Chapter 8 A Net for Butterflies

Derweze, Turkmenistan

Shamsiel and Baraquiel watched their brother inch along the rock walls, placing his feet carefully.

"Don't touch the walls," Shamsiel said again. The look Penemue sent him was arctic, despite the sweat that rolled from the Watcher's face and dripped from the ends of his hair.

"I – don't – need – a – commentary – brother," he ground out slowly, easing himself past a protruding curve in the wall. One more column and he would be in front of the door. He stopped, closing his eyes and waiting for the tremble to pass from his tense muscles then crabbed sideways past it.

"Well?" Baraquiel asked. "What are you waiting for?"

"It needs a key," Penemue muttered, staring at the elaborate lock in the iron door.

"What?"

"A key!" he said loudly. "Needs a key!"

The door shivered slightly in the jamb and Penemue's eyes widened as he looked at it.

"Zir oln vorsg," he said loudly.

The door swung open inwardly and Penemue looked back. "Voice."

"In Enochian?" Shamsiel frowned. "Why?"

"Lucifer's crypt. Lucifer's key," the dark-haired watcher stepped through the open door and stopped just past the threshold. Behind him, Baraquiel and Shamsiel saw the room beyond light up, hundreds of torches leaping into flame.

Penemue stared at the long, rectangular cavern. A hundred feet long and sixty feet wide, it was full, from end to end and floor to ceiling, with chests and crates, boxes and barrels and huge ceramic jars, baskets and cartons and cases, all different sizes, some carved, some plain, a few of the white cartons were marked with the blue and orange logo of a global freight company. He turned to the side and looked back at his brothers.

"Where do you think I should start?" he asked dryly.

Baraquiel shook his head and Shamsiel stared wordlessly at him.

"A lot of help you two are," the Watcher remarked sourly, turning into the room. He moved along the wall between piles of stacked objects, looking at them as he passed.

Some of the markings on the boxes, woven into the baskets or carved into the stone, he recognised, indicative of the contents held within them. Others he'd never seen before, and he let his fingers brush over their surfaces. Many of the containers were neutral, imparting no feeling, good or bad through his senses. A few were filled with a glow, an optimism or light or feeling of rightness, somehow. And several, he snatched his hand back from, looking at it for signs of the corruption and taint he could feel through the coverings. He stopped beside a large crate, looking at it curiously. The sigil carved into the side he knew. Danyael's, one of the highest-ranked of the seraphim. He'd had a shield, he remembered distantly. A shield that could protect any from harm. He wondered if the crate contained it.

He turned his head slightly, feeling the faintest brush of air over one cheek. Ventilated somehow, he noted worriedly. The air was warm.

Moving faster along the rows, picking up the smaller items to see what was under them, Penemue worked his way down the long cavern, turning at the end. There was no order to the way the objects had been stored, he thought in annoyance as he saw a cursed diadem in a basket alongside a legendary sword from the pre-Viking era of Scandinavia.

Not so much a collector, as a hoarder, the Watcher considered, staring at a huge, woven basket marked with the waxed sigil of Ra. Had he collected them to use against others, or to prevent these objects from being used against him? So far as he knew only one thing had had the power to destroy the archangel – the spear the mortal had used on him. And that had disintegrated as soon as it had done the job.

He walked up the next crowded and uneven aisle, automatically cataloguing and filing away what he recognised, examining the things he didn't with care. A tea chest had been left partially in the passage and he opened it, smiling slightly as he saw the gleam of black metal inside. Never common, the skill required to make both metal and the long, curving knives had been restricted to a few artisans, but the Chinese weapons were worth their weight in gold, metal and the strength of them and the spells that had been laid on them with their making could kill a demon of any hierarchy with the exception of the archdemons, those Fallen who required a weapon of Heaven to penetrate the evil of their essence.

He pulled six from the pile in the chest, sliding three of the blades through the sides of his belt, kneeling to lay the other three flat together and wrapping them quickly in the long cloth wound around his waist, knotting the ends and slinging it diagonally across his chest. He straightened up and saw the box sitting on the pile in front of him. Eighteen inches by fifteen, the wood was plain and polished to a soft sheen, the curling grain showing the maker's skill in forming it. On the top, an oak tree had been carved in a simple, stylised design, behind it an eagle with wings outstretched. On the front, a heavy iron lock with a delicate chased engraving closed the hasp. He reached for it as the torches in the room bowed and trembled.

The door to the tomb, he realised, wrapping an arm around the box and running through the tight passages, twisting this way and that to avoid the containers that protruded a little too far into his way.

"Penemue!" Shamsiel's shout of warning came as he reached the iron door, dragging one of the knives from his belt.

"CATCH!" he yelled, throwing the blade across the room, its slow revolutions calculated precisely by the waiting Watcher, who caught it in the eyeblink between driving back the desiccated corpse who lunged at him and taking the single step closer to the room. Shamsiel felt the weight and balance in the moment his fingers closed around the wire-wrapped hilt and he swung at the corpse, the keen edge of the black metal removing its head. The demon inside boiled and roasted as the metal touched it, and the headless body dropped to the floor.

Penemue looked at the two animated mummies edging their way around the walls toward him, drawing the second and third blades and putting the box down on the floor behind him. He spun the knives, his wrists rotating smoothly, absorbing their weight, the grip, the balance and listening to the faint singing of the metal as it cleaved the air. To his right, the demon hesitated, looking at the black blades and the skill with which they were wielded. Behind him, Baraquiel and Shamsiel had killed the two demons left with them and there was no out. Penemue watched its indecision with a faint amusement.

On his left, the demon either hadn't known what the knives were or had missed them, edging sideways toward him, gaze fixed to the floor. An incautious movement as it looked up to see how close it was triggered the trap and the demon and the corpse it filled fell to the floor, a dozen iron needles protruding from the back of its head down the spine to its buttocks. Penemue looked at it curiously, wondering if the needles had other powers or if the long-dried up nervous system had simply been short-circuited beyond the demon's ability to manipulate the body. He glanced back up to the right, and saw the demon was still hesitating in the centre of the narrow path, staring down at the body on the floor.

Turning and picking up the box, Penemue looked at Baraquiel. The red-haired Watcher nodded and he threw the box across the room, watching Baraquiel catch it safely. He looked back at the demon and pulled the iron door closed behind him, turning to the left and starting to move back toward the others.

Across the width of the room, the demon began to move back the other way as well, crabbing as fast as it could along the wall.

Shamsiel looked from his brother to the demon, stepping back toward the stairs behind, waiting to see who would make it first. He let the knife swing lazily in his hand.

"Take your time," he suggested derisively to the demon. "Your ex-master's traps aren't as forgiving as we are!"

The demon's gaze flashed uncomfortably at him and back to the narrow gap between rock and columns and it slowed a little.

Penemue ignored the progress of the demon, focussing his attention on the gap path, the long knife in his hand held against the flat of the outside of his thigh. He was gaining on it, he thought distantly, hearing Shamsiel's stream of jibes, hearing the odd creaking that came from the corpse whose tendons and meat had long since dried to the consistency of ancient leather.

The demon slowed further and Shamsiel grinned at it. He was ready when the smoke suddenly poured from the mouth, the body crumpling stiffly forward through the columns, back and sides prickled with the needles. The ribbon of smoke flowed sinuously around the wall, flickering toward him and undulating over him. He lifted the knife, the tip hitting the rock ceiling above him and the smoke convulsed like a cloud filled with lightning, the ashes of the demon falling over the Watchers in a drift.

