Chapter 7

Billings, Montana

By the time they reached Billings, they'd ploughed through AC/DC, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, Bad Company, indulged in a short foray through Hendrix, Creedence and Earle, and heard selected titles from the Stones and Def Leppard. Ellie'd been changing discs as soon as they finished so there'd been barely any silence between the albums. Not a single word had been spoken between them for the entire seven and a half hours of winding mountain roads.

Not that he was ready to risk her anger by trying to talk, he thought, rubbing a hand over his face. He'd thought his brother'd had the silent treatment down to a fine art, but Ellie had Sam beat. There was a deep freeze on her side of the truck, a no-go cold spot. He could've stood that, had had enough practice at it growing up, but it was shot through with unpredictable, intermittent periods of stillness that kept his eyes on the road and his hands clamped around the wheel, the pain in those moments as visceral as a bleeding wound. He couldn't tell if she was crying, her slight form didn't move an inch, curled up into the corner between the door and the back of the seat, and she hadn't said a word, but he'd felt emotions in the close confines of the pickup's cab, heavy and confusing as fog, and there was something in the way she sat during those times, clenched up inside herself, that made him wonder how long she could handle it. He wasn't sure how much longer he was gonna be able to deal with it.

He'd foregone his Driver Picks rule, as band after band and album after album ended up suiting both the conditions and his current state of mind; a state that'd swung wildly between an unlikely gratitude to the ghost for forcing Ellie into coming with him, giving him time with her … and a rising anxiety that being made to sit in such close quarters and try to hide what she was feeling was only going to make things worse.

When she hadn't slammed the door in his face, he'd allowed himself a very small hope that maybe there was a way back. That maybe, with enough time and patience, he could regain her trust. He might've fucked that over when he'd tried to tell her how he'd felt, remembering the way her anger had taken him by surprise, the sharp bite of it shocking him into silence. It wasn't like he hadn't understood what'd driven that anger. He got it.

Easing the volume down as they came into the city limits, he took his foot off the accelerator and the pickup slowed. He looked around for a place they could stop, fill up with fuel and food, and stretch their legs. He needed caffeine and sugar, grease and salt. He needed to walk off the prickling fear lying under his skin that he was doing the wrong thing.

Ellie kept her gaze glued to the view of the approaching town through the passenger-side window when the pickup took the off-ramp. They'd probably only used about half of the long-range tank's capacity, but the hours spent in one position were taking their toll, and they needed a break, from the awareness of each other as much as the road.

She felt weepy and unsettled, wrung out from emotional overreaction. Hours of listening to music they both loved, filled with memories, every song practically a sneak attack; hours of sitting next to him but feeling like they were strangers, hours of trying to hide the emotions that were always too big, too strong – all of it had produced reactions – overreactions, she corrected herself sourly – she blamed on the changes in her body. For most of the drive, she'd had to hunch over against the door, her back to Dean, as the songs had played with her heart and mind; their much-loved familiarity bringing tears to her eyes along with far too many images from the past. Sometimes it'd been the lyrics, sometimes the music, but quite often the tears had come for no discernible reason at all, her stupidly aching heartstrings being plucked at randomly.

She pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes, pushing down at the lingering ache that seemed to permeate her every cell. She was ravenous, she thought, striving for practicality, and she'd need food before she could take even the mildest painkillers to help stave off the monster tension headache that'd been building in her neck and shoulders over the last eight hours.

All in all, not the best idea in the world, letting Bobby railroad her into going with Dean. Did he, the voice in her head wondered loudly? Maybe you were looking for an excuse to be with him? Something that only seemed like it was out of your hands? Like, say, slipping out of yourself when you were asleep …?

Ellie let her hands drop to her lap. If she'd been hiding this much of a masochistic nature from herself, she was in deep shit indeed, she decided.

In the blurred reflection in the window beside her, she could see her eyelids were puffy-looking. Probably red as well, she guessed. She kept her face to the window. She was not interested in having a discussion of why that might be with the man beside her.

The Town Pump service station, close to the road that led back to the interstate, came with a restaurant and a half-dozen take-out places. There was even a small, drab-looking cinderblock motel at the far end of the lot, its No Vacancy sign glowing red in the fading light.

Dean pulled in, stopping at the pumps, the vibration of the long drive still tingling in his legs and feet as he turned off the engine.

