Chapter 12

May 18, 2012. I-90W, Wyoming

They left Casper at seven, filling up and heading north, the rising sun filling the cab with a pale, gold-tinted light and throwing the pickup's shadow across the flat, post-and-wire bounded fields, dry sagebrush plains and occasional woods next to the interstate.

Outlined in that light, Ellie's hair was flame-bright, her skin gilded. Dean tried to keep his eyes on the road. He wondered how he could get her to tell him whatever it was she'd been thinking about … or even how to explain the things that'd just about driven him crazy in the last two days.

"You want some music?" Ellie asked.

Hell, no, he thought, nodding anyway. The silence between them seemed full of things they had to say, neither of them ready to start that ball rolling. Not just yet.

"Driver picks?"

He slid a sideways glance at her and wished he hadn't, dragging his gaze back to the road. Sometimes just the sight of her hurt, in a way he couldn't figure out. It didn't make anything easier. "S'okay, you've been doing alright."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her push a CD into the stereo. He winced internally when the opening bars crashed through the speakers.

In my life, there's been changes
But nothing seems to satisfy me the way you do, no.

Jesus, he thought, tightening his grip on the wheel. That one? Really?

All this temptation, I can't see wrong from right
It's a new sensation; you know I'm blinded by the light

Had she picked that deliberately? Shooting another fast glance to his right, he saw her leaning back against the seat, eyes closed. It didn't look like it.

Past and present became inseparably entwined in his mind's eye and a surge of heat filled him. They'd gone through all his Bad Company tapes in the Impala, one day-long drive together to give Marcus a set of spelled and runed chains Ellie'd made up. The combination of Rogers' eclectic musical taste and rough but tender voice'd had him pulling off the road more than once, the Impala's backseat dappled with sunshine, the music pounding in their veins.

You were all I ever wanted, never had a girl in my life 'til I met you, oh no
I got a certain feeling, you got my senses reeling
Whenever I get close to you

Not precisely accurate, he thought, making an effort to put the sense memories back behind his internal walls where they wouldn't distract the crap out of him, but true enough. Cassie and Lisa hadn't been in his life. He'd been in theirs. Briefly. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

You're my salvation, I found you just in time
My one temptation, you know I can't believe you're mine

He sucked in a breath. Even if Ellie heard him out, even if she understood, he couldn't see a way they could go back to that.

Ooh yeah, it's funny how it seems like yesterday, lovin' of the first degree
One word was all I heard you say, ooh baby
It's funny what you've done to me, just wanna see you run to me

Yeah, he thought, making an effort to loosen his fingers which were closed too tightly around the pickup's steering wheel.

That's all he wanted.

Ellie tuned out the music, the memories that came with it too easily recalled, trickling over her skin in phantasm touches that conspired with her condition to set her alight. She watched the countryside race past them, feeling more at peace with herself than she had for months and, perversely, restless and agitated, filled with a nervous anxiety about what might happen next.

It was, she thought crankily, an unsettling and exhausting state.

She could feel Dean's uncertainty, a repressed tension radiating from the other side of the cab, visible in the twitch of muscle at the point of his jaw, the thinning of the skin over his knuckles as he gripped the pickup's wheel. He wanted to say something, she thought. Maybe, like her, he was having trouble finding the words.

It wasn't as simple as 'let's try again'. Then again, she mused, leaning her temple against the glass of the passenger window, maybe it was. Was she was making this a lot harder than it needed to be?

She was acutely conscious of what she wanted, and of the temptation to throw caution to the winds and just tell him, straight out, see what happened, see where it went. Letting out a sigh, she knew it would be a mistake to do it that way. What she didn't want was to rush through a reconciliation, only to find herself bitter and taking it out on him later on because she hadn't thought through everything first. She didn't want to be resentful or harbouring some lingering doubt about him that would ruin any possibility for the future.

Work it through, she told herself. Erring being human and forgiving divine didn't help much if it wasn't all clear in her head – and in her heart. It was worth taking the time to get it right, no matter how much she wanted to skip ahead.

She flicked a sidelong glance at his profile. She should've picked a different band, she thought with a sigh. This one had too many good times attached to it.

Four hours later.

As they turned west again, Dean glanced at the woman beside him. She'd been still and quiet for a while. She was curled into the corner, between door and seatback, eyes closed and chest rising and falling slowly and steadily.

Asleep. He reached out thankfully to the stereo and turned off the music, the thrum of tyres and the steady rumble of the engine giving him a break from the penance of his technicoloured-and-all-new-enhanced-tactile-accompanied memories.

Just say it, he'd thought, a few times as the albums changed and tension twisted inside of him. Just tell her what'd happened.

He chewed on the corner of his lip, watching the road. Wasn't that easy, he recognised now. He understood it for himself. How the past and the present and a more than a few doubles had taken his despair and fashioned him a different life. He wasn't sure he could tell her how that'd happened without it sounding – again – like he'd really wanted something else, or needed it. Her reaction to his confession about Jo and the god was still too vivid.

They were an hour from Bozeman and he was getting hungry, he realised. They could pull in, find something to eat. He needed more coffee, the road ahead was good but needed concentration, especially toward the tail end of the day. And maybe he could find a way to say something to her, without needing to watch the road and the traffic, his attention too divided for the things that were boiling up inside of him.

Bozeman, Montana

The burgers were big, loaded with onions dripping in grease and smothered in a smoky barbecue sauce that left an aftertaste of bourbon. Dean took another bite.