Baraquiel shook his head and wiped a hand over his face in disgust. "Next time you want to try that, stand further from me, Shamsiel," he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Shamsiel's smile flashed white against the ebon of his skin as he shook his head, fine, black ash floating from his hair. "I'll make sure of it, Baraquiel."

Penemue eased his way out from behind the last column and looked at them. "What do you think triggered them?"

Baraquiel shrugged. "Who knows? We need to get going now before more come," he said, taking the third blade from his brother.

"No debate," Penemue agreed. "It's a long walk to Lourdes."

Taos, New Mexico

Hubertus Draxler stood outside the long ranch house, his face lifted to the gusts that were freshening in the north, rushing down the mountainside toward him, his eyes closed. The scent of snow was strong in the wind and he thought that the next front was already humping its way over the ranges, lifting and falling and picking up moisture as it travelled south. Beyond the blizzard, he could smell other things, almost anything he chose if it came to that, but there were no humans on the long, long stretch of interlocking mountain ranges that divided the country, not within the limits of his abilities, at any rate.

He opened his eyes and looked around the compound, the pupils of his eyes elongating and widening to take in all available light. He saw without colour, and sometimes without depth, if he was looking at something very far. The German had estimated his night vision to be somewhere between that of a wolf and that of a cat. It was a meaningless comparison, he'd thought at the time. He had many abilities that exceeded human capabilities.

Turning back to the house, he walked along the long porch, hearing the conversations in the rooms inside. He'd seen the thick dossier Baeder had on him, although he didn't know where the information had come from. It was detailed enough – the disturbing night of his birth, his upbringing, at first with the woman he'd called mother, then later, with his father. Escaping from those bonds and discovering his abilities at the age of thirteen. Too late, Baeder had told him sourly. Too late for the extraordinary powers that he should've had at an earlier age. But they were more than enough for him, had kept him employed and wealthy enough to be able to travel the world and pursue the search for knowledge that drove him. The Grigori had found him five years ago. By chance, he'd thought at first, hiring him for a contract hit. But nothing had been chance, and he'd realised that was the first thing he should have remembered. Now, he worked for them. They had knowledge. And power. He would leave eventually, he thought, to pursue the solitary search again. But after he'd milked them dry of everything they knew and had sent Baeder personally on his way to see his fallen brothers.

The perimeter was secure. Nothing could move in the mountains with the snow filling the passes and making every approach treacherous. Nothing could move without him being aware of it, in any case. That was an anomaly, he'd learned. The reach and strength of his senses, both physical and other. None of the others had that. It was not a clue to the things he needed to know. Merely an interesting fact.

Walking back to the house, he stopped by the window, listening to the conversation inside. The outside temperature was minus twenty-five degrees but he didn't feel the cold, or the heat, his body adjusting to extremes with ease. Not an anomaly that ability, something most of his kind and the other half-breed species shared. It was useful.

"We have not found a satellite that is still transmitting photographic data, Erik," a male voice inside the room said stridently. Hans, Draxler identified him. Tall, as they all were, wheat-blond hair and pale blue eyes, skin that looked like dough, white and pasty and prone to wind-sores here in the mountains.

"What about the geophysical data?" That was Baeder, the clipped and brusque voice oddly light for the size of the man.

"No, Marilyn has not been able to locate one that wasn't shut down from its ground station yet." Dietrich's deep voice said languidly. Ekhart was more frightening than Baeder. Cooler. More focussed on the end result.

"What do we know of their defences?" Baeder said impatiently, the muted clinking of glasses telling Draxler that he was at the long sideboard that served as a bar, the top covered in bottles of alcohol and glassware.

"They were quick," Hans said. "The central castle consists of two towers, to the west and to the east, with fortified baileys in between. With the weapons we have available, we could bring the buildings down, that is not the difficulty."

"No," A smile was in Dietrich's voice and Draxler could imagine it, reptilian, without humour. "No, the problem is that it might kill the prophet and we would have no way of finding the next one in time."

"Time is something we have an abundance of, gentlemen."

The last voice was female. Marilyn Harrer, sister of Karl. An intelligent and, judging by the reactions of most of the men he'd seen in her company, beautiful. For himself, he couldn't judge her appearance.

"You can procreate, Hubert," Baeder had said to him, years ago. "You are completely compatible with humanity."

He'd shaken his head and turned away. He had no interest in women, nor in men, for that matter. His libido had been completely sublimated in killing and in the search and he had no time or inclination for anything else, particularly not the meaningless and time-wasting physical and emotional traps that people fell into deliberately, under the guise of romanticising a basic biological drive.

"Not any more," Baeder contradicted her, but gently. "The demon will work out a way to capture the prophet if he is not led by us first. And that power, in his hands, would be a catastrophe for more than humanity."

"The upstart calling himself Crowley?" she asked archly. "He is a fool."

"Inexperienced, at this time, perhaps," Dietrich said lazily. "But no fool. Do not underestimate humans because they are not angels, Marilyn."

She sniffed and he heard her walk to the sideboard, pouring out a drink. "How then do you plan to get in, Dietrich? You have obstructed every suggestion I've heard."

"The same way we acquired our scientists in '44, liebchen," Dietrich said, getting to his feet and walking toward her. "Drax and the others will be able to narrow the prophet's location when we are closer. We will destroy the castles we are sure he is not in, and take whatever hostages we need to force them into handing him over."

She laughed brightly, a high, trilling sound that was devoid of humour. "These places, these people are not the confused and nationalistic simpletons of a denuded and humiliated country, Dietrich. They are hunters, at their head. Crowley's army will not be able to cross the walls, no matter how many pieces they're in and neither will we!"

"But the nephilim will be able to," Dietrich countered softly. Draxler heard a soft gasp from the woman, closing his eyes and imagining the man's hand bite around her arm, or her shoulder. "And so will the cambion. The warding that guards against us and against demons does not affect them."

The half-breed heard her step away from the man, heard the screak of her heel on the stone floor and the sharp crack of her hand striking his skin.

"Do not handle me as if I am one of your prostitutes, Dietrich," she said in a very low voice.

The click of her heels was audible to Draxler all the way to her room.

In the large living room, Erik exhaled. "Please, watch your temper, Dietrich. We have a long way to go."

"Tell her to be more respectful of her elders and I will not need to," the other man said without inflection.

"You think the half-breeds will be able to get in undetected?"

"Not undetected, no," Hans clarified. "But with subterfuge, yes."

"Why would they allow them into their strongholds?" Erik demanded.

"Because they have been to see the Qaddiysh," Dietrich said, dropping back to the sofa, the ice in his drink tinkling against the glass. "And they do not know if the nephilim they meet are the children of the Watchers – or the children of the Grigori."

Wolves in sheep's clothing, Draxler considered. It was a reasonable plan. Provided the hunters had not met the nephilim in Jordan. One of them had been the vessel of Lucifer, he knew. And another had killed the Morning Star in single combat. That alone made them adversaries that demanded a certain respect. He did not think the Grigori were inclined to grant that respect.

Turning away from the window, he moved silently along the porch and let himself into the back of the house, leaving his coat and boots to drip off in the mud-room. If these three failed, there would be the others, he thought, ghosting through the house to his room. He would be interested to watch it play out.

West Keep, Lebanon

The alarm went off at eight, its strident beeping shattering his sleep and blasting the fragments of the dream away. Dean groaned, his left hand slapping at the machine on the nightstand and silencing it as he swept his right across the bed beside him, feeling cool, empty sheet where he'd been expecting warm, smooth skin. Eyes opening resentfully in the morning light flooding the bedroom, he looked first to the other side of the bed and then around the room, lifting a hand and rubbing it over his face as he realised he was alone.