"Uh, thought we'd take a break –"

Ellie was out of the truck before he'd finished, her gaze shooting around the lot and zeroing in on the main building. She swung her leather pack onto her shoulder and strode across the tarmac without a backward glance.

Dean watched her go, the air in his lungs gusting out as he pulled the flask from his pocket.

"If you thought this was somehow going to be a bonding trip, you were so fucking wrong," he growled at the flask, unscrewing the lid and swallowing a mouthful. "She was pissed at me, but you she'd like to salt and burn."

He screwed the lid back on and tucked the flask back into his coat, getting out of the truck with a low groan when his knees cracked loudly. The evening air was cool and dry and he pulled his coat more closely around him as he reached for the lone diesel nozzle, fragments of a dozen songs still echoing in his head.

Leaning against the side of the pickup as the fuel flowed into the tank, he wondered uncomfortably if the whole drive was going to be like this. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness in them, tension that spiked from the shoulder blades up his neck and into the base of his skull. A lot of that tension had come from being close to her, close enough to reach out and touch, and knowing he couldn't, not physically, not even verbally. She hated being pushed.

The pump clicked off and he replaced the nozzle, eyes widening slightly at the amounts of both gallons and dollars. Big tank, he thought, screwing the cap back in place. Probably wouldn't need a refill till they were halfway home. He realised he hadn't been paying much attention to what the pickup's instruments had been telling him.

The warmth and noise in the busy interior hit him as he pushed through the glass doors, a contrast marked against the last few hours of driving. To his right, a convenience store was bustling with people paying for their gas, arms laden with food and items for the road; on his left, the lines at the fast-food restaurant were four or five deep and truckers, chattering tourists, tired-looking salesmen and a couple of donut-eating highway patrol cops filled the long eating counter and scattering of plastic tables. He joined the checkout line and paid for the fuel, looking around for Ellie as he walked over to the hot food crowd.

He'd almost reached the order counter when his peripheral vision caught the distinctive flash of her hair, beacon-bright under the harsh glare of the banks of fluorescent lights as she came out of the Ladies restroom. The lighting wasn't doing anyone any favours, he thought critically, but even taking that into account, she looked exhausted. He watched her wind her way through the early evening crush toward him, her attention distracted. She hadn't been well the last time he'd seen her, he remembered uneasily. He wondered if he could take the chance of raising the subject without getting his head bitten off for his trouble.

She stopped at the end of the line, and he waved a hand at her. "What d'you want?"

Shaking her head, she looked past him, her gaze on the back-lit menu behind the counter.

"Haven't decided. You go ahead."

"Can I help you, sir?"

He turned back to the counter, hardly registering the bright smile and undisguised interest of the perky, twenty-something behind the till, his thoughts still circling the unlikely prospect of getting Ellie to admit to whatever was going on with her.

"Uh, yeah, cheese burger, side of fries, Coke."

The girl tapped the order into her computer, increasing the mega-wattage of her smile. "Will that be all, sir? Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Uh, no. That's it," he said, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. The sight of the credit card, tucked into one of the slots in the billfold gave him a disorienting flashback to the little restaurant in New York and for a heartbeat, he was back there; seeing the candlelit table, hearing Ellie laugh at his story, and the taste of cold beer and the melt-in-the-mouth steak returning to fill his senses. He ducked his head, tossing a couple of bills on the counter. Couldn't get much more fucking different than this, could it?

"You just passing through?" The girl swept up his money and put it into the drawer, counting out his change.

Dean glanced at her, nodding. Could they get that back? Somehow? He'd never felt more normal than the times they'd been like that, easy and talking and neither of them hiding anything.

"It can be a fun town, with someone who knows where to go," the girl continued, holding the change in one hand as she waited for the receipt to print out. "I finish up here at six."

"Uh …" Belatedly, Dean realised she was talking to him. "Yeah."

She scribbled on his receipt and handed it over. "You have a wonderful evening, sir."

"Uh, right," he muttered, trying to banish his memories as an acne-pocked teenaged boy brought out his food in a paper bag. The boy looked at him and said something to the girl too low to make out.

Stepping out of the way, Dean hesitated, wondering if he should wait for Ellie. From the intensity of her stare at the menu, he had the feeling she'd appreciate it if he didn't. He scanned the room, seeing the empty table near the entrance and heading for it.

He dumped the sack on the spotted Formica surface and pulled out a chair, dropping the receipt on the table as he put the change back into his wallet and sat down.