On the other side of the table, Ellie'd already finished hers, wiping her fingers on a paper serviette and leaning back in her chair, her eyes half-closed, her gaze on the diner's windows and the mountains to the north.

There was still no tension in her, he thought, but there hadn't been a chance to talk through the drive, either. He wasn't sure if she'd forgotten about what she'd said earlier or if she'd reconsidered telling him and decided against it. He hadn't found a good opening for what he wanted to say, come to that. Not that there hadn't been moments, but he'd hesitated each time, his mouth baulking at making a start.

He tucked the half-masticated mouthful into one cheek, and asked, "You hear from Colette or Michel in the last couple of months?"

Her gaze swivelled around to him and she nodded. "I talked to Colette a couple of weeks ago. They relocated to Baton Rouge, staying with family there for a while." She straightened in the chair, resting an elbow on the table. "They think the Alpha vampire has moved out of Louisiana completely. Michel said it might have gone across to Mexico. There're a lot of reports coming in from people he knows along the border."

Swallowing, Dean leaned back, putting his burger back on the plate and knuckling one brow. "Yeah, well, all other monsters'll have to take a number," he said. "My dance card's all filled up."

"Twist and Dwight were going to take a look," she told him. "In any case, Colette said they'd be keeping a low profile."

"Good." He didn't want to hear about any more deaths of friends. He'd lost enough. "Were you, uh, worried about driving home, Ellie?"

The words came out without thought or premeditation, falling out of his mouth and he shot a guilty glance at her, surprised when she gave him a small, rueful smile.

"Yeah, I was," she admitted, lifting a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. "I was running on empty for a while, with the moving and – and other stuff, and it's taking me a lot longer than I thought it would to get back to square one."

"So – uh – this tiredness, it's just from – from the last couple of months?" He couldn't quite make himself ask for the details she'd omitted.

"Pretty much," she said, looking at him steadily. "It's not your fault, Dean. I was pushing myself too hard, that's all."

He glanced down at his half-eaten burger, mouth twisting. "Nothing to do with me, right?"

She surprised him again with another smile, this one gently wry. "I could've spent the last couple of months in Hawaii, lazing around on a beach."

Without warning, the weight he'd felt, the worry of making things worse for her, being around, lifted. He picked up his burger, one brow rising as he studied her. "Guess so."

"My choices aren't your responsibility, remember?"

He shrugged that off. He couldn't help the way he saw things.

"I could've dropped everything when you called," she added, her gaze cutting away to the window again. "Flown out to Seattle."

He almost choked on the bite he'd taken, dropping the burger and forcing the scarcely-chewed mouthful down.

"No," he said, when he could speak. "I never expected that."

"But you wanted it," she said. "Needed it. It would've changed everything and I didn't – didn't do it."

He shook his head. "Maybe I wanted it. Doesn't say much for me if I can't hold it together for a few days, does it?"

Pushing the burger to one side, he leaned forward, across the table. "Ellie, are we talking about this now?"

He saw a shiver ripple through her.

"No. Not here." She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, glancing around the other tables. "In the car."

Looking back at him, she added, "If you want to."

"Yeah," he said, pushing his plate away and getting to his feet. "I want to."

I-90 W, Montana

Dean eased the pickup back into the flow of traffic on the interstate, accelerating smoothly until they were doing a steady sixty.

He glanced at Ellie, his stomach fluttering. She was waiting, he knew, waiting for him to start. He looked back at the road, and tried to find an opening, something he could use to jump off the cliff.

"What happened last night?"

It wasn't what he'd been going to say, he thought, wondering if it was going to derail the conversation before it got going. It was something he wanted to know. Something had changed.

"I'm not sure I can explain it," she said slowly. "Not yet, anyway."

His heart stuttered in his chest, a sudden and unexpected double-beat. The hell did that mean? He saw her turn toward him, catching the movement in his peripheral vision.

"I – when you said you wanted to – to – uh – go – go back to Whitefish on your own," she said, her voice low. "It – it made me think."

She made a vague, irritable gesture, the crease appearing between her brows. "I mean … really think … about everything that'd happened. I haven't really been doing that, these last few weeks."

The road was clear ahead and he shot a sideways glance at her. Sitting in the seat, her hands were clasped together, her head bent. He'd thought she'd be relieved at that decision. Obviously, he'd been wrong about that. It wasn't just the driving either.

"I guess," she continued. "What I thought about – what I tried to think was the last few months, from your perspective."

He frowned. From his perspective? What'd that have to do with anything?

"My track record's pretty bad when it comes to being around," she said. "Something happens, and I'm not there, when, um, when I'm needed."

His mouth dried up when he saw where she was going.

"No. Don't. Ellie, don't do that," he said, flicking another fast glance at her. "That – no – that had nothing to do with it, alright?"

He'd missed her and wanted her and hell, yeah, he'd needed her, but that hadn't driven him to that bar. Hadn't triggered a fake filing cabinet of memories he hadn't thought about in more than two years. No.

"No more excuses, okay?"

She didn't answer and he leaned back, brows pinching together. "I been goin' over and over what I did, trying to figure out what – what happened, and why it happened and, you know, I could spin you a load of crap about needing you to be there, or feeling guilty or worrying about Sam or not knowing how to let go of Bobby, but that's all it'd be – crap."