He'd gotten in, about as expected, around one. Bone-tired, his head aching from the thirteen hours of talk and planning and working on the details, first with Bobby and Maurice and Ellen and Sam, then with the priests. He'd have done better to have worked it out on his own, he'd thought, and then gone through the details with the others when he had it down.

She'd left a light on and he'd slunk into the bed, hearing the soft whisper of her breath, his heart sinking a little as he also heard the steadiness of it. Sound asleep. Deeply asleep. Again.

Inching across the smooth sheet, he'd heard her soft sigh as he fitted himself against her, and the headache and the tension and the nagging sense of worry that something had been forgotten or left undone, unthought of, had disappeared completely, his arms curving around her and a feeling of peace cloaking him as he'd closed his eyes.

He'd slept deeply too, he thought. Deep enough that her getting up hadn't woken him – which was pretty damned deep. Listening to the silence of the apartment, he thought she'd gone out somewhere. Another opportunity missed. Another chance gone. He levered himself onto his elbows, frowning at the door as he reviewed that thought. Chance for what? To not to tell her some more of what he was convincing himself that he wasn't feeling?

How long was he going to play this game? This I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about game with himself? Pushing back the covers, he rolled out of the bed and walked down the hall to the bathroom, reaching for the shower taps and flipping them on. He leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror above it as he waited for the water to heat up.

The face that stared back at him looked more or less the same as it had for the last few years. More lines. More shadows. The same steadfast worry in the back of his eyes that he tried not to see when he shaved. Not just Sam anymore. Sam and the world. Now he had whole towns to worry about personally. People he knew. People he cared about. And … a woman who took all that worry and vanished it … just by being there.

Steam curled into his peripheral vision above the shower door and he let out his breath, turning to the barrage of hot water and letting it hammer him into a kind of insensibility.

The memory of Lisa's face, her disappointment when he hadn't responded to what she'd said, chewed at him. The deeper disappointment later when he'd told her that he didn't.

"This is exactly what you wanted. No one to hold you back, Dean. No one to make demands on you. No one to make you feel bad for not loving back."

He leaned against the tiled wall in front of him, swallowing the sudden rise of bile as that memory flooded him. It hadn't been true, not the way she'd meant it. But it had as well. And he'd hated himself for letting her see it. And he'd hated her, a little, for throwing it back at him when he'd had no choice in what he'd had to do.

Straightening up, he tipped his face to the water, eyes screwed shut. He didn't even know what the hell he was talking about – thinking about, since he definitely wasn't talking about it – he thought. He'd kidded himself once and that had stabbed him. He didn't know what it looked like or felt like … yeah, you do, the small voice in his mind murmured contradictorily. You know what it looked like, what it felt like, what it sounded like. The house in Lawrence and John and Mary Winchester and a whole world of it then. You know. You're just afraid it's not for you.

And did she? Still?

He couldn't blame her if she didn't. He'd hardly been around. Hadn't said anything. Had come and gone as if – as if – it hadn't mattered to him, whether she was there or not. Twisting the taps off, he stepped out and grabbed a towel, aware that his pulse had sped up and an urgent, formless nervousness was filling him.

Running water into the sink, he scraped carelessly at the stubble, wincing as the keen blade nicked him under the jaw, and dropping the razor into the water swirling around the drain. Slow down, he told himself. Just … be cool.

But he was rushing again when he got back to the bedroom, throwing clothes around, looking for clean ones, socks getting stuck on damp skin and every pair of jeans mysteriously stained with oil, along the sides where he usually wiped his hands if no rag was close enough.

He stopped as he came into the kitchen, frozen in place by the sight of the brightly wrapped present sitting in the middle of the table, a note displayed prominently on top of it.

Fuck. No.

It was Christmas, he'd known that, had seen the preparations, had recognised the date the previous day, had been aware of all those things and had still managed to put it so far out of his head that it'd never even occurred to him that she might do something like this.

Walking warily to the table, he picked up the note, reading through it. Errands. Back soon. Merry Christmas. Hope you like it. Love, Alex.

Just … love, Alex. Like someone you care about. He pushed the thought aside and picked up the gift. It was bulky and heavy. Not very heavy, he thought, holding it in one hand. Heavy enough. Soft.

He ripped the paper off and stared at the almost-familiar folds in his hands. He was holding a jacket. Soft, heavy leather. Dark brown. Straight cut with a collar high enough to shield his neck. Where the hell had she found it? He shook it out and pulled it on, the smell of leather enveloping him instantly. It fit. Better than his father's ever had, he thought irrelevantly. It was warm, double-lined on the inside. Putting his hands into the wide pockets, he felt a piece of paper and pulled it out, reading it.

I do, you know, it said. I do love you.

He dropped into the chair behind him, rubbing both hands over his face, crunching them into fists and holding them there. There if you want it, the small voice said in the disbelieving silence in his mind.

Caspian Sea, Turkmenistan

"Could save ourselves a couple of hundred miles walk if we cross here instead of going around," Shamsiel said, looking at the expanse of dark blue water in front of them.

"A few days? Do you think that'll matter much?" Baraquiel said, looking along the snow-patched coastline at the steel boats that were still moored against the small harbour's stone breakwater. Ice was already forming, growing out from the shore, the boats glittering in the thin light.

Penemue drank his tea in silence. By a rough calculation, and presuming that nothing untoward happened, which seemed highly unlikely, it would take them four or five weeks to cross Europe in the middle of winter. The coldest winter he'd seen for some time, he amended dourly to himself. They might reach France by spring. The Atlantic would troublesome as it always was in the changeover seasons. Then from the coast to the centre of the country on the other side. They would be there by summer. At the very earliest. If nothing at all happened to slow them down.

The flutter of wings echoed from the stone walls and dissipated over the water. The men turned to see the angel, standing with the sun behind him, looking thoughtfully around. On the sea wall, a gull blinked at him, wings lifting slightly in confused alarm.

"There you are," Balthazar said brightly. "That box you're carrying really does distort your images."

"Balthazar, it's been a long time," Penemue said cautiously, wondering what the angel was doing here.

Tilting his head slightly, Balthazar smiled as he saw the wariness in all three faces. "Relax, Heaven has no idea of what you're pursuing. Castiel sent me to get you to Lourdes."

"Why Lourdes?" Baraquiel asked abruptly. "You can take us to Kansas."

The angel's gaze cut away to the sea. "The situation in Heaven is a little delicate right now," he said slowly. "And Cas felt that the timing could be managed more effectively if you were closer, but not that close."

Penemue's brows drew together. "Someone's watching us? You're waiting to see what they will do to affect this new balance of power?"

Balthazar turned and looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You were always frighteningly astute, Penemue."

"Manipulating the humans will not endear them to Heaven, Balthazar," Baraquiel said gravely. "It will backfire if they know that help was given in drips instead of whole-heartedly."

"The humans are dealing with their own problems," Balthazar told them, with a careless shrug. "And if we do not discover the source of the conspiracy before it's too late then that will only add to their difficulties." He looked around the cold shore again and shivered. "Now, will you come or would you prefer the four thousand mile trek through winter?"

Glancing at each other, the Qaddiysh got to their feet and walked to him, standing close together. Balthazar reached out and closed his eyes and the gull croaked in surprise and hopped from the wall, wings spreading out as it flew away from the empty quay.