He was halfway through the burger when Ellie walked up to the table, a bulging paper sack in one hand, a large orange juice in the other. Sitting down opposite, she started to pull the food from the bags, and he watched absently, some perverse part of his mind still comparing the cheeseburger to the long-ago tender steak.

Dean stopped chewing when a second wrapped Philly steak sandwich appeared, followed by a side of fries, a small salad and a container of dressing.

"You gonna eat all that?"

"What?" She looked down at the food, the crease appearing between her brows as she unwrapped the first sandwich. "I'm hungry. Sue me."

He watched her take a bite, and dropped his gaze to his burger. Her appetite had always surprised him. He didn't know where she put it since her size and shape seemed to stay the same, but he'd always felt a vaguely weird, guilty relief that she wasn't in the slightest bit finicky about her food.

"You want to stay here tonight?"

Looking up at the question, Dean tucked the mouthful of burger into his cheek. "Uh, no. I'm good for a while longer. You tired?"

She shook her head, tossing a piece of paper onto the table and picking up her sandwich. Dean glanced at the paper, brows drawing together as he recognised the previously crumpled receipt, now smoothed out. On the bottom, a scrawled number was followed by a name. Chrissie. With a little heart over the 'i'.

"Hey, I didn't –" he said, reaching for the receipt and crushing it as he stared at Ellie. A very diffused memory of the girl talking to him came back to him, mixed up with memories of an overheated hotel room and steak and beer and laughter. Her shoulders were around her ears, her gaze on the table top.

"Don't care," she mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich.

"I didn't even know that was there!" he told her, grimacing internally when his voice came out higher than he'd expected. He had the uneasy feeling clearing his throat would be like some sort of admission.

She lifted her head, swallowing her food, her expression flat. "None of my business what you do. I just wondered if we were stopping here for the night."

"Goddamnit!" He dropped his gaze to the mostly-eaten burger in his hand, his stomach churning. He hadn't even noticed the chick or seen the fucking number – if he had, he'd've trashed it. "That's –"

Cutting himself off when he realised she wasn't interested in hearing whatever he had to say, he shook his head. "No. We're not stopping. Alright?"

"Fine."

"Fine!" He put down the burger, his hunger gone, and got to his feet. Wadding up the food, receipt and wrappings, he stalked to the nearest trash can and threw them in, looking around for the restrooms.

Jesus, he fumed, spotting the men's bathroom and striding across the floor toward it, he'd been up to his neck in memories of their history at the counter, and he hadn't seen the girl or noticed what she'd done to the receipt, and he was still getting blamed for it. Even if he had noticed her interest, he wouldn't've called her, sure as fuck wouldn't've done anything about it. Wouldn't've wanted to do anything about it.

He could be clumsy with feelings, he could be a jerk, but he wasn't an outright dick, he argued with himself, not with women, not with her. Straight-arming the door, he ignored the bang as it hit the wall and headed for the urinal.

Fuck, she couldn't've really believed he would – she had to've been fucking with him. He'd thought she knew him better than that. Christ, he'd thought she'd known him better than he'd known himself, had wanted that, relied on it – and coming out with something like that … left outfield …

The bathroom was empty, and once he'd finished, silent. He zipped up, walking across to the sinks. In the smeared and spotted mirror above them, his reflection was drawn, sharp-edged and tired-looking.

Face it, his reflection said to him and he looked down, twisting the taps on and filling his hands with the gushing water.

She's never going to trust you.

He dunked his head under the flow, the icy water no colder than the chill spiralling through him as he tried to scrub that knowledge away.

Ellie watched him walk away, finishing her first sandwich and wiping her fingers on the serviette that'd come in the bag. She wasn't sure of her reasons for provoking him. She didn't really believe he'd've taken advantage of the girl's number even if they weren't travelling together, their past riding like a spectre between them. But there'd been something that'd cracked when she'd seen the receipt, something bitter and angry and wanting to hurt.

They couldn't keep going like this, she thought, rubbing at the ache in her temple with the inside of her wrist. There was too much tension. Too many pitfalls. Too many questions, too much doubt.

She didn't know if she was resentful or grateful to Bobby, the meddlesome old hunter still trying to look out for the man he'd loved like a son, even if it meant screwing her over royally in the process. Picking her second roll, she bit into it, the mixed flavours of steak, cheese, onions and jalapenos exploding over her tongue. The food was a good distraction, but not one that could last all that long. Her chewing slowed as she made herself consider what she was doing.