A flicked sideways glance showed him she was sitting upright, staring through the windshield and he drew in another breath, hoping she was hearing him, hoping he was getting this right.

"That night, look, I don't know exactly what happened. A lot of stuff got mixed up – uh, in my head – stuff I hadn't – hadn't looked at before. Stuff I wasn't dealing with. Not a newsflash, right?" He shook his head. "I didn't want another life. I didn't want to be someone else. I didn't want anyone else. But I didn't want to be me. Couldn't get out my head long enough to make anything make sense, and it was like, it was like –"

He hesitated, his pulse booming against the hollow of his throat. "I didn't want Dean Winchester to exist, that night."

"I know."

He threw a startled look at her. The lack of surprise, the calm acceptance in her voice was as much of a shock as what she'd said.

"You do?"

She leaned back into the corner. "The worst thing about what you did was that it didn't match up with anything I knew about you," she told him. "That scared me. That I didn't know you at all."

"But –"

"It wasn't until last night I realised, in one sense, it hadn't been you," she overrode him. "At least, it wasn't a part of you that you knew about."

He stared at the road, flexing his fingers around the wheel. That was as good a way of putting it as he'd been able to come up with.

"I thought – it, um, occurred to me it was a part that could come out, if you were, um, overloading."

Overloading, he repeated to himself. Yeah.

"Four times now," he said, his voice thickening as he admitted it out loud. "Four times I wanted to – tried to – run."

"From your life? Being what you are?" she asked.

He nodded. "First time, was the djinn. Uh ... the wish."

He'd told her a little about that wish, not all of it. "Everything was closing in around us, me and Sam, when we ran into the djinn. Sam's visions, Meg, we lost people … I knew it was fake, knew I'd die if I stayed, but I wanted to stay anyway. With my family."

"Dean –"

He shook his head, cutting her off. She'd been around, back then, had seen some of the fallout he'd been going through, heard about it. "It wasn't perfect, and … you know who I was in that wish? No one. I was a dick. Me and Sammy, we weren't close, Mom thought I was a drunk."

The implication had been he couldn't keep a job, he recalled. He hadn't cared about that then. It'd made him uneasy when he'd remembered it later. "I was living with a chick – uh, this woman – she was a nurse, and she didn't know me, fuck, she had no clue," he said, remembering how she'd agreed with everything he'd said or done, had soothed and stroked and how fucking false it'd seemed to him later. He let out a gusting exhale.

"– I don't know – I wasn't someone I wanted to be. In that life. But I wanted to stay."

He turned his head to look at her. "I was running, you know?"

She nodded.

"The, uh, second time," he said, feeling his jaw muscle pop as he remembered the angel's smug, fat face. "That was after Cas told me I had to break Alastair."

He'd never told her about the angel-fuelled alternative reality either, he suddenly realised. They'd talked, a bit, about what the angels had tried to do to him, but that was all.

"One of the higher-up angels, Zachariah, he, uh, decided to teach me an object lesson about hunting."

"What?"

"He got into my head," Dean said. "I don't know how. While I was still in the hospital, I think. Made me think I was a normal guy, in sales or financial something-or-other. Gave me a fake life, a bunch of false memories."

They flooded in again, bright and clear, completely unreal but, in his mind, it felt like he'd lived them.

"Those, uh, they came back, when I was Seattle," he added, shifting his position in the seat. "The angel, uh, he never took them away and they came back – being this guy, living this life with, uh, golf and sailing, stocks and shares and, uh, up-market bars and suits."

"Like the Cobalt Room?" Ellie asked him.

"Yeah, like that." He changed lanes as a rig moved up to one side, slipping back when it'd gone. "While I was in it – that alternate life – I think – I think I kind of liked it."

He glanced at her, wondering if she'd smile at that. "I drove a Prius," he added, his mouth curling down. "And ate salads."

"And worked in an office, making plenty of money?" she asked, her gaze straight ahead. "Owned your own place? Played hard?"

He nodded. "Yeah, all of that."

"You could do whatever you want to do, Dean," she said, and his heart leapt into his throat; at her conviction, at the idea of being different.

"It wasn't me," he said. He was sure about that. Even if he'd grown up normal, he didn't think that could ever've been him, down where he lived and breathed.

"It was a part of you that never got a chance to get out." She twisted in the seat and he felt her eyes on him. "It could be you, if that's what you wanted."

"But I don't want it," he told her. "It wasn't about the food or the suit or the car. It was – it was like living in a tv show. Nothing felt important, not even their bazillion-dollar deals. Not until we killed the ghost."

He shot another sideways look at her when she didn't respond. She was staring out through the passenger window and he couldn't see her expression.

"The angel said it was who I was. Being a hunter. Said I'd find my way back to it, no matter what. I remember everything about that life," he said, hesitating again as memory bloomed, that transition when Zachariah had touched him and brought him back. "I liked being there because – because there, nothing was resting on me, but me. I didn't have a brother. I didn't really care that much about my family. I didn't have to save the world or other people. I didn't have –"

"An over-developed sense of personal responsibility?" Ellie suggested and he nodded.

"Yeah." He wasn't sure if she was joking or not. It didn't matter, he thought. He wasn't.

"What was the third time?" she asked.

"Cicero," Dean answered. "Running again. It didn't feel like it at the time, but that's what it was."