Cascade d'Ilhéou, Pyrenees Mountains

The tight rocky valley was filled with the soft roar of the falls, and blanketed in white. Penemue looked around as Balthazar released them, brows rising.

"I thought you said Lourdes?"

"The stronghold is a little way into the mountains," Balthazar said with a vague gesture. "And this is the only landmark they've given me."

"So, where is it?" Shamsiel turned around.

"A quarter mile to the south-east, I was told," Balthazar said. "There will be someone to meet you."

The beating of wings was almost inaudible beneath the sound of the rushing water and Baraquiel shrugged as the angel disappeared. "That is south-east," he said, pointing to the narrow end of the valley. "From memory, there was a walking track that led here, and through the peaks."

"A lot of good that will do us," Shamsiel pointed out, stepping into the deep powder that covered the ground.

Christmas Day, West Keep, Lebanon

The keep was full of people and Dean walked through them, captured now and then, smiling and talking his way out of longer conversations as he searched for Alex. He saw his brother, by the fire with Bobby and Ellen and Father Emilio, catching his eye and giving him a slight grin while Vince walked beside him, telling him about the last batch of trainees, aware that he was nodding and murmuring in the right places without having taken in a word.

"Gimme a minute, Vince," he said to the other man, stopping him mid-sentence. Vince blinked and nodded as Dean walked away.

He had a gift for Ben, a rare find. He couldn't see Alex anywhere in the crowded rooms but from the music playing at the other end of the interconnected living areas, he had a pretty good idea where the boy was.

Seated around the nativity, several teenagers and more than twenty children sat around two young men, listening as they played their guitars, the melodies almost duelling in the battle to see which of them had the greater mastery over the strings. Rudy he recognised, the singer's long dark hair and tan skin easily identifiable even at a distance, the younger man who sat beside him he didn't.

He could guess who he was, though. Michael, the talented sculptor and friend of Father McConnaughey's. Ben had been right, he realised, head inclined as he listened to the intricately played music. The kid was almost as good as Rudy, and it was probably only the years between them that was making the difference. Both musicians had an instinctive feel for the notes, the tension in the music and a soaring talent in adding their own embellishments to the well-known ballad.

"Good, isn't he?" Sam said as he came up behind him.

"They both are," Dean acknowledged. "Make a difference to long winter nights here."

Sam laughed softly in agreement. "And the long summer ones."

"You seen Alex anywhere down here, Sam?" Dean turned to look at him. Sam shook his head.

"I haven't seen her since last night," he said, smiling at Ben as the boy made his way to them. "Merry Christmas, Ben."

"Hi Sam, Merry Christmas," he said, smiling shyly as he handed a small, wrapped gift to Dean. "I thought you'd like this."

Dean ducked his head, taking it and pulling the slightly larger gift from his pocket and handing it over to Ben. "Thanks. Merry Christmas."

"Is it for me?" Ben's eyes widened as he looked down at the clumsily wrapped elongated shape.

"Yep." Dean pulled the wrapping from the square, plastic cover and felt his brows rise. "Where'd you get this?"

Ben grinned up at him. "Rudy found it for me, on the last run they did. Do you like it?"

"Hell, yeah, I love it," Dean said, looking down at the flat black cover. Barely visible until tilted to the light, the embossed letters just gave the band's name, nothing else. He knew what it was. The collection had been on his must-get list for years before the world fell to pieces.

"Guess I'll have to stick a CD player in the Impala now," he said with a half-rueful smile.

Ben tore the paper from his present and the brothers heard his breath shoot out in a whistling exhale.

"It's ceramic. Doesn't need much in the way of sharpening," Dean said, looking down at the long, white-bladed knife. "Won't corrode, non-magnetic and non-conductive."

He felt Sam's gaze on him and glanced at his brother, shrugging. "Just a piece for the kit."

"It's awesome, Dean," Ben said, throwing an arm around his ribs as he kept staring at the knife. Dean hugged him back a little awkwardly.

"Yeah, well, look after it. They're impossible to find now, and a long way past impossible to make."

"I will!" Ben shot off suddenly, the blade held against his side to avoid stabbing anyone as he went to show his friends.

Sam watched him go, and turned to his brother. "Where did you find it?"

"Chicago," Dean said, looking around the room. "Specialty store that was still standing when I met with Death."

"I remember Dad had a couple in the trunk, but I thought he took them for the truck?"

Dean nodded distractedly. "Yeah, I got one back. Good for cutting through pretty much anything, harder than a steel blade."

"You okay?"

Hearing the note of concern, Dean looked back at Sam. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You look … agitated," Sam commented mildly. "What's going on?"

For a moment, Dean was tempted to tell him, tell him and ask what he thought. The impulse disappeared as he realised that he didn't know what to say. He shook his head. "Nothing, I just want to find Alex. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, count on it," Sam said, watching him disappear into the crowd.

When he'd heard what his brother had done to bring her back, he'd thought that maybe, finally, Dean had found someone that he could let in. But watching him, watching them, over the months that followed, he thought he'd been mistaken. Dean was relaxed around her, more so than he'd seen his brother with anyone else, but he didn't talk about her, and he hadn't slowed down or changed what he'd been doing since they'd been together. When he'd asked him not to let Alex see him as a monster, he'd wondered if the relationship was as strong as he'd thought. He and Ellen and Bobby had watched the hunter, looking for clues about his feelings and finding none. Alex was in his life, but none of them had gotten the sense that she meant any more to him that Lisa had.

Except for what he'd done to bring her back.

He was on edge, Sam thought, catching another glimpse of him as he worked his way back through the crowd to the hall. About Alex, for some reason. He watched a moment longer and lost sight of him, shrugging inwardly. He didn't think Dean would talk to him about it even under torture. It wasn't how his brother was wired.

Office, Dean thought, threading his way through the tightly packed corridor. She'd be in the office.

He had no idea of what he was going to say when he finally found her. What he could say. What he wanted to say. He thought he'd just start with the jacket and see where it went from there.

Reaching the door, he put his hand over the knob and stopped, looking down at it. He felt more nervous now than he had when she'd first told him, he realised, feeling the flutter under his ribs and the clamminess of his hands. Then, it'd been rejection that had worried him. What the hell was he scared of now? He decided he didn't want to know, turning the knob and clearing his throat as he pushed the door open.

The office was empty.

He looked around, just to be sure about it, but it remained stubbornly empty. Pulling the door closed, he leaned back against the wall, the flutter up near his throat now and his mouth dry.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

He opened his eyes and looked around at Ellen, nodding to her and Bobby who stood slightly behind her, both looking at him questioningly.

"Uh … yeah," he managed to say. "You too."

"You okay?" Bobby asked gruffly, his face half-shadowed by the cap, but the tone indicating that he didn't think Dean was.

"Fine," Dean said, straightening up. "I was looking for Alex."

"I saw her heading up the stairs a while ago," Ellen said, glancing at Bobby.

"Great," Dean said, forcing a smile. "I see you later."

"Not like you to turn down a big feed?" Ellen looked at him in surprise.

He looked at his watch and swallowed a groan. "Nah, I'll be back down," he said, walking past them. "Just got … a … thing …"

He let the words trail off as he forced his way back down the narrow corridor and into the hall, aware of the scent of roast and gravy, vegetables and pie and bread spreading slowly through the lower levels, his stomach complaining about missed dinner, breakfast and now another meal, his mouth filling uncomfortably with saliva at the appetising smells.

