what if's' and 'wonder why's', all the things he could have done differently if he'd had the chance, all the things he still had left to do and the choices he'd have to make when he'd have to cross those bridges. What had Dean experienced in hell? Why wasn't he talking about it? How long could he hack blood sobriety? Why was everything turning to shit all over again?

He closed his eyes, tilted his head against the torrential onslaught of freezing water, one hand leaning heavily against the cold tiles of the wall at his front, keeping him up. He'd just got Dean back but he'd never felt so far away from him, even when he'd been in hell and he'd been just about ready to sell his soul to join him. They'd been close then, locked in a dance blocked by two plains of reality, Sam walking that of Earth, Dean burning beneath his feet. Despite the opposition they'd had similar goals, hell bent on returning to their kin (pardon the expression). But now – now Sam had no fucking idea which way was up anymore. The old days had been so damn simple, Dad in charge, a clear direction, a clear goal, a home to return to despite it never remaining in one place. But things weren't like that anymore. Sam had conformed to fate's design and his brother and even the Heavens above his head had tried to stop him. But they'd failed and failed again – so what did that say about him?

He slumped himself in the corner of the cubicle, lights buzzing above his head, far too bright and light far too white for a time so early, for the mood he'd found himself in. He rested his forehead against his knees, water pooling against his abdomen, toes submerged in the growing tides. The pitter-patter of water against his back had long ago begun to hurt, pricks of a numb kind of ache he didn't really understand. The feeling spread across his shoulder blades, each matter of contact sending a small shiver down his spine. But it was surprisingly therapeutic, rhythmic, a metronome that kept his tired soul in check, so much so he found himself drifting, head lolling against his crossed arms. It was nice - a numb kind of clarity.

"You've been warned twice now". She looks at you, eyes wide, soft hands steady around your own outstretched, gun shaking. She closes them, tongue darts out, licks away the tears that drip across her lips. She trembles but her hands are steady. You say you're sorry, I hear it – the stutter. Tell her it's going to be alright. You son of a bitch. You can't do it. But she pleads with you – she's pleading right now. See it? In her face – the way her lips murmur that one word over and over and over again. She's saying 'please' – are you deaf? Shoot. Shoot her Sam. Fucking shoot her! "November second – it's an anniversary for you, right?" Look at her burn Sam, watch her. How she screams for you. I look – I can see. You can't do anything can you? Feel her blood on your face, feel the warmth. Feels familiar doesn't it – the heat? Picked that ring out special didn't you? Feel it in your pocket? That dead, dead weight. You kept the receipt Sam, I know you did. Wallet, second slot in. Can't bring yourself to part with it. How sentimental. She's never coming back – you know that right? Feel her warmth, the way she fit you so perfect, curled into you. You haven't got that anymore… have you?

"It's the day Azazel killed your mother – and twenty-two years later your girlfriend too. It must have been difficult to bear."

Sam's eyes snapped open, a noise cutting through the silence of the night with an almost unparalleled force. It was animalistic in nature, a sound born from despair, a noise no human being should ever have to make. He threw himself back in shock, balance off, back of his head connecting sharply with the tiles sending all manner of stars and stripes across his vision. He groaned, screamed, shouted things he himself didn't even understand. He shook, dithered, body frozen, limbs stiff and screaming in protest. He scraped his hands through his hair, nails clawing through his scalp, water running red as it pooled yet again around him, limbs thrashing, displacement sending splashes of crimson tinted water up the walls and glass.

He was stuck – lost. He didn't know where he was, what he was doing, who he was. Sam Winchester just knew he hurt, knew nothing but the sting of the knife that had settled itself between the slats if his spine, wedged deep, point pricking everything of value he had wrapped inside his skin. The hysteria came in waves, incoherent whaling fading to strangled sobs, silence marked by the continuous sound of water sizzling in its own plunge pool. But it'd start again in no time, visions of fire lighting him up from the inside out, setting him alight, blinding him, lights above his head buzzing so intense he couldn't look at them. He forced his eyes shut, screamed against the thrum of fists against the door as they came for him, the scrape of nails against wood. Everything was too loud, too defined. The roar of the water was deafening, the incessant banging mimicking the beat of his own blood thrumming in his ears. It was maddening, infuriating, but he couldn't hear himself – had lost himself in it.