"Dean, you made a promise –"

He rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch them out against the growing tightness in the muscles. "I could've left any time, Ellie. Could've gone looking for you. Could've gone to see Bobby, could've spent all my time figuring out a way to get Sam out of the Pit. I didn't. I stayed there and I tried to fit in, tried telling myself I was doing it for Sam, but I was looking for a way out. I was tired and I wanted to stop."

Huffing out an exhale, he shook his head. "Same as in Seattle. Fuck, Sam would've understood if I'd bailed. I could've stolen a car and headed back east to wait for you. I didn't do that."

"So you think it'll just keep happening?"

He heard it, somewhere in her voice, under her voice, a barely-perceptible tremor. Doubt.

I'm not angry, you asshole! She'd yelled at him. I'm afraid.

That's what she's afraid of, he thought. Afraid he'd run again, if the load got too heavy, or the pressures got too great. Look for a way to escape his life and leave her behind.

"No," he said. It came out firm, like a commitment, the way he wanted it to. He stared through the windshield, teeth worrying the inside of his cheek. There had to be a way to explain what he'd painstakingly learned, he thought. A right way.

"The only times I've been … hell, not even happy, just content, just okay with what I've done and where I'm at … but yeah, the times I've been really good too … those were when I could be, uh, myself. No lying. No hiding crap. Just me," he said.

It was getting clearer to him even as the words were coming out, he thought. "The things I didn't like – those, uh, guys I tried to be? All that stuff I tried to do? – they might be a part of that, but they're not the … uh … base. Not the part I like. Not, well, the man I thought I was gonna be. Wanted to be."

Ahead, the signs advised they were approaching Missoula. The journey was nearing its last leg and he had to make it clear, both for her, and for himself.

"I know I broke us all to hell, Ellie," he said. "I don't know if I can fix what I did, or even if you'd let me. I can't undo it, can't make it like it was, and I know you can't trust me again–"

"It doesn't have to be like it was, Dean, and maybe that's a good thing," she cut him off, gently. "Nothing stays the same. We're both different, we've both changed with the last couple of years."

The fuck … was he losing this chance, he wondered, knuckles whitening as his hands clamped themselves around the wheel. It'd never been much of a chance, but he didn't want to stop hoping.

"What're you saying?" he asked. "There's no way?"

"No," she said. "I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of feeling … lost. I want to let go of the past and I don't know what will happen next. But I'd like to think about what might be in the future."

He licked his lips, keeping his eyes on the rear of the vehicle in front of him. What future was she talking about? One with him in it?

"The – uh – future?"

"The future between us," she clarified.

The pickup surged up to eighty, his foot going down on the accelerator involuntarily, swerving around the car ahead as he closed too fast on its tail.

She'd said 'us' and 'future' in the same sentence, he was sure of that.

Glancing at the speedometer, he eased back, taking a hand off the wheel to wipe the sudden clamminess coating his palm onto his jeans.

"There's … uh … there is a future?"

His voice had gone unaccountably high and funny-sounding, and he cleared his throat self-consciously.

"I hope there is." She straightened against the seatback, stretching her legs out into the well. "That's not just up to me. It has to be what you want too."

What he wanted … fuck, fuck, FUCK! What he wanted filled up his brain, jammed in his throat, overflowed and tightened his chest. The hell she think he wanted?

The road was clear ahead of them for a few hundred yards, and he looked over at her. She looked … relaxed. How could she be so relaxed? The world had just turned over, turned inside out, and he was so far from relaxed he couldn't even see it from here.

"I do." He looked back at the road, forcing his hands to unweld themselves from the pickup's wheel. God, he did. Why was it so goddamned hard to breathe all of a sudden? It felt like he was having a fucking heart attack.

He drew in a deep breath, waiting for his throat to no longer feel as if it was stuffed with thick, unbreathable substances.

"Want a future." He glanced back at her. "With you."

Missoula, Montana

"I – I gotta – need to stop," Dean said as they came up to the exit.

Ellie nodded. She could use the chance to stretch her legs and walk off some of the anxiety that was churning around in her as well.

What he'd told her was still resonating, matching up with all she'd been speculating and, she thought, with a flush of relief, all of it consistent with what she'd known about him. She felt a shiver race down her spine as she recalled the certainty in his voice, telling her it wouldn't happen again.

Never say never, she thought, but he knew about it now. Knew why it'd driven him. That was a more potent reassurance than any other. Hearing him say it, out loud, that'd been something else. She knew how deep his emotions ran, how private he was about them, that protectiveness tied up impenetrably with his fear he wasn't as strong as he needed to be. As strong as he thought his father had been.

Her heart skipped a beat, the next one throbbing uncomfortably in her throat. Don't rush, she reminded herself. No matter what or how much you're feeling, don't rush into something new until you've settled the old.

It was more difficult than she'd imagined to keep to that advice.

Dean slowed down as they came off the ramp, turning right toward a cluster of stores surrounding a gas station. He was tense, his movements sharp. There was plenty of fuel in the tank, she knew, glancing at the gauge. He stopped the pickup in the parking area, and turned off the engine.

"I – I'm gonna get some coffee," he said, his gaze fixed on the dash.

"Okay," Ellie said. "Dean –?"

He looked at her then, one side of his mouth lifting. "I'm – uh – it's okay. Just dry and, uh, you know." He waved a hand toward the building in front of them as if it explained everything.