She hadn't been forced to come along. She could've left Dean sitting in his car in front of her house, could've stayed inside and just waited them both out. Maybe Bobby's actions had been an excuse. She set down the sandwich and picked through the salad absently.

Or … another thought hit her and she let the forkful of lettuce and tomato fall back into the small container … maybe this was one of those times when someone else was pushing and pulling, and using the old hunter's ghost as a tool …

Staring sightlessly at the station's entrance, she let out a soft sigh as she took that thought to the next logical level. She'd been careful all her life. What was the case for coincidence for her situation … and what he'd done? This was the fourth time something had happened, come between them, shattered a relationship she thought neither of them were completely comfortable with, though she knew, without a shred of uncertainty, they both wanted it, more than anything else.

It'd been January, she remembered. They'd been lying together in the pink'n'shag motel room, its garish glare muted by a single lamp. He'd been wasted, but still coherent, a testament to the tolerance levels he'd built over his lifetime.

I love you. You're the only person I've said that to, and there's a reason for that. You're the only one I've felt it for.

At the time, she'd believed him.

He'd called while she'd been between cities, moving her stuff out of Richmond. A routine haunting, a chance to be together. Over the cleanup, he'd told her about Vegas and Crowley and Garth, and, more reluctantly, what Sam'd said. He hadn't admitted how it'd made him feel until long after they'd closed out the bar. She'd thought there was more. Sober, he'd been brittle and edgy; too casual, too flippant, pretending nothing was wrong. Drunk, the confusion that'd been driving him had been painfully clear.

And it doesn't matter what happens, or how bad things get, that isn't going to change. It's never going to change.

She'd believed that too, she thought, pushing the suddenly unappetising food aside with an impatient sweep of her arm. She'd thought he'd been working it out for himself - all that looking back instead of forward, his feelings of futility, the need for some kind of penance, some way out of his guilt - but he hadn't. He'd just buried it.

I don't want to be anywhere else. I don't want to be with anyone else. This is where I belong.

Ellie grabbed her bag and lurched to her feet, walking blindly out of the store and across the concrete apron. It hadn't been a deliberate lie – she would've known that, felt it – but it hadn't been the truth either. I meant it at the time. Wasn't that the excuse people used when they did something in complete contradiction to what they'd said?

Doesn't matter, she told herself, yanking the passenger door of the pickup open and throwing her pack in. Get to Missouri, talk to Bobby – and tell him to back the hell out of her business – and go home. She needed to keep that plan in mind and forget about the rest.

Settling into the seat, she opened the console and pulled out her CDs, sorting through another few hours worth of music. She didn't want a single minute of silence in which anyone might be tempted to offer a word or three. Talking wasn't going to help anyone. It only underlined everything that'd gone wrong.

There were plenty of albums to choose from, and the music ranged from the rock they'd been listening to, through blues and bluegrass, old jazz and swing and rock'n'roll. Leaving Dark Side of the Moon on the top, she reached down for her bag, pulling out a bottle of paracetamol and dry-swallowing two of the capsules.

Fatigue was pulling at her, a well-known companion now. She'd try to catch up on sleep in the car.

Dean looked uneasily at the empty table, still covered with the remains of the half-eaten sandwich and salad. He scanned the station's interior, not seeing the tell-tale bright hair anywhere in the vicinity. He didn't think he'd been that long. He looked back at the table. It wasn't like her to leave a mess either.

Heading for the doors as slowly as he could to avoid spilling the extra large coffee in his hand, he tried to ignore the low-grade feeling of disquiet. Like walking through a minefield, the brittle tension was getting to him, he thought. There was nothing he could say to make it any better.

He crossed the lot and opened the driver's door of the pickup. Ellie was there, leaning back in the seat, eyes closed.

"Sorry," he said, climbing in and tucking the coffee container into a cup-holder. "Didn't, uh, think it'd take that long."

She didn't respond, but she opened her eyes, reaching for a CD as he turned on the engine and sliding it into the drive.

He'd just turned onto the road when the opening machine chatter and monologue started, telling him what it was. It'd been years since he'd listened to the album. Longer since he'd since listened to it with someone else.