There was a crack, the sound of wood splintering. There were hands on him, touches that seared him. Fingers brushed his face, brown eyes in his peripheral. He shied away from them, distraught, out of control – no amount of reality leaving any mark against his own distorted sense of it. He knew her, knew what he thought of her, what he felt towards her. It sickened him, angered him, made his blood singe and the bile rise in his throat. But all he could see was burning, Angelic warnings, demonic cautions from a world so far gone it was almost sad. Sam pushed at her, naked body on its knees, chin cradled against his own chest as the water fell against the back of his head, scarlet streams running in rivulets down his chest and arms. She was screaming at him, hitting him, calling him, her hands fluttering against his shoulders and arms and face and chest, raking through his hair, trying to latch on and drag him out. But he wasn't there – not really.

In a breath she was gone, Sam's world caving back in on itself as his world returned to its cold clarity, silence deafening him, sound a mere afterthought. He'd lost it – something dark and serious and entirely human was telling him things he didn't understand, things he couldn't comprehend in his current state. But it nattered and nagged on regardless, relentless. Come back. Stop this. Get a grip. There's nothing you can do. But he couldn't hear him, couldn't hear that shadow of himself. The man that knelt and screeched in his place wasn't a creature that could be comforted or brought back. No consolation would ever come for there was no one left to bring it. He was alone in this, cast adrift and drowning in memory, sick with it, dead with the weight of it. And there was nothing he could do – nothing would help. No one could-

"Sam! Sammy? What the fuck did you do?"

"I don't know – I found him like that. Dean – Christ – make it stop! Dean – please."

Hands rested against his body, bolder, stronger, calloused skin against sweat-slickened. They did not hit him but they were not gentle, not like hers had been. There was no hesitancy, hands emboldened by familiarity, possessive and concerned in the way they turned him over, flipped him, searched and explored him. Wounds were discovered, bleeding staunched with a shirt removed from an acquainted body, warm, radiating worry. Arms enclosed around his body like a vice, stopped his trembling, stubble brushing his cheek harshly, sandpaper in effect, his own eyes fluttering at the feeling. One of those hands grabbed his face, forced his head, forced his hand, eyes open. Then there is nought but green to see, a constellation of freckles, water running like sweat down a face creased with concern.

"Stop. This. Sam – come back. Sam!"

He's shouting, voice loud. The roar of the water subsides, the sound of his own blood beating in his ears evaporating as scents of hard liquor and aftershave wash over him.

"Sam!"

Sam Winchester closed his eyes, forehead resting against the sturdiness that was his brother. Sobs racked his chest, an ache that never really shifts, face stinging with the salty touch of tears as they streaked his cheeks, marred his skin. But he is there, has been dragged back. The Angel no longer has a hold on him, nor do the memories he is hyperaware still stalk the darker recesses of his mind. There is nothing now save a hollowness in his being he knows will never really be filled, though he did find himself left with the embrace of the one thing that still tethered him to their ever-changing world, two strong arms and hands rough enough to pull him away from his own self-sacrifice, hands gentle enough to piece a human back together.

"I'm sorry – I'm so sorry."

November the second, a day of both loss and gain. Sam Winchester lost a love that day, the ring he'd kept in a box in the pocket of his jeans becoming obsolete, a constant, glimmering reminder of the woman he'd loved and left, the innocent that had succumbed to his world just like all of those that'd followed her. But he'd gained, and that gain had been brazen enough to step in amongst those raging red waters and pluck him from his own misery, saved him from the pits of hell itself. He'd gained Dean, he'd found his brother, and no amount of Heaven or Hell could take that away from him.

Layby, Croy Creek Road, Hailey, Idaho 7.56 p.m.

Monday 3rd Novemeber, 2008.

His nose was wet against the palm of her open hand, tongue picking in between her fingers, at the web of her thumb. It went unnoticed save the odd scratch between his eyes. He understands though, doesn't ask for more. The others are in the back – she can't deal with them now. Sky'd just look at her, Axel wouldn't understand. He just wants to make sure she knows he's there – if she needs him. She doesn't.

Solace comes at the bottom of the canister of whiskey, her brother's, initials carved into the battered silver metal with a pen knife a long time ago, before her birth. The liquid is bitter, burns her throat, dries out her mouth. She can't get enough, it doesn't work fast enough. She's lost track of the time she's been sitting there, road deserted, heard nothing and seen even less in the hours she's been parked in the lay by. Dust is scuffed up by the wind that rattles the windows of her home, shakes her bones, makes her teeth chatter. It's a sauna, sun going down outside, windows fogging where her breath hits the glass at an angle. But she's cold, can't get warm.