Nodding, Ellie opened the passenger door. If he felt anything like she did, she thought, he'd need to vent off some of the suppressed emotion generated by their conversation. In the past, before … they'd dealt with the emotional repercussions in a very physical and mutually satisfying way, but she wasn't ready for that and she had the feeling he wasn't either, whether he knew it or not.

"Meet you back here in ten?" she asked, trying to keep her expression and tone neutral.

"Yeah."

Dragging out her pack, she closed the door and headed for the bathroom. Some cold water on her face, some stretching and a walk around the lot and she'd feel less like she was going to fly off the surface of the planet.

Dean got out of the pickup, rolling his neck. Somewhere in the last ten miles it felt as if it'd kinked into a solid mass.

He followed Ellie into the fillup's store, turning right as he saw the restroom sign and heading for the men's bathroom.

As he pushed the door open and walked in, his gaze automatically swept around the small room, confirming he was alone. He felt hyper – his nervous system crackling, his pulse rocketing and his palms damp with sweat – a restless, relentless energy leaking from every pore.

He couldn't've sat still, driving, for another mile, let alone the hundred or so to her place. He'd been twitching since she'd said the words, not sure – not exactly – what she meant by it, but clear enough on the ball park.

He had another chance.

He was having a hard time making himself believe it.

Catching sight of himself in the bathroom's mirror, he stopped abruptly. He looked like a freakin' homicidal maniac, he thought, a flush of colour over his cheekbones and his eyes a much lighter and more intense green than they usually were.

Slow it down. It was, all said and done, the beginning of a beginning, and that's all. There were so many ways he could still fuck it up if he wasn't careful, if he didn't keep himself under some kind of control.

Good advice, he decided, going to the urinal and relieving himself. He wished he could tell it to his body. It felt like he was mainlining PCP.

Crossing back to the sink, he turned on the tap and filled his hands. The cold water took the moist heat from his palms. The long-standing habit was a way of forcing himself into a calmer state of mind. Cupping his hands under the flow, he doused his face and wiped over the back of his neck.

He didn't remember when he'd started doing it, but he remembered watching his father do the same thing. When John Winchester had needed to stop and think, he'd head for the bathroom; wash his hands, fill them and dunk his face in the cold water. It was, he guessed, some kind of distancing mechanism, one that diffused emotion. It'd worked for his father and it worked for him.

Sam wasn't going to believe it, he thought, sputtering as the water filled his nose with an unconsidered inhale. He turned off the tap, leaning on the edges of the sink and looking at his reflection in the mirror above.

Definitely less homicidal-looking, he thought, wiping off the water with one arm. His pulse had steadied, still a bit too fast, but not jumping all over the place.

A future.

The word sounded strange, in his mind, to his ears. When had he ever considered having a future, he wondered? In Ohio, watching Cassie get dressed in the mornings, on her way to the university while he'd be spending the day cleaning ordnance or, at best, surrounded by town records? In Cicero, trying to imagine the years rolling by, every day essentially the same? He normally tried to cut his imagination short when it came to anything beyond a weeks' time. Now, he didn't want to.

What he wanted to do, he thought, looking at the hard-edged face in the mirror, was to get rid of the leviathans, kill every goddamned demon on this plane, run down the alpha monsters and either kill them or bottle them back up in Purgatory or some other vest-pocket dimension, and have a chance to find out what having a future meant.

Coffee, he decided, turning around and heading for the door. Another couple of hours' drive and they'd be there. He couldn't work out if that would be a good thing or not.

… when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible …

He knew it was a quote, but he couldn't think where he'd heard it. Some movie? Not a favourite; he remembered every line of the movies he loved. Shaking it off, he pulled the door open. What mattered was he definitely wanted the rest of his life to start now. Or even five minutes ago.

MT-200 W, Montana

Changing down again as the road wound up, forests to either side, Dean wondered what his brother was doing. He'd turned his phone on, back in Missoula. There'd been a couple of messages from other hunters, one from Garth, a rambling voicemail he'd stopped halfway through, but nothing from Sam.

He'd almost called, waiting for Ellie to grab the fresh food she'd said she wanted, but had decided against it. He wanted to talk to him, see his reactions face to face. Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he realised there was going to be a helluva lot to talk about.

Relative to the cabin, Ellie was only a couple hours away. Back down to the road he was on, turning off onto the 28 and a straight shot to Whitefish. It would make it easier, he thought. Well, he reconsidered, it would make it easier if Sam didn't find them a dozen jobs and he didn't end up stuck on the other side of the country.

"You, uh, been working?" he asked, flicking a glance at Ellie.

"No," she said. "With the finding a place and moving, I just shut all that down."

He pulled in a breath. "What would you – I mean, if you wanted to – think about, maybe, working with us?"

"In a while? Sure," she said. "Not, um, straight away."

"Yeah." He stared at the road. "Sure, I – no, I – uh – didn't mean right now."

"Has Sam got a job lined up?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Haven't talked to him."

"Oh," Ellie said.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her lean into the corner, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees.

"I meant, you know, when you weren't tired," he added.

"Um, yeah, it could work," she said, sidestepping the issue again.

He wasn't sure what to think about that. It'd been a hard few months, he knew. Was that all it was? Why'd Bobby and Missouri been hounding him to take care of her, if that's all it was?

"Uh, Ellie?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what Bobby meant, back in Lawrence?" he asked, ignoring the way the back of his neck was giving little prickles of alarm. "When he said you had to – uh – tell someone?"

She didn't answer straight away, and he slid a fast glance at her. She was looking out the window, he thought, her head turned away from him.