I've been mad for fucking years, absolutely years, been over the edge for yonks, been working me buns off for bands ... I've always been mad, I know I've been mad, like the most of us ... very hard to explain why you're mad, even if you're not mad ...

The guitar, languid and soporific, filled the pickup's cabin as he hit the interstate. Gilmour's smooth, rasping voice followed, the clarity of the singer in the confined space making the lyrics far too personal.

Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground

He shot a sideways glance at Ellie, but she'd already turned away, her forehead leaning against the glass of the closed window, giving him barely a quarter profile.

Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be

The interstate was busy, a sea of tail-lights ahead of him and white headlights behind. Inside the pickup, the music had expanded to fill every square inch and he couldn't escape it.

Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole; forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down; it's time to dig another one
For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave

He shot a glare at the player, wishing she'd picked something else, something fast and mindless that didn't worm its way into his head.

Yeah, that's what you do – if you don't want this life, she'd said to him. You find a town you like the look of, get a job, be someone else. Run, rabbit, run.

Fuck.

"Dean?"

The softness of her voice made him start, and he grunted against the sudden acceleration of his pulse, mentally cursing the spell of the song.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was muffled a little by her proximity to the window and he strained to hear her. Breathe had finished and the stereo played the disturbing heart-beat that characterised the album. He reached over and turned the volume down.

"I – it was out of line," she continued. "I – I – overreacted."

"Ellie … don't," he said. "Don't apologise, okay?"

The fuck was he sayin', he wondered? He'd wanted that apology, wanted – needed – to hear it, but now it was here, he felt like three kinds of crap. Seeing that receipt had hurt her a helluva lot worse than what she'd said to him.

She didn't answer, and he checked the road, then shot a sideways look at her.

"Ellie?" He cleared his throat. "You're – uh – entitled. Alright? Not sayin' I'm thrilled to be the bad guy all the time, but – it's – uh – okay."

She turned around and he caught the movement in the corner of his eye, glancing at her.

"It's not okay," she said, an edge to the tone. "But it won't happen again."

Reaching out for the CD player, she stabbed at the eject button and the music stopped. He watched from the corner of his eye as she replaced the disc in its cover and took out another one, sliding it into the drive.

She was innately fair, her sense of justice matching his, but overreactions he understood. Especially here. Now.

He breathed out a sigh of relief as the opening track started, an unaccompanied guitar riff blasting away Floyd's musings.

I-90, I-25, Wyoming

They crossed over into Wyoming a little under an hour later on the I-90, heading south. The closing bars of the last song faded away and Dean glanced over at Ellie. She was curled into the corner between the door and the seat, eyes closed, face relaxed in sleep. Checking his watch, he decided he had enough to keep going until ten. He'd find a place to stop for the night around then.

Mellow chords and soft rim taps spilled from the stereo's speakers and he froze as he recognised the song; Sledge's blues hit effortlessly transporting him back to a house in Cicero, the last night of 2010, about to turn into 2011.

When a man loves a woman,
Can't keep his mind on nothin' else,
He'd change the world for the good thing he's found.
If she is bad, he can't see it, she can do no wrong,
Turn his back on his best friend if he put her down.

The man's pained, wistful voice poured through the car and he gripped the wheel, staring at the road, his memories of the crowded room, Lisa laughing up at him, Sid in the corner, the press of the suburban couples, all of them oblivious to any other kind of life, jostling in his mind's eye. He'd been dancing with Lisa, singing along to the song, waiting for midnight.

Well, this man loves you, woman.
I gave you everything I have,
Tryin' to hold on to your heartless love.
Baby, please don't treat me bad.

At the time, it'd really been the chorus that'd hit him, the words drying up as they'd come out of his mouth, and he'd stopped singing, stopped moving. If he hadn't been trying his best to make that normal life work, he probably would've left Lisa by herself in the middle of the room and left the house. Or even the town.

When a man loves a woman,
Down deep in his soul,
She can bring him such misery.
If she is playin' him for a fool,
He's the last one to know.
Lovin' eyes can never see.

Had that been the moment he'd known for sure? Or just one of an accumulation that'd been eating at him the whole time? He couldn't tell. He'd told himself she'd left. Told himself he didn't care. Had lied to Lisa when he'd gone down to Richmond and had lied to himself on the long drive home.

When a man loves a woman
He can do her no wrong,
He can never want
Some other girl.

