Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

So- the pilot episode is going to be in the next chapter, 'mkay?

Just for the record- Jess is already dead, so don't get confused.

Another thing- I'll publish a new story for every season.

So this story will probably have 46 chapters or something, featuring all the episodes from season one.

Then another story for season two, then for season three, etc, etc.

Capeesh?

Garideth, who saved me a lot of sleepless nights as a result, suggested this totally awesome idea. She also, I might add, reviews every chapter, and doesn't seem to mind my pestering. :P

So thanks a bucket load, Garideth! (^_^)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed (yes, even the flamers)!

On with it, shall we?

(Odette PoV)

CHAPTER ELEVEN- UNCONSCIOUSLY SCREAMIN'

I curled up against the window-seat, looking out at the nearly deserted parking lot. Castiel resumed sitting as far as he could in the limited space.

I tried not to let that get to me. Dean gunned the engine, impatiently waiting for Sam to get in.

He threw himself inside, still grinning ridiculously at Dean. "Ha! Castiel said I was better, right?"

"I believe I said you were slightly less tone deaf, if that is what you mean." Castiel spoke in his deep, smooth bass.

Dean growled. "Angel's ears must be iffy."

"My ears are not 'iffy', whatever that means, Dean," Castiel assured him.

Sam snickered. "Just drive, idiot."

I smiled slightly, resting my head against the windowsill, still a bit tired. I used to have fun like this- bantering with my- I stopped that thought cold. I couldn't think it. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't.

I felt like screaming sometimes, when everything was too much to take in, too much to handle. The hole throbbed, no, pounded in pain against my chest, almost as if it was trying to rip through my body in it's extremity, in it's enormity.

I could feel Castiel's gaze on me, and I hunched in tighter into myself. There was so much compassion in his eyes, as if he somehow understood, even if he didn't know what I'd done, what I was going through.

But he couldn't, in a way. The main reason why? I deserved every bit of this pain, this guilt, and this anguish.

I caused it. The fault was mine. I couldn't protect the people I loved, and now I was paying the price.

Leave me, my mind was shouting at the three men in the car that was heading towards Jericho.

Leave me to die. The voice was lower now, but somehow even more strident in its softness.

I'm a danger. A menace.

I'm weak. I couldn't protect what was mine. I can't even protect myself.

I'll drag you down to your deaths. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to moan in pain.

So leave me. Save yourselves. I ruin everything I come across.

Leave me and don't look back.

Every cell in my body ached to deny it. But I couldn't. I knew it was the truth.

Castiel tilted his head, his expression confused... almost perturbed.

I don't deserve your compassion, my mind wanted to tell him, only I didn't have the courage. They would hate me if they knew, and I cursed myself for my cowardice.

Castiel's perplexed look increased, as he studied me intently, as if he knew what I was thinking.

I shook off my misery, taming the throbbing in my chest with difficulty, but manage it I did. I had to.

The past is gone, I told myself bitterly. The damage is done.

I turned my face upwards. Forgive me, for I have sinned.

The voice in my head decided to make an appearance.

Who are you asking forgiveness from? There is no one here to help.

Not anymore, it added. You made sure of that.

Fortunately, Sam distracted me by replaying the message I'd heard yesterday night.

"What do you think the woman's trying to say?" He asked Dean.

"Dunno. They're words all right, just hard to understand."

I concentrated on the sound of the woman's voice, blinking in surprise when I finally understood.

"I can never go home." I said aloud in puzzlement.

"What?" Dean and Sam echoed in unison.

"That's what the woman is saying. I can never go home."

Huh. Guess that made two of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I could've sworn I saw Castiel raise an eyebrow.

Dean listened to the woman's voice again. "You're right."

There was silence in the car for a time. To prevent my thoughts from taking a darker turn, I pulled out the book I'd been reading before I'd met the Winchesters and Castiel.

Dr Zhivago. One of his favorite books.

I shook the thought away like I would an irksome fly and lost myself in the time of the Russian Revolution and Lenin's Bolsheviks.

Sam gave a startled laugh when he saw what I was reading.

"You really like Russian writers, don't you?"

"I like Pasternak," I agreed mildly. He shook his head amusedly.

"Kid, you're a nerd bird." Dean grunted, when he saw the size of the book.

"Maybe," I allowed with a small smile. Whereupon Sam and Dean started bickering. Again.

"She doesn't look like a nerd bird, chucklehead!"