"No," she said, a moment later. "I – I thought he was talking about Patrick, at first. I didn't get a chance to ask him after."

"Huh."

It sounded like … not a lie, not exactly, but not the truth either. Not the whole truth.

"Did he tell you about it?" she asked, and that sounded wrong too, he thought, suddenly wishing he had the flask in his pocket, instead of packed into his duffel in the tray. Bobby'd implied getting through a steel shell was a bitch and he'd figured that any discussion he could coax out of Ellie needed privacy.

"No, said it wasn't his place," he told her, frowning as he remembered that.

"Oh."

Oh? He wondered why she didn't want to tell him. "Probably not important, right? I mean, you're alright?"

"I'm okay," she said, her gaze remaining on the window. "There's nothing wrong with me."

He had to let it go. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by pushing her.

"There's the town," Ellie said, lifting her head.

The welcome sign flashed by, the railway on one side and the river on the other narrowing the highway. They'd gotten here too fast, he thought, slowing as they came into the town limits.

The bridge was just past the Main Street stores, he remembered. A shorter route than crossing the river further up, a dirt road turned into a county road then led back to the 471. The smaller highway took them up into the mountains and to the witch's house.

"Why'd you buy it?" he asked, glancing at her as they passed along Main Street.

"The house? I don't know," Ellie said, stretching her legs out and straightening. "I wanted to see it, after what Sam'd said and when I got there – it was too good to pass up. All that room, all the work done in protecting it – it's not really convenient, but it sure is private."

"It doesn't bother you? The history?"

"No," she said, turning to him. "Does it bother you?"

He shook his head. It was a big place, and it was well-protected, built-in protection that would've been difficult to replicate in a house that hadn't been purposefully designed. He'd been reassured rather than repelled, knowing she was in there, as safe as anyone could be in their line of work.

"No." He turned at the sign, following the road down to the bridge and over it. "It wasn't – uh – obvious, why you picked it, but I think it's a good place."

Cherry Orchard Road twisted around and he slowed down at the intersection with the highway.

"You, uh, think I could bring around some of the stuff at Whitefish? Sometime?" he asked her as he turned onto the highway. "Bobby had crates of books and a lot of Rufus' stuff is there too."

"I hope you will," Ellie said. "While I'm – um – taking some time off, I figured I'd try to do something about a database. Ray gave me the framework for it a couple of months ago."

He nodded, relief loosening his stranglehold on the wheel. Take two or three trips to bring up all the stuff Bobby'd searched out from his storage units. Trips he'd gladly make to see her. Be with her.

"You still think that's going to be of use?"

"More than ever," she said, a smile in her voice. "The technology is there, it's just a matter of utilising it efficiently – and robustly enough that it won't fail when it's really needed."

He shot her a doubtful look. "So far, the internet ain't impressing me."

Ellie laughed. "The internet? Yeah, no, that's a grab bag. What about a dedicated server or servers holding all the information in Bobby's library? And mine? And Ellen's? Rufus'? Searchable, scannable, available from anywhere in the country?" She shook her head, letting out a gusty exhale. "Research is the most time-consuming part of what we do. And it's nearly always where a piece of missing information, or wrong information, can get someone killed."

He thought of his father's journal, Sam's mistaken belief that vetala worked alone.

"Isn't that going to take a long time? To set up? Get all that info digitalised or whatever you call it?"

"Yep," she said, nodding agreement. "Some of it can be automated. Some … can't. But we'll do what we can."

Thompson Falls, Montana

Dean drove into the turnaround, sending gravel flying against the steps as he parked behind the Pacer.

Exhaling softly when the pickup came to a stop, Ellie opened the door, hooking her pack with one hand and climbing out of the truck. It felt as if she'd been gone for a month – or a year.

It'd been four days, she thought. A roller-coaster ride she never, ever wanted to repeat. And it wasn't over, she reminded herself. They'd barely made the first step. Carrying the pack, she dug in her jean pocket for her keys as she went up the shallow stone steps. The big, iron-wrapped door was still firmly shut and locked and when she turned the key and opened it, a sense of relief almost swamped her, destabilising her knees when she looked into the shadowy hall.

It wasn't attractive, but it'd turned into home, she thought, her mouth curling up derisively. She walked inside, leaving her pack by the stairs, and turning right, taking the hall down to the kitchen. She wanted a cup of tea before anything else.

Dean backed the pickup into its parking place, and turned off the engine, the silence of the place engulfing him. It didn't repel him, he realised, looking up at the cold grey façade. It wasn't a homey kind of place, but it impressed him with its strength, the uncompromisingly ugly lines proclaiming a determination to keep those who didn't belong there out.

He watched Ellie unlock the front door, push it open and go inside, and got out of the truck, stretching before he grabbed his bags from the tray and crossed to the Pacer to dump them in the back.

They were here and his pulse was all over the place. Hope was making it hard to keep hold of his thoughts, his feelings. He still didn't know, exactly, what she'd meant when she'd told him she hoped for a future for them. He'd do anything for that future, but how it could happen was up to her, not him.

His cell buzzed in his pocket, halfway across the gravel stretch. Pulling it out, he looked at the caller ID and took the call.

"Sam? Yeah, I'm – uh – at Ellie's," he said. "No, it's – uh – shit, I gotta lot to tell you, man."

Understatement of the century, he thought.