Later, he told himself, reaching the stairs. Right now there was only one thing he wanted to do, one thing he needed to do and if he couldn't get through it soon, he didn't think he'd be able to later. Just tell her and talk it out and find out one way or the other, he thought, his feet pounding the stairs as he accelerated up them.

He ignored the well-wishes of those he passed, leaving heads turning to look after him as he shot around the curving landings and kept going, dodging those coming down and apexing the corners wherever he could. He hit the floor that held their apartment and slowed down as he walked down the hallway, forcing himself to not think about where he was going to try next if she wasn't here either.

At the apartment's door, he hesitated, listening, unable to hear anything. Pushing the door open, he walked in and closed it, a long stride taking him through the short hall.

Alex looked up as he came through the living room and into the kitchen. She sat at the kitchen table, her face pale and tense, and he stopped at the other end, licking his lips.

"I wanted to –"

"Dean, I have to te –"

"I really need to get this –"

"Could I just say this fir –"

He stopped and looked at her, nodding reluctantly. "Sorry, go ahead."

"I'm pregnant," she said flatly.

For a moment, the past and the present collided and he felt a sense of disbelief that this exact moment could be playing out again. Every thought that had been churning around his head for the last two days vanished without a trace as he tried to understand how the past had doubled back on him. It wasn't Lisa, standing there at the end of the table. It wasn't Chitaqua or the past. It was Alex. And here. And now. And he still couldn't make himself take it in.

Alex looked at him, her pulse accelerating and her breathing constricting. She'd gone over and over this moment in her mind and the cool, expressionless stare she saw wasn't how she'd envisaged his reaction. She'd thought he might be surprised, or angry, or …something else, but not this.

She made a vague gesture, her gaze dropping to the table. "This wasn't how I wanted to tell you," she said uncomfortably. "Kim thinks Death restored me – restored everything, and the goddess probably kicked it all back into working order when she went through Kansas," she continued, not looking at him, hearing the welling silence in the room between words, a silence that was making it hard to draw a breath to keep talking. But the silence was worse and for the first time in her life she needed to fill it, to keep it filled so she wouldn't have to listen to it. "I just wanted you to know that it – it doesn't – you know – it doesn't – if you don't want that – that's –"

She stopped abruptly, her throat too tight to continue, her fingers curling tightly around the back of the chair she stood behind. She wasn't sure he was even listening to her.

Dean heard the words, heard the increasing discomfort in her voice, saw her shoulders hunch a little inward, saw her knuckles whiten on the chair back. He knew those tells. Knew what they meant. Knew how fucking bad it was he was standing here not saying a goddamned thing. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. Not a fucking word.

"It explains why I felt so tired all the time," she tried again, forcing the words out past the horrifying thought of bursting into tears in front of him. "And – well, all the other stuff …"

She looked up, past him to the hall. "I'm really – I think I'll just …" She let the words trail off, clamping her teeth together and forcing the pricking behind her eyes to remain there as she walked around the table and out of the kitchen.

He heard her light steps through the living room and down the hall, heard the bedroom door open and shut and the noise snapped him back to the present as thoroughly as a slap.

"Alex," he muttered, turning sharply and following her to the bedroom. He turned the knob and pushed. Nothing happened. He hadn't even realised there was a fucking lock on that door. They'd never used it.

Leaning against the panels, he closed his eyes. What the fuck was he doing? What had he done?

Lisa.

I don't.

His decision.

Get.

His doubts.

A second.

Duty.

Chance.

Responsibility.

I can't.

I will be there.

Take that.

Boom.

Again.

BOOM.

No.

BOOM!.

I don't.

I can't lose you.

He lifted a hand and knocked loudly.

"Alex."

Inside the room, Alex looked at the door. Hormones, Kim had said. They would amplify everything, turn the volume up to maximum and they were perfectly normal. But making a scene was not normal. Bursting into wild and uncontrolled sobs, which she could feel like a thunderstorm in her head and chest and throat – that was not normal. Freaking them both out with that level of emotion was not normal and wouldn't help. She'd told him and she still didn't know what he felt and it felt as if she'd been cut open and left to bleed out. She curled up on the bed and buried her face in the pillows and tried not to make a sound.

Dean slammed his fist against the door. "Alex! Come on! Please."

He couldn't hear anything inside the room. Perfect, he thought, a thread of anger twisting its way up through the panic. He'd searched for her all morning to try and tell her how he felt and the whole thing had just nose-dived off the rails and into something else, something wrapped around in feelings and memories he knew he hadn't dealt with, hadn't gone through. How was he supposed to be able to deal with this if she wouldn't let him near her?

Just fucking perfect. Turning away from the door, he walked back down the hall and grabbed the jacket from the hooks beside the door. He'd cool off, he decided. Eat something. Just think. Think about it. He opened the front door and walked out, dragging the soft leather jacket on one-handed as he pulled it shut behind him.

Chambre d'ombres, Pyrenees

Mist began to curl around them as they walked down the narrow trail from the ridge line, swirling around their feet at first, then rising until they could hardly make out the trail and the rock and the trees to either side had disappeared in the amorphous grey air.

"This isn't natural," Baraquiel said as he slowed, picking out the way foot by foot.

"No, keep moving down," Penemue agreed. "The valley opens, I think."

"Why would Cas think we're being watched?" Shamsiel watched Baraquiel's heels in front of him, stepping where the taller man stepped, despite the effort it took to lengthen each stride.

"Gadriel confirmed the Grigori were moving, in the United States as well as Europe," Baraquiel's voice was ghostly in the ever-thickening mist ahead of them. "We are visible to them, as they are to us. And if it is Raphael who is leading the rebellion in Heaven, you know he would contact them first."

Penemue nodded. "The question is not if we're being watched," he said wearily. "But by how many. Whoever the ruler of Hell is, the knowledge of the tablets will have led him to us."

"Is it even possible for a mortal to contend the closing of the planes if the time is not yet?" Shamsiel glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "Humanity is a long way from being ready."

"I don't know," Pemenue answered pensively. "The lines were changed when Lucifer was aided to escape, and again when he was killed. Kokabiel tells me that Hell is stirring, he can feel the demons massing at the gate in Utah, though they will have to wait until the way is clear before they can progress. He said that the lines are dim now, as if much of their power has been diminished – or removed. He cannot tell which."

"What about the twin forces of Creation?" Baraquiel asked, his voice low. "Can we track them and trap them ourselves?"

The dark-haired Watcher at the rear shook his head. "We cannot open that box without being drawn into it ourselves. Only those possessing a soul have sufficient connection to the divine to use it. And I believe they are in Asia now," he added. "They will circle the globe many times in their duties. Nintu will find her first-born too quickly for us to contain them."

"I do not like that everything rests on the humans who've survived, brother," Baraquiel said.

From the mist ahead of them, a quiet, deep voice answered. "And we do not like that we are dependant on creatures from the other planes to help us to clean up the mess that your brothers made."

The red-haired Watcher stopped abruptly, Shamsiel jarring an ankle in trying to prevent himself from cannoning into his brother.

"Andante?" Penemue peered through the mist, watching it curl away as two figures walked toward them.

"Yes," Peter said brusquely, looking at them. "The mist will hide us for a short time only from more penetrating eyes, we have to hurry."

He turned away and Penemue caught sight the woman accompanying him, tall and thin, with close-cropped dark hair framing a bony and beautiful face. She waited for the three Qaddiysh to pass her and fell in behind him.

"Your safehold is guarded by illusions?" he asked, half-turning his head back to her.