He'd never wanted any one else as much as he'd wanted Ellie, not back then, not now. Still, it hadn't been enough, he thought, brows drawing together as the question reared up again. Why?

Yeah, when a man loves a woman
I know exactly how he feels,
'Cause baby, baby, you're my world
When a man loves a woman …

He remembered not being able to breathe, in that crowded living room, remembered fighting to keep his face impassive so the woman in his arms wouldn't know what he was feeling. That moment, he realised. That exact moment, he'd known what he'd wanted, known what he'd needed, and had known it was lost. The normal life he'd thought he could have had been a joke. It'd taken everything he'd had to shove the realisation down and away and be able to keep pretending.

He was better than he'd thought at lying to himself, he considered, reaching out to the stereo and turning it off. He'd been able to convince himself that black was white, up was down, in was out. They hadn't took, all those lies, but they'd fucked him over for more than a year, had distorted all those feelings and made them look like something they weren't. And behind all of it, his reasons for lying, for trying not to need so much, for pretending all that time, well, hell, they were still there.

Next to him, Ellie sighed, shifting on the seat. He looked over at her, his pulse accelerating in the hollow of his throat as he let those reasons out and faced them.

I-25, Wyoming

The long straight stretch from Buffalo to Casper was almost empty, the pickup cruising at seventy and eating up the miles. Not fast enough, Dean thought, tilting his wrist toward the dash lights and looking at the time. He felt his jaw crack as he tried to stifle another yawn, working the heel of his hand over his face, the stubble itching irritatingly. The effects of driving over two thousand miles in three days had worked their way into his bones and the need for sleep was rapidly overtaking his concentration.

By the side of the highway, a sign advised another forty miles to Casper. He picked up the container of coffee, tipping it up and grimacing in disgust as the last dribble of stone-cold coffee coated his tongue. He was starting to wonder if he should just look for a lay-by and pull off when blue neon peeked over the slight rise ahead, the Vacancy sign lighting up the surrounding sagebrush.

The exit was clearly lit and he made the turn, coasting down the off ramp and onto the asphalt. Heaving out a long sigh of relief, he eased the pickup onto the patched and rough driveway, weaving around the potholes. The office was still open.

He pulled on the handbrake and turned off the engine, and looked over at the woman sleeping beside him. Despite the number of bumps in the lot, she was still out; lips parted, her breathing deep and regular. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. All the years he'd known her, she'd been a light sleeper, waking instantly and clear-headed with the slightest change or noise.

It'd been a long haul, he reminded himself as he got out and walked around the pickup to the office. He didn't think there was an alarm clock built that was gonna wake him once he managed to get horizontal.

He pushed open the door, stepping into the pineboard-lined room. Behind the desk, a grizzled-looking man of about sixty pushed back his hat and got to his feet, jeans and a checked shirt and leather vest giving the impression of an extra escaped from 'Bonanza'.

"Evening." The manager gave him a fast once-over and glanced out through the glass door at the pickup.

"Evening. Uh … I need two rooms for the night." Dean pulled out his wallet and leaned on the smooth counter, trying to ignore the shakiness in his legs.

"Only got one left. Double, 'round the back." The manager tapped a couple of keys on the keyboard of the computer.

Rubbing his fingertips over his temple, Dean closed his eyes. Of course. Any other time, he could've gotten a fucking suite, but not this time.

He nodded with a resigned exhale, and handed the guy a handful of notes. The manager tapped a few more keys and turned and plucked the last key from the board, handing it to him.

"You have a good night. Checkout's at ten in the A.M."

"Thanks." Dean bit back the response he wanted to make, and raised his hand instead, turning and walking back to the truck. Against the passenger door, Ellie was still unconscious, and he got into the cab, starting the engine and driving around to the room.

He parked neatly in the slot in front of the room, and turned off the engine, sitting there and listening to the hot metal tick for a moment in the silence. Another glance to his right showed Ellie as unwilling to wake as she'd been earlier and he reached out cautiously, touching her shoulder.

"Ellie, c'mon. We're here."

She didn't move. He could see her chest, rising and falling slowly. Studying her, he chewed on the corner of his lip, considering his options.

Wouldn't hurt to get everything unloaded and the salt lines done before he tried again, he thought. He opened the door, leaning over to pull Ellie's backpack from the well, and walked around to the tray, grabbing his bags from the back. The high plains air was cool, a faint breeze bringing the scents of sage and dust.