"Yeah, gimme about two-three hours. No. That's – uh – hard to explain. I'll, uh, tell you when I get there. Yeah? Uh, yeah. Kind of. I think. I, uh, yeah, I will. Okay."

He closed the phone, wondering if he should've put Sam off a bit longer. His brother had found a couple of jobs, he'd said. He couldn't raise any interest in any of them, right now. Walking slowly up the shallow steps, he pushed the door a little wider to follow her inside, closing it behind him.

As he glanced around the towering hallway, he wondered what it'd be like, staying here. He realised he had no idea what the upstairs even looked like. Sam'd searched those rooms, back when the original owner'd been living here. He'd stayed downstairs after killing her, keeping his fear for his father's injuries under lock and key in his head.

He heard the clinking of china and cutlery to his right and remembered the kitchen was that way. Ellie was there, filling a kettle and setting down a couple of mugs. He walked across the stone-flagged floor, stopping at the table.

"Sam called," he told her. "He, uh, said to say hi. It's not, you know, urgent, but I - I should probably get going …"

She turned to him, nodding. "Yeah, of course."

He looked at her, searching her face, his mouth twisting into a wry half-smile he knew wasn't hiding the nervousness in his eyes. "Uh, you know, I'm kind of worried I'm gonna do something wrong, right about now."

"Don't be." She looked up at him, shaking her head. "We're not – I need some time to get – all this – straight, Dean. I'm going to need some time to get over the reactions I still have."

He didn't want to ask what reactions. His stomach was twisting itself into knots as it was.

Ellie took a couple of steps closer to him, sliding her arms around him, resting her cheek against the hollow under his shoulder. He tensed involuntarily, not sure if he could put his arms around her, if that would be too much. He was trembling, he realised, like a goddamned cornered animal, scared to move at all, in case it was the wrong move, or she changed her mind.

"Dean? This isn't a trick," she said, pressing closer.

He let his breath out slowly, lifting his arms and curling them around her. The simple action brought a rush of memory and emotion, strong enough to shake right down through him.

He was losing it, he thought, trying to not fight the reaction, trying to let it wash through him. Need thundered in his veins and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Her scent, a mix of hair and skin and everything about her, brought another rush, a sense memory so powerful he couldn't work out if he was standing in the present or the past.

He'd thought he'd never be able to do this again. Stand this close, breathe her in, feel her against him, hold her.

Gotta get going … driving to the cabin to see his brother … another job ...

The thoughts were meaningless. All he wanted was to stay right here, preferably for another year or so. When her hold on him loosened and she moved back a little, he had to exert every ounce of willpower he had to suppress an overwhelming desire to keep his arms around her, not let her draw away. C'mon, he thought, a few more minutes?

"I don't have a number for you," he said instead. Where she'd been, close against him, he felt cold.

"I'll get in touch soon," she said. "I haven't got a new phone yet."

"Define 'soon'?"

He was pushing too hard, he knew. He couldn't help it. Ellie's record for getting in touch 'soon' wasn't all that great. He didn't think he could deal with a long wait. Not now.

Looking up at him, her expression settled in lines of concern. "I need some time, Dean," she said. "I don't want to go too fast, find out I'm still feeling resentment, or anger, or fear at what happened, okay? I want to be clear and I need –"

Her gaze slid away, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug. "I need to put the memories, my reactions, to rest."

"Okay, I get that." He nodded. He did get it. What she'd seen, the things she'd probably imagined … it took time to get that crap out of your head. He was on board with that, but he didn't think he could wait too long; he wanted to be able to touch her, just hold her, to convince himself it was real. "I … uh …"

"I won't disappear."

"Yeah. I know." He ducked his head, thoughts whirring around. He didn't want to leave. It felt ... unfinished ... to him, like they needed more ... something ... he huffed in frustration at not knowing what he was trying to put into words. He couldn't think of any real excuse to stay. She needed time. He needed to get back to the cabin, check in with his brother, get the last four days into some kind of perspective.

"I know where you live, you know," he told her, trying for a smile.

She gave him the one he wanted, the brilliant smile that lit up her face, lit up the gold flecks in her eyes and turned the jade to emerald. It was the smile he'd wanted to see for the last nine weeks, the one he thought he'd never see again, and all the anxiety and doubts he hadn't been able to get rid of dissolved into nothing under it.

MT 200, Montana

Dean drove steadily, his gaze fixed on the road, south east and then north east, aware of the noise of the tyres, the other traffic, the signs, but only distantly, his mind focussed intently on what had happened, on what he wanted to happen next.

She hadn't told him how she felt, he realised, about an hour into the winding descent. She hadn't said, precisely, it was going to be okay.

She'd said … don't worry … she'd said … she'd be in touch. She'd said … she needed some time, but she hadn't said how much, how long it was gonna take and he hadn't wanted to risk anything by asking.

His stomach was dipping and rolling, a mix of hope and anxiety. The thing he'd struggled with, at her house, that feeling of ... incompletion ... of not getting the situation nailed down ... was still bugging him.

Should've gotten it straight, before he'd left, he thought pensively. He still didn't know how she'd been able to forgive him – or why she had. Had she forgiven him? He wasn't even sure now if she had. Was that one of the things she'd needed time to get clear? Had he taken everything she'd said the wrong way? Had he misread what she'd meant?

He chewed on the corner of his lip, unconsciously frowning. He didn't know anymore. His fingers closed hard around the wheel as he resisted the temptation to turn around, go back, ask her. He was going to have to wait it out, however long that took.