She sees him standing at the door, opens it, runs into his waiting arms as he picks her up and whirls her around, hair flying, his mouth buried in the crown of her head. He smells like smoke, like exhaust fumes and aftershave. He kisses her forehead, cradles her head, Alistair jumping between his legs, licking the dusty soles of her feet. He's home. She sees him standing at the door, opens it. She doesn't want to. He stands there in the rain, face turned towards the sky. He can't look at her. Alistair stands at his side, fur drenched, paws dragging in the mud where they bleed. He's come so far. The jacket he holds loosely in his arms, hands it to her as he walks past, doesn't stop, keeps going and disappears down the corridor. She hears his boots in the dining room, the scrape of a chair, the metallic twist of a key in the cabinet and the clink of a glass and a bottle against the table. He's started early. She looks out, leather cold and dead in her hands. Shane leans against the truck, tries to cover her gouged out sides with his body – block it from view. Her fingers stroke the worn material, come away red. Her hands shake, she buries her face in it, breathes in his scent, smells smoke, exhaust fumes and aftershave. There's another scent, a bitter taste. Sulphur – there's blood. She knows then – it dawns. He's not coming home this time.

There's a flutter of wings in the back, two blue eyes appearing in the rear-view mirror, a shock of black. She takes another mouthful of liquor down in one, eyes streaming, tears running down her neck, dampening her collar. The look she catches in the mirror softens but she makes no move, doesn't touch her, just observes.

"Today?"

She empties the canister, throws it down into the foot well. Alistair fails to move, nudges her knee with his muzzle, brown languid eyes falling just below her own. She scratches him then, hands between his ears, stroke the fur, the softness, feels it as it was, damp, gritty, matted and full of added extras he'd picked up on the way home. At least he'd made it back…

"Yeah," she murmurs, head coming to rest against the cool glass of the window. "Today."

737 Road, Sterling, Nebraska, 9.37 a.m.

Tuesday 11th November 2008

She felt good – surprisingly happy to be home. Familiar territory flew by either side of them as they cut through the fields that had once held bountiful amounts of crops, an assortment of things she just knew would be waiting for her in the markets in days to come, things that she could browse through till her heart was content – cook up something nice for her parents as an apology for being away from home for so long without any real explanation. She'd be in trouble alright, possibly face a grounding unparalleled by any she'd ever had before but one taste of her rosemary chicken and her father may look upon her a little more leniently – well that was the plan anyway.

She'd had no desire originally to return to Nebraska anytime soon, though responsibility had come a'knockin' taking her completely by surprise and pulling the steadily laid carpet she'd painstakingly created over the past month or so out from under her feet. It was the second Tuesday of the month however and there was a ghost to be letting in, a task Rebekah had never missed – the girl having passed up hunts in the past just to make sure the house and the grounds were free of salt and wide open for the poor thing to wander through in her passing.

Meredith hadn't seen her best friend in a while, just about content enough to receive the odd phone call though it had taken her weeks before she'd accepted them. Meredith Parkes didn't count herself as a petty girl, on the contrary she considered herself a high functioning human being who'd been brought up mature and proper, but their parting had rubbed her a little up the wrong way. Jo was fantastic – it had been like being with Beck regardless of her absence, but the two girls weren't exact. Joanna didn't have well stocked hidden compartments of chocolate and candy in her car, nor did she have a legion of furred beasts nipping at her heels or licking the palms of her hands whenever she reached into the back. Jo had taken longer than Mer had anticipated trying to get used to having a side-kick, unsure of what to do with her when she was working, scared of leaving her alone lest she set fire to something or shoot someone accidentally though the girl was more than acquainted with the art of weapon-wielding. Things had changed when Meredith had worked one of her own jobs and taken Jo along with her, the hunter taking a back seat as the Stalker had rid a house of a small gremlin problem, thus earning her respect enough to join hunts and offer input. It had been a while, but they'd finally come to some sort of mutual understanding.

"Are you sure she'll be okay with this?"