"This used to be a well-travelled area," she said in a low, warm voice. "The valley has been hidden from mortal and immortal view since before the Crusades."

A wise precaution, Penemue thought, given the wealth of information it contained. "How many do you have here?"

"There are fourteen of us here now," she said, her tone sharpening unaccountably. "Peter and I will accompany you to America."

He nodded. "Will the defences hold here?"

"Against most things, oui, yes," she said, the shrug implicit in her voice. "Against the archangels – or archdemons, probably not."

The mist parted abruptly and they walked single file along a narrow rock ledge, the gaping black entrance of a cave directly ahead. The Pyrenees, the Watcher knew, were largely limestone, and the cave systems held within the long range were extensive.

Peter slowed as he entered the darkness, moving cautiously over the rough ground to the left. Baraquiel frowned as he saw the smooth rock wall ahead of them, the hunter still striding toward it. It dissolved as Andante passed through, and beyond a long, narrow cavern bent and twisted into the mountain, stalagmites and stalactites forming a tight obstacle course through which they had to wind, keeping in single file and occasionally twisting to the side as the dripping of water echoed faintly throughout the passage.

The cavern widened and Penemue looked at the underground river that appeared to their right, smooth and oily dark in between shallow rock banks, flowing steadily south. It emerged from a seamless rock wall, under it, he thought, without a ripple to show the exact location. Next to the river, a large door pierced the same wall, set tightly and slightly recessed into the stone.

Peter stood in front of it, and slid a large iron key into the lock, turning it sharply. From deep within the rock, they heard the multiple clunks and rattles as the locking mechanism turned slowly, releasing the door. The Watchers' eyes widened as they saw it lift, rising into a slot above the doorway, the gaping holes of the mortices showing the width and depth of the tenons that held it firm when it was down.

Peter walked through, and stopped, gesturing to those following him to continue. Beyond the doorway, a huge curving room, a hundred feet across and eighty feet high, was edged by a narrow stone staircase, spiralling down to a floor below them.

Elena moved past them, leading the way down the stairs, and Penemue followed her, hearing his brothers' footsteps behind him. The walls had been smoothed and straightened, he saw, although not embellished. On the floor, banks of computers and telecommunications equipment lined them; in the centre, a long, wide table stood, lit from underneath and showing a map of the globe on its clear surface. He could see different coloured lights marking various locations around the world and he slowed as he approached it.

"The blue lights are the surviving chapters of the order," Elena said quietly, stopping behind him as he stood looking at the table. "Those red dots are demon activity or demon signs. The yellow lights show the position of the fallen – yourselves included," she said, glancing around as Baraquiel and Shamsiel stopped beside her. "The green flashes are the little we've been able to track of the goddesses – Ninhursag in China and Nintu in Australia right now." She pointed to the trail of small flashing green dots.

"How are these able to see each type of event or non-human?" Penemue asked, brow creasing slightly.

"The parameters exist in our databases." A tall, thin man walked from a wide doorway at the far end of the room, gesturing expansively as he came toward them. Long, grey hair was drawn back into a thin ponytail at the nape of his neck and thick glasses magnified bright green eyes, giving him a misleading look of constant surprise. "We have been able to access some satellite data, most geophysical but I have finally been able to capture the GOES data and also a military satellite that is looking for different signatures in the atmosphere – I've modified both to track changes and anomalies in surface and atmospheric conditions that match our parameters."

"We give off changes that are discernible to a satellite?" Shamsiel looked at him in astonishment.

"You generate a different energy force and wavelength to humans or other life-forms," the man told him with a slight smile. "So yes, I can 'see' you and the other fallen angels, although I cannot differentiate between you and a full angel, or between the Qaddiysh and the Grigori."

"This is Michel," Elena said dryly. "He is our most useful member, I think."

Peter walked around the table. "Michel, the Irin, Penemue, Shamsiel and Baraquiel."

"It is a pleasure to meet what one has only ever read of in legend," Michel said, inclining his head. "Your signals were weakened when you emerged from the crypt," he added thoughtfully, looking at the pack on Penemue's back. "The box? I believe it distorts your energy waves."

Baraquiel nodded. "We have been told that by an angel as well. It is a doorway, between this plane and others, so that's not surprising."

"May I study it? While you're here?" Michel asked, his voice calm, but his eyes very bright.

Penemue shrugged slightly. "It does not function without the appropriate key – it seeks only a particular type of … energy," he said, using the same definition as the programmer had. "I'm not sure what you can learn from it in this place, in this state."

"But I can look, oui?"

"Yes." The Watcher slid the pack from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He lifted out the wrapped box and watched bemused as Michel took it reverently and carried it to a clear desk space in front of the computer monitors.

"Come, you should meet the others," Peter said, looking past them to the doorway from which Michel had entered. "We need you to help with the translations of the older texts – there are ambiguities."

"When do we leave for America?" Baraquiel asked him.

"In two days," Elena said, turning to him. "From Hendaye. The Atlantic is not going to be kind to us."

West Keep, Lebanon

Sitting between Maggie and Rufus, Dean half-listened to Rufus retelling his version of a hunt he'd done in '81, eating automatically, smiling when everyone else smiled, struggling.

He'd thought it through, after Dave'd told him. He'd thought about everything. What he wanted and what he could give and what it would take. He hadn't thought much about the future because he'd pretty sure then that he didn't have one. But when Death showed him, he'd thought about what he could become without her, and what he would do. And he'd thought about it all again. He'd never asked. And he hadn't told her. What he wanted. What he felt. He'd thought just feeling it was enough.

"Dean," Rufus leaned over and looked at him and he blinked, looking back at the dark eyes.

"Yeah."

"Got a bottle of very good whiskey in the office."

Looking down at the table, he realised he'd finished eating. "Yeah."

"When do you want to get started on this?" Maggie looked up as he got up.

"Get started on what?" he asked, unable to remember what he'd said five minutes ago.

"Taos." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. "The fallen angel attack."

"Right," he agreed, nodding. "A couple of days, if the weather holds."

He backed away from the table and followed Rufus out of the room, wondering what exactly he'd said at the table. He couldn't remember any of it.

"Sit down," Rufus said as he opened the door to the small office the hunters in the keep used for record-keeping and planning when they were there.

"What'd I say about Taos before?" The question was out before he realised he was going to ask it.

Behind the desk, Rufus pulled out a bottle and a couple of glasses and set them down, unscrewing the lid and pouring a double for each of them. "Said we'd take a load of long-range stuff, the holy oil and sneak up on them, pin them down and do as much damage as we could," he answered, his mouth lifting on one side as he pushed one glass toward Dean.

"Right."

"What's going on?" Rufus picked up his glass and let a mouthful trickle down his throat.

"Nothing."

"In a pig's eye."

Tossing back the glass, the smooth whiskey roaring gently down his throat, Dean pushed the glass back across the table, leaning on the edge tiredly. He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head.

"To be honest, I don't know," he said quietly. "Alex's pregnant."

Rufus paused for a fraction of a second as he poured a little more whiskey into the glass. "Given that every woman between fifteen and fifty is knocked up, here and in Michigan, maybe that shouldn't've come as a surprise."

Dean rolled an eye at him. "I didn't think of it that way."

"She couldn't," Rufus guessed, remembering the conversation he'd had with her about Dave.

"Until Death pulled her back and the creation chick kick-started her again, yeah, that's what we thought."

"What's the problem?" Rufus asked from behind his glass. "Thought you two were pretty simpatico? Better than with Lisa."