"Just because she doesn't look like a nerd bird doesn't mean she can't be one, Gigantor!"

"Nerd birds are supposed to be plain, Dean. She's the furthest thing from plain I've ever seen in my life!"

My smile widened.

"Yeah, yeah, so she's beautiful. I still say she's a nerd bird. I mean, Tolstoy? Please. Next thing you know, she'll start in on friggin' Shakespeare."

I clamped my lips together.

"There's nothing wrong with Shakespeare, Dean!"

"Oh, sure, read Romeo and Juliet yet, Sam? Or should I say Samantha?"

My mood lifted considerably, listening to them quibble, even though it started the deep-seated ache and longing for them. But they'd gone to a place I couldn't bring them back from.

"I do like Shakespeare," I said, effectively ending their argument.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times. "What did I tell you, Sammy? I suppose you read poetry too," he looked at me sarcastically.

I tried not to let his acerbic tone affect me. "I do, actually."

Dean didn't speak for a long time after that.

Sam, almost as if to try and contrast his brother's behavior, asked me which were my favorite poets.

"Auden, I suppose, Edgar Allen Poe, E.E Cunningham, and Shakespeare, of course. What about you?"

Dean mimed gagging. Sam glared at him.

"Chaucer, Poe, Shakespeare, I suppose."

We stopped talking after that, spending the time in companionable silence. At least Sam and I did.

Dean, I winced inwardly, really didn't seem to like me. I wasn't sure about Castiel either, but at least he wasn't as intimidating as before.

Sam was easy to be with, and I found that I genuinely liked him, and he appeared to feel the same.

I continued reading, until my eyes drooped slowly shut, and I nodded off to sleep. I must have been more exhausted than I thought.

When I came to, the car wasn't moving and a blanket was wrapped around me.

I reluctantly opened my eyes when Sam gently shook me.

He gave me a friendly smile as I sat up and stretched. I returned it, looking down at the blanket in mute question.

"Castiel thought you might get cold," he explained. I looked at the silent, inscrutable angel.

"Thanks," I whispered, touched. He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

I looked at the 'Welcome to Jericho' sign and wondered why we'd stopped.

"Dean decided to give you something." Sam said, guessing my confusion.

I could hear somebody rifling in the trunk of the Impala and hopped out of the car.

When I reached Dean, he silently held out the 'something' to me.

I was vaguely aware of Sam behind me as I took it.

I gulped when I saw the bowie knife. Its blade was long and tapered, glinting in the night surrounding us.

And I could tell, just by looking, that it was wickedly sharp.

"Um, thanks," I said, a trifle uncertainly, stowing it carefully in the pocket of my jeans.

"It's exactly your size. You keep it with you at all times, anywhere you go. It stays under your pillow at night, you hear?"

Dean's tone was firm and left no room for argument, even if I'd been stupid enough to try.

"Yeah," I nodded, not sure I could handle more than a word or two.

"I'm not happy with it. I'd have preferred to give you a gun but I doubt you'd be able to handle it."

I froze.

"What?" Dean demanded when he saw my expression.

I desperately wrestled with the hole in my chest that was starting to tear now.

I struggled, pushing it down to the very depths of my mind.

"I... I can use a gun," I stammered through unmoving lips.

Sam's mouth opened with an audible pop.

Dean blinked, then his face hardened. "What kind?"

His tone was harsher than before. "Handgun."

My voice trembled.

He dug inside the trunk and pulled one out, holding it out to me.

"Show me," he commanded.

I curled my hand around it, hating the feel of it against my skin.

Robotically, I did what he asked. I dismantled it quickly, settling into the action, reassembling it just as fast.

I loaded and unloaded it. "Safety on, safety off," I finished, my voice unsteady, the hole still threatening to get out of control.

My hand shook as I held it out to Dean. His face was stony.

"Keep it. It's loaded with salt. You see a ghost; you shoot. It'll keep it away for a spell. Only use it when you have no other choice, got it?"

I nodded, and Dean threw me a calculating look while Sam stood by silently.

I wedged the gun into my sock, rolling my jeans over it, making sure it wasn't visible. It bulged out only slightly.

That seemed to surprise Dean. "How'd you know to put it in your socks?"

I patted it into place. "Moves from the hip only work in movies."

I was hideously aware of the gun against my skin; it was much too familiar a sensation. The dread in my heart was as cold as the metal object stuck in my sock. The realization that I truly had left everything behind finally sunk in.

Welcome to Jericho indeed.