It had been the fourth time during their journey and the seventh time in total Jo had voiced her concern, seemingly unhappy and unwilling to leave her alone. Meredith sighed, resting her forehead against the window pane as they continued to eat up that tantalisingly familiar country beneath their wheels, squinting her eyes causing road signs and fencing to become a blurred mass in her peripheral.

"Yes I am sure," she drawled, plucking gingerly at the hem of her cardigan.

The truth was she was entirely unsure and, by the way Jo looked at her, worrying her lip between her teeth, it seemed as though she wasn't either. Mer knew it had to be done – wasn't exactly stoked at the idea of being at the Aston home alone to let down the wards in order to allow a supernatural being (the things they usually hunted) into the house, but was psyched nonetheless. It had to be done and she'd been in the area to do it – had hacked into Rebekah's GPS the day previous to check her whereabouts just to make sure she wasn't anywhere near. It'd have been pointless (as well as getting her into a lot of trouble) if they'd both been heading to sort out the house, so it made sense for her to do it in the Aston's absence. In her mind she was being a good Samaritan and that was all that mattered. So what if she was a little scared – it'd be stupid not to be.

"And you're sure we can trust this – Heather?"

"Heather Parkinson – yeah I'm sure I can trust her Jo. There ain't no 'we' about it okay? One – I can do this on my own. Two – you've got a hunt that needs doin' and it makes sense for you to drop me off one the way."

Jo seemed to grumble something though it was far too inaudible for Meredith to catch a hold of, girl passing off a small smug smile of victory as a cough.

"The moment you smell anythin' not right you call me okay? I swear to God Mer if anythin' happens to-"

"Yeah, yeah," Mer sighed, attempting to wave the girl's blatant concern. "I've got you on speed dial number two. Now will you just trust me? This happens every damn month – it's not like I'm divin' head first into a coven or somethin'. I'm lettin' in an old family friend and feedin' the damn cows for Heaven's sake!"

"Alright – alright," she conceded, though her grip on the steering wheel was still a little too tense for Mer's liking. "I just – Beck's my friend and I-"

Mer opened her mouth to interrupt but Jo put up her hand, her left coming off the wheel to run through her hair.

"Let me finish okay?"

The look on her face didn't leave anything open for argument, Meredith dipping her head slightly in acknowledgment of that fact. When it looked as though she wasn't going to interrupt further Jo continued.

"I was sayin' – she's my friend and now so are you. What happened up in Brookfield – things went to shit pretty damn quick and I didn't think-"

She bit her lip and turned her eyes back on the road, the grip on the steering wheel turning white-knuckle. Meredith allowed silence to wash over them, a silence that was neither uncomfortable nor tense but one thick with remembrance, of the man they'd lost and the things they'd learned. Meredith had always known that Rebekah was different – had something in her that wasn't quite right. Jake Aston had warned her about it a long time ago, told her she should be careful and that, as much as he loved his sister, that if Meredith knew what was good for her she'd run as far and as fast as she could in the opposite direction. But as much as it scared her she found herself pandering more to her curiosities than her senses of self-preservation. To be in the company of a living, breathing enigma was far more fascinating than any book she could read in school or anything she could discover in a lab setting – the girl was a walking, talking case study just waiting to be cracked open. And Meredith loved her from the bottom of her heart, loved her weird hybrid accent and her resolve and her alcoholism and her weird lifestyle unconditionally, even all the dark parts that she always held Meredith at arm's length from. So Meredith understood the look in Jo's eyes as she concentrated on the road as though it had the ability to hold her attentions forever – because they'd both almost lost one of the most important people in their lives that night. It just so happened Meredith hadn't been around to see it and, secretly, she wanted that to be the first thing to change.

"I know."

Jo threw her an appreciative look and continued. "Yeah – so you know what it's like. I just wanna' make sure nothin' happens bad this time round. She left you in my care and-"

"Hey I-" she began indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And," she continued, casting her a warning look, "I am well aware you can take care of yourself but I am not – I repeat not losin' you or havin' you harmed under my watch. Okay?"

Mer saluted, ignoring the eye roll she could have sworn she heard rather that saw.

"Understood Captain."

Author's Note:

I've found myself rather enjoying the experience of character hopping. Writing the Angels was a refreshing change of perspective, as were the interactions between others. It's something worth trying again. I personally have a little Jo/Mer ship going on in my head – they're just so cute together. I apologise now for the changes in tense – not only was I character hopping but I realise there were plenty of jumps from present to past too. Sorry.