Dean looked down into his glass, letting his breath in an audible exhale. "I –"

Rufus waited. He'd found over the last three years that the man sitting on the other side of the desk would talk, from time to time, when he needed to, but he couldn't be pushed into it. It didn't come naturally, and it took time.

"It was different with Lisa," Dean finally said. "I didn't … it wasn't …"

He hadn't been anywhere close to love with Lisa, Rufus knew. But he thought that Dean was a lot closer to it with Alex. Not admitting it, not looking at it, maybe. The pregnancy was going to screw that up, he thought, that entire situation coming close to replaying itself in his head, with all the predictable repercussions.

"You worried about what might happen to Alex?" he asked lightly.

Dean's gaze snapped up to meet his. "No," the response was instant. Then he looked away. "I don't know. Maybe," he admitted unwillingly. "It's not just that."

"What'd you tell her when she told you?"

The silence stretched out and Rufus rolled his eyes. "You said something, right?"

Dean finished the contents of the glass. "It was a – surprise," he prevaricated, pushing the glass back across the table.

"Uh huh," Rufus said, taking the glass and looking at him. "She told you she was going to have a kid, yours, and you didn't say a word?"

Dean nodded, his eyes on the desk.

"And then what'd she do?"

"She said she was tired and went to the bedroom and locked the door."

"Huh."

"Pour the fucking whiskey, Rufus."

He tipped an inch into the glass and pushed it back. "And what'd you do?"

"I left."

Dean looked back up as he heard the deep sigh on the other side of the desk.

"Not thinking straight, or you don't want to take this on?" Rufus asked, his voice noticeably cooler.

Straightening in the chair, Dean stared at him. "I took it on before," he said defensively, hearing the doubt in the older man's voice.

Rufus watched him, thinking about that. "So what's the problem?"

It was a good question, Dean thought. Not the problem. The difference. The difference between carrying a responsibility and being in a life. The difference between feeling duty and feeling something else … something else entirely.

"You worried about losing her – or getting something you don't think right's for you?"

"You didn't want it," Dean snapped at him, cornered by the old man's insight. "You're here, Dominique's in Tawas."

Rufus laughed softly. "I had it, Dean," he said, the smile fading a little. "I had all of it and while it lasted, nothing was ever so good."

"But it didn't last, did it?" Was that, finally, why he couldn't let that last bit go?

"Thirty years ain't no shabby innings, kid," Rufus said quietly, watching the younger man over the rim of his glass.

"Thirty years is why I'm still sane," he added, his eyes dark and utterly serious. They narrowed as he watched the expressions flit over Dean's face.

Leaning back in the chair, he shrugged. "I never had a choice," he mused, half to himself. "Nothing on earth would've stopped me from being with Nance, no matter what the risk, no matter how much I was afraid that I might lose her. All that time, that time we had together, it was worth it all." He finished his whiskey and set the glass down on the table. "You got any doubts, then it's best to turn away, Dean. Life – ordinary life – is hard enough without being sure, and this life is impossible unless you got no choice in the matter, unless you can't live without her."

Litteris Hominae, Kansas

Sam looked up at Father Emilio impatiently. "Why are you pushing this so hard, padre?"

The priest stared back at him. "Because your time – what you must learn – is better spent here, helping Chuck to understand the visions, helping all of us to understand them."

"Death told Dean he was going to close the gates," Sam countered tightly. "So, we already know where we're heading, and I'm not leaving him alone without backup on this job!"

"He has multiple people to provide sufficient backup, Sam –"

"Not who know him as well as I do!"

"The contender for the closing of the gates, in particular the gates of Hell, is not set," Father Emilio said patiently. "The visions themselves show that what has already been changed in the lines can be altered further – and what is particular to you, we believe is more important that what Death saw happening earlier this year."

"What do you mean, 'particular to me'?" Sam asked suspiciously.

The priest gestured vaguely toward him. "Your blood, the changes that have already overcome you," he told Sam. "These would give you a stronger chance of success."

"How?"

"I do not know that precisely yet," Father Emilio hedged around the question. "But you can see that in Chuck's last vision, there was no clear sign that it would be Dean either."

Sam shook his head. "We don't have the tablet, and we don't know how we can possibly get the tablet," he said firmly. "And until we do, we don't know what the trials are going to require. Or even if Chuck is gonna be able to read the damned thing."

"This is all true," Father Emilio admitted readily. "But if you and your brother put yourselves at risk in the same ventures, and we lose both of you – what then will we do?"

"Someone else'll have to step up, I guess," Sam said with a careless shrug. "And you and Father McConnaughey know a lot more about Chuck and his visions than anyone else, so you don't need me here." He looked at the priest narrowly. "Why are you two pushing at me to stay?"

The priest sighed and sat down at the end of the table. "I understand why your brother feels compelled to take the fight to the Grigori, Sam. But we believe that this is not what he – or you – should be focussing on right now. There are ways to get into Hell –"

"Which are myth – not fact," Sam said sharply. "We haven't found a ritual or spell that actually lets us do it."

Father Emilio inclined his head. "No, but we need to focus on getting the Demon tablet before anything else."

"And when the Fallen come marching across Colorado and surround us with their alliance of demons, Father? What good will it do then?"

"The Demon tablet contains vastly more information than the trials to close the gates," the Jesuit reminded him. "The weapons against the demons came from it as well. There may be many such weapons we can use to defend ourselves detailed on it if we get it before they get here."

"Operative word being 'may'," Sam pointed out. "I'm not going to let my brother go into a fight without me. That's not happening."

Father Emilio looked at him, gauging the younger man's determination. "Even if what he's doing leads to his death – and yours?"

Sam looked at him carefully for a moment. "We've gone in on much worse odds."

"And something has kept you alive," the priest said tersely. "That might not always be the case."

"If you know something, padre, then for fuck's sake, tell me, but don't try to scare me off with vague insinuations and no proof."

Father Emilio shook his head. "I don't have proof. I have a hunch, as they say, Sam," he said. "I think this is the wrong course of action."

"Take it up with Dean, then."

"He won't listen to me," Father Emilio said. "He is too worried about the people here."

Sam let a gusty exhale. "And he should be. That's what we do, Father."

West Keep, Lebanon

A billion stars sparkled faintly against the black sky, his breath freezing as it left his lungs. Dean stood on the keep steps, his coat drawn close around him, looking at the endless expanse of the night above him.

He could live without anyone, he thought bleakly. Could walk away from his brother if he was sure that was the right thing to do. Not look back. He could walk away from Alex as well.

It would do more than hurt. It would change something deep down, something fundamental inside of him if he did. It would be giving up on something that had kept him going, one foot in front of the other, his whole life. Some barely-felt, barely-alive hope that things would be … could be … different. One day.

His greatest regrets were not dying in Iowa and not seeing Zeppelin playing live at the Forum in '77 – it'd been two years before he was born but he still regretted not seeing it – and he knew without a doubt in his mind that if he walked away now, this would be a regret that would overshadow everything he'd ever done in his life.

Was that the same thing as having no choice, he wondered?

This wasn't taking one for the team, leaving because no one could know what they did, what he did, he realised slowly. Everyone knew what he did and they still didn't know if the croats or Pestilence or Lucifer or whoever had been controlling them had known and deliberately chosen Lisa for their target, to get to him, but it didn't matter, did it, because he'd already painted a bullseye on Alex, just by being with her. Everyone in the keeps, everyone in Michigan, knew her, knew that she was with him. Leaving now wouldn't protect her. It would only make her more vulnerable.