Unlocking the room door, he reached in and flipped on the lightswitch, his gaze flicking fast around the small room. There was a sagging double bed on one side of the room, covered with a plain peach-coloured synthetic spread; a long and equally sagging couch taking up another wall, upholstery worn through on the arms and back, and a small kitchenette, sporting a half-sized fridge and basic appliances, tucked into the corner. To the left of the bed, a closed door had to lead to the bathroom.

The décor had originally been done sometime in the sixties, he guessed, dumping the bags on the floor. Didn't look like anything had been replaced or repaired since. It reminded him strongly of another hotel room, shabby and stifling, in New York City and the way he'd seen it through her eyes, when she'd found him.

He shook off the memories impatiently and walked back out to the truck. Getting in on the driver's side, he reached out to gently shake Ellie's shoulder.

"Ellie, wake up. Got a one-star room here. You can sleep in questionable comfort inside."

She wasn't waking and he shook a little harder, leaning closer to her. There wasn't even the slightest movement of her eyes beneath the lids to indicate she was close to waking. He didn't want to think on that too hard, but it was starting to freak him out.

Only one thing left to do, he thought uncomfortably. With a loud exhale, he got back out, walking around to the passenger door.

He eased the door open, catching her with an arm around her shoulders as she tipped back toward him, sliding his other arm under her knees. Lifting her out of the cab, he turned for the room and stopped, looking down at her for a long moment. In the wan light over the path, her lashes cast long shadows across her cheekbones, the smattering of freckles over her nose standing out against the creaminess of her skin. She felt light in his arms, despite being a dead weight in sleep, and he adjusted his hold so her head was tucked in against his shoulder, one arm curled up over her stomach, the other hanging loosely down.

It was as close as he'd gotten to her in the last few weeks, he realised, knocking the pickup's door shut with his hip and heading for the room. The thought slowed him down. He felt like a fucking stalker, wanting to make the moment last a bit longer, a squirmy feeling in his gut as he stopped in front of the room door. The key was in his hand and he pushed it in and turned it, pushing the door open with a foot.

"W'the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The strident tone startled him enough to almost drop her, his grip tightening as she struggled against his arms, one foot over the threshold.

"Let me go!"

"Fuck, gimme a chance!" he shot back, letting go of her legs and stepping back as she landed. She wobbled for a second, her knees clearly not ready for the change in position, and he stared hard at the ground to stop the automatic impulse to reach out and steady her. She caught the doorframe and straightened, glaring up at him indignantly.

Ellie dragged in a deep breath, leaning against the doorframe, trying to get her head clear.

Dean was standing a couple of feet from her, his hands held up appeasingly. "I couldn't wake you; I was just trying to get you into the room."

That explained the extreme cotton-wool feeling in her head, she thought, glancing at the truck and back to him. Her sleep had been getting deeper and deeper in the last few weeks. Longer as well.

"Okay. Sorry." She nodded, looking down at the ground and rubbing her knuckles over her eyes. "Woke up too suddenly. I wasn't sure where I was."

Turning away and walking into the room, she had the feeling it wasn't enough of an explanation for him, but she wasn't going to say any more. She stopped abruptly as she took in the room, noting the one bed and sofa, and his bags sitting with her backpack on the floor.

"One room? Really?"

"Only one they had left." He waved a hand toward the lot. The motel's Vacancy sign now showed a 'No' at the front. "You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

Shaking her head, she reached for her pack. "I'll sleep in the truck."

"C'mon, Ellie …" Dean closed the door and leaned back against it. "You sat next to me for the last ten hours. You can risk sleeping in the same room for another eight."

She could hear the exasperation in his voice, could see the lines of fatigue that etched his face. Looking away, she muttered, "That's not what I'm worried about."

"Good," he said, pulling off his coat and tossing it onto the end of the couch. He walked over to the built-in and opened it, pulling out a couple of pillows and a blanket. "Then shut up and go to sleep. You got my goddamned word I'll do the same."

Watching him obliquely from under her lashes, she set her pack on the end of the bed. It wasn't the thought of him trying anything that worried her. It wasn't just nightmares that broke up her sleep, and she cringed at the thought of waking him, of him hearing what she might say or cry out in the night.

On the other hand, he was right. They were both exhausted, and it was probably edging into crazy territory to put her vanity ahead of a decent night's sleep. She fiddled with the strap of her pack, giving up on the internal debate when she heard the clunk of his boots hitting the floor. Another quick, surreptitious glance showed him sitting on the couch in tee shirt and jeans, digging around in the pocket of his coat.