He leaned back against the cold, concrete wall, tension and indecision knotting the muscles at the back of his neck, through his shoulders.

Don't rationalise away the danger because you want it so much, he told himself, blinking as the admission slid out, easy as breathing. Did he? Want it so much that he could talk himself through the risks? Or was it just that the whole damned world was at risk now and no one more so than the people under his protection?

He pushed off the wall and turned to the door, going into the hall and heading for the stairs. Debating it with himself was an exercise in pointlessness, he thought, taking the stairs three and four at a time. He'd stood in front of her and said nothing, and he had to get past that first.

The apartment was dark and cold when he opened the door. He looked down the hall at the bedroom door and turned into the living room, laying a new fire mostly by feel and lighting it, watching the tentative flames curl around the kindling and gradually start to grow.

His picks were in his other coat, and he walked back to the hall, feeling through the pockets until he found the slim leather case and pulling it out. Behind the bedroom door he could only hear silence, and he dropped to one knee, working the wrench and pick through the simple lock with hands that were damp with nervous sweat.

The door swung open as the lock clicked, and he walked to the side of the bed by memory, reaching out and almost knocking the lamp over, grabbing it and switching it on in the same awkward movement.

Alex rolled over toward him, eyes narrowed against the brightness, her hand lifting to shade them as she scrambled back against the pillows, sitting up.

"It's me," he said, looking down at her, relief that she was still here and guilt at the sight of her swollen and reddened eyes warring uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

She nodded slightly, leaning forward to wrap her arms around her knees.

He sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain of what to do next. "Thanks for the jacket," he said finally, not knowing where else to start. He looked around the room absently, his attention sharpening suddenly on the cases that stood by the door.

"You were leaving?"

"I didn't think you were coming back," she said, her voice flat and muffled.

He closed his eyes, his imagination effortlessly supplying what it'd looked like to her; the empathy, that deep streak in him, giving him a taste of what it'd felt like. Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, he looked at her.

"When you said – it got messed up," he told her disjointedly, feeling his way slowly through how it'd felt, how he'd felt, the words he needed to describe it to someone else. "What you said – what you told me. With what happened at Chitaqua. What happened with Lisa."

She didn't say anything, her forehead resting on her knees, face hidden.

"That's – I'm – that's not an excuse, Alex. It's just what – just what happened," he added, the flutter under his ribs getting stronger.

Do you … now, he wondered, waiting for her to move, to say something, to do something. He struggled to stay there against a surge of self-protectiveness urging him to get out, to leave before she could hurt him, to turn away and go and not look back, pretend he wasn't, he didn't.

He felt the tremor through the bed under him first, cutting through his conflicting feelings and thoughts as he looked at her and saw her shoulders shaking. He was across the bed, his arms going around her, before he'd realised he'd moved, tightening his hold as he felt tension in the rigidity of her muscles.

ImsorryIdidntmeanitIdotooyouknowImsorryAlexImsorrysorrysorryitwasntmeantwasntwhatIwantedtodotosaytofeelsorryAlexpleasesaypleasedoyoudoyoustill? He closed his eyes, ignoring the thoughts that were racing in tight circles in his head, hearing the stagger and hitch of her breathing, his cheek against her hair.

The light was off and his arms were still around her as they lay together in the darkness.

I didn't love her and it was a duty I chose to take on, he told her, and it made it worse. She nodded, understanding his pain, the depth of it, knowing that it would live in him until the day he died.

I knew that I wasn't going to have a family, she told him, and I was terrified. His lips brushed her forehead and he saw the fear, fear of having what she wanted, fear of it being taken away. He knew that fear.

I don't know how to do this, he told her, can't say the things you need to hear. Under the words, she heard the longing and understood that it was there, whether he said it or not, admitted it or not.

Is it something you want, she asked him, do you want to walk away? And he shook his head, his throat closing up. I want to be here, he said tightly, pulling her closer, telling her the way he could, the way he knew how.

In the cold darkness of the room, in the warmth they made between them under the covers of the bed, they moved slowly, every caress drawn out and savoured, every taste, every touch, revealing more than words could, filled with passion and tenderness, filled with ache and pleasure, all of it dissolving grief and heartache and pain and anger. He didn't want to stop talking like this, his nerves frying as every touch and taste and smell and sound flickered through them, sheet lightning inside of him, the heat coiling deeper and tighter, a low, shuddering throb in time with his pulse. And when she welcomed him inside, and he remembered what they had already made, he forgot how to breathe, forgot to be afraid, forgot everything but what he knew, could feel, down where he lived and where he was just himself, just Dean, just a man who wanted this.

Alex stretched out as she listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen. She felt loose and heavy, her body warm and tired, her mind quiescent and peaceful. They hadn't left the apartment for two days and she knew it couldn't last. He was heading out in the morning for New Mexico.

Rolling over, she rested her head against her forearm and let herself drift. Chuck and his visions. Death and his prediction. The creative and destructive forces walking the world.

A life, growing inside her.

She closed her eyes against the tingling shiver that slid down her spine. She was acutely aware of her fear. She had mourned for a long time in the hospital, uncaring of her injuries, of what had happened and what she'd done, only locked into what had seemed an unending spiral of grief that had dragged her so deep in its undertow she hadn't thought to come back up again.

Opening an eye and looking at the open doorway, she knew that he felt it as well, that fear. He'd lost a child as well. The promise of a child. She'd felt it in him. Neither of them could ignore the past, it lived too close to them, had too many memories that could not be forgotten or buried.

She wondered if that was why it was different with him, different from the others who'd shared her body, shared her bed. Just perfectly in the moment, in the feelings, in the sensation that coruscated through from one to the other, a building crescendo that never failed to fill her with a peace she couldn't have imagined with anyone else.

Footsteps and the clink of china drew her attention back to the room, to the present. Dean walked into the bedroom, jeans half-buttoned and loose around his hips, a large bowl, steam rising fragrantly from it, clutched in one hand, two bottles dangling precariously from the fingers of the other.

"French fries?" she asked, looking at the piles of thin, golden sticks that filled the bowl and were covered in streamers of red.

"Yeah," he said, setting the bowl between them on the bed and passing her a bottle of cold beer. "That's what I felt like."

She ducked her head to hide the bubbling laugh that rose, and reached out for one, dipping the end in the ketchup.

"They're good," she told him, taking another. He nodded contentedly. They were. Next time, he'd wear a shirt when he did them, though, looking down at the small red burns over his chest where the oil had spat at him. He took a handful from the bowl, licking his fingers as he watched her eat.

The susvee's low rumble echoed from the high concrete and stone walls, not loud, but penetrating. Sam sat in the front seat, Elias, Danielle and Maggie taking up the seat behind him. The caboose they pulled was loaded; supplies and weapons, including the spatter bombs Franklin had made specifically for the job.

"Take us a couple of days to get there, and we won't be staying long," he said to Alex on the keep steps.

She nodded, looking into his eyes. He stood on the step below her, and the change in perspective was odd, but nice, she thought.

"Michel sent the last data from GOES last night," she told him. "Another big front coming, it'll hit the northern Rockies tonight."

"We'll find somewhere to hole up," he reassured her, pulling her close. He couldn't let the kiss pull him too deep. Couldn't let it go too long.

She stepped back and he looked at her for a moment, committing her to memory. He turned away, walking down the steps and climbing up into the cab, feeling her watching him, an odd warmth filling him. Putting the vehicle into gear, he manoeuvred it around the bailey, checking the mirrors as it straightened out.

She did. Still. And that was all he needed to know.