He pulled out his flask and unscrewed the lid, swallowing a long mouthful.

"Nightcap?"

She lifted her head, focussing on the flask in his hand. "No."

The word came out a little too vehemently, and she added, "Thanks."

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged, downing another long slug, the gurgle of the liquid loud in the silence of the room. Putting the lid back on, he tucked the flask back into his coat and fell sideways, his head hitting the pillows as he pulled the blankets over one shoulder, eyes dropping shut on a deep outward breath.

Ellie undid the straps of her pack and pulled out a long tee, clean underwear and her bath bag. A little hot water would do something for the knotting tension in her shoulders and neck, and hopefully he'd be well and truly asleep by the time she'd finished. She walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her and turning on the light.

The small room held a toilet, vanity and small, square shower cubicle, the once-white tiles now an indeterminate shade of yellow. Reaching into the cubicle, she turned on the taps, then stripped slowly as steam filled the room.

She'd slept most of the way from Billings. The tiredness she felt didn't give her a choice. She could be feeling completely normal and her eyelids would start to close, and once that happened she'd be out in minutes. She'd had a couple of near misses already through not listening to her body. Undoing the long braid, she finger-combed it out with one hand, testing the water temperature with the other. As hot as she could stand it for as long as it lasted.

Stepping under the flow of water, the heat helped instantly, and she turned her back to the gushing torrent. Waking in his arms had been a shock, she recalled uncomfortably, letting her head drop as the water massaged her shoulders. More of one due to the nature of the dream she'd woken from. It wasn't fair to inflict all these reactions on him. It wasn't like she could warn him about them either.

Straightening, she picked up the soap and washed quickly, lathering her hair and rinsing it out, moving faster as the warmth seemed to be dying out of the shower. She managed to step out before it turned completely cold, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself.

Another day to get down there, and a couple of days to get back. She'd just have to keep tighter control over herself for that time. Grabbing a second towel to dry her hair, she drew in a deep breath. Three days. Four at most. It wasn't mission impossible.

She caught sight of her reflection in the grimy mirror as she dressed, frowning and leaning closer.

The plain cotton and lace bra had been exactly the right size when she'd bought it six weeks ago. Now, she was overflowing the edges, the straps straining on her shoulders. The frown deepened as she looked down, trying to adjust the cups. Surely it was far too early for this? Early or not, it wasn't comfortable, she thought, unfastening the clasp and pulling it off. Drawing the long tee over her head, she wondered what other changes might be more apparent than she'd realised.

Dean was on his side, one arm curled up under his head, softly snoring when she came out and switched off the lights. Pulling the thin covers back, she crawled into the bed and closed her eyes, listening to the occasional rumble from the interstate. She breathed deeply, in and out, and waited for sleep to come. But it wouldn't.

Her ears picked up the click and pop of the refrigerator in the kitchenette as it adjusted its temperature. She could hear Dean's breathing across the room, the steady rhythm of it telling her he was already asleep. Rolling over, she tried to get more comfortable on the other side, but the noises that were practically unnoticed at any other time kept intruding, and against the blackness of her closed lids, images paraded, some random, some not at all random.

At the house, it was different. She'd been locked into her emotions, and hadn't often thought of the loss in physical terms. Rolling onto her stomach, pulling the pillow under her chin, she was acutely aware that he was lying less than ten feet away. She could almost kid herself that she could smell his scent, that pleasing male mix of sweat and whiskey and gun oil …

Just the hormones, she told herself, rolling sharply back to the other side of the bed, frustration levels rising along with the completely inappropriate and impossible to ignore arousal. She stared at the ceiling, hands clenched beside her. Just the increased blood flow, perfectly normal, nothing to write home about. The reminder didn't stop the ache permeating her consciousness. And even open eyes didn't stop the imaginings that were making her heart race and her breath quicken.

It was ridiculous to be at the mercy of her body like this, she thought, levering herself onto an elbow and punching the pillow. Ridiculous to even think what she was thinking, given the situation. She dropped her head onto the pillow and curled up on her side, aware her self-lecturing was having almost no effect on the flush of heat that swept through her. Screwing her eyes shut, she tried to remember what Patrick's last email had said about Roman's dig near Tehran.