She wanted the books, he remembered. He could take a load of Bobby's boxes over, in a day or two. Talk about what she'd meant by the future. Just talk. Just see her again. The scowl disappeared.

Whitefish, Montana 4.00 pm

The cabin crouched in the middle of the woods, sunlight dappling the clearing in front of it as he pulled around and stopped the car. It held the same deep silence as Ellie's place, he thought, the tick of the hot metal loud.

"Hey." Sam came out through the open front door, stopping on the weathered porch boards and looking down at him. "How'd it go?"

Looking at his little brother, his giant little brother, he corrected himself absently, he wondered where to start.

"Ah, pretty good, I guess," he said, opening the door and getting out.

"Where'd you go?"

"Lawrence."

"What?" Sam's mouth fell open. "Why?"

"That'll cost you a beer and something to eat," Dean told him, walking to the tray and lifting his duffel and gear bag out. "Maybe two or three."

Sam watched his brother demolish the sandwich, lean back and reach for his beer. Dean looked … what, he wondered? Not relaxed, not exactly, though the pain and shadows had almost completely disappeared from his eyes. Not tense, not really, not in the same way he'd been before he taken off.

"So, Lawrence?"

His brother gave him a lazy smile. "Saw Missouri."

"What?" The name conjured the psychic's image immediately in his mind. "Why?"

"To talk to Bobby."

Sam stared at him. "He stayed?"

"Yeah, seems like," Dean said, tipping his bottle up and swallowing a mouthful.

"The flask? How'd you know?" Sam asked, picking up his beer. "Why didn't he show himself before?"

"Said he couldn't pull it together," Dean told him. "He showed up when I was at Ellie's - she had this, uh, hell, I don't know what it was, but it worked - and she called Missouri."

Sam looked at him, shaking his head. "Why didn't we think of that?"

Dean grinned at him, shrugging. "Damned if I know."

"So that's where you went? To see Missouri?"

"Yeah." Dean straightened in the chair, his grin disappearing. "Bobby wouldn't let me leave until Ellie agreed to come along."

"Oh …" Sam blinked at him, the scenarios popping into his mind increasingly more unlikely. "How'd he manage that?"

"Disabled the Pacer," Dean said, waving a hand roughly in the car's direction. "Ellie told me to take her truck, but he stopped that too, until she got in."

"Uh huh. Um, was she mad?"

"Very," Dean made a face at the memory of the stereo's volume for the first few hours. "At first."

"Dean, it's a two-day drive to Kansas – how –? I mean, what happened?"

"Yeah, it wasn't exactly fun," Dean admitted. "I think Bobby thought if – you know – if we were forced together, we could get it figured out."

"And you did?" Sam thought of his brother's voice, on the phone. He'd even sounded different.

"Uh, maybe," his brother hedged. "I think."

"You think?"

"She said, uh, she said she wanted a future," Dean said, clearing his throat as his gaze dropped. "Said she needed some time, to, uh, get over stuff, I guess."

It sounded hopeful to Sam, and he leaned on the table, looking carefully at his older brother. "That's good, right?"

"Hell, yeah," Dean said, lifting his head and giving him an uncertain smile. "It's fucking awesome."

He wasn't sure, Sam thought. His brother was being cautious, which wasn't a surprise. What was a surprise was that they'd somehow gotten past what Dean had done. He leaned back and shelved his questions. By the look of it, Dean needed time as well, he thought.

"So, how was Missouri?"

"Same as when we last saw her," Dean said. "Not so, uh, bossy. She, uh –" He frowned and Sam wondered what the psychic had said to him.

"What?"

"She knew Ellie," Dean continued, taking another swig of his beer. Sam studied him. It wasn't what he'd been about to say, he thought. Then again, it sounded like he was going to have to prod his brother for the details of the trip. After Dean'd had a few hours sleep, maybe.

"She, uh, showed Bobby how to come through."

"What? Wait a minute ... Bobby couldn't figure it out?"

Dean smiled. "Uh, yeah, well, apparently it takes a lot of practice."

Sam glanced at the bags sitting by the door and back to his brother. "Where's the flask?"

"In my bag," Dean said. "I'll, uh, get it out in a minute."

Eyes narrowing, Sam looked at his brother. "What else?"

"Well, Bobby can't remember much about the levis," Dean admitted. "He says it'll come back." His brows drew together. "He, uh, said Frank's not dead."

"Not?"

"No, something's got him, someplace Bobby couldn't see."

"Anything else?"

Ducking his head, Dean stared at the table top. "I saw Mike."

"Who?"

"Uh, you remember the kid from the motel, the shtriga attack?"

Memory flooded Sam's mind. He remembered the town, the attacks, the kid all too clearly. Remembered too how it'd felt to get a piece of his own history in place, another piece that'd explained a tiny bit more of his brother.

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah."

"How is he?" Sam asked. Had Mike been eleven when they'd been there? He must be nearly grown up now, he thought.

"He's good." Dean nodded. "His mom moved them out of Wisconsin a year or so after we killed the shtriga. They're running a motel in Kansas now."

He looked around the cabin, exhaling noisily. "Mike – he said he was proud of what he did."

Sam suddenly understood. "No fallout for the rest of the family?"

"Uh, no," Dean said. "No, they're all good."

"I was wrong, you know," Sam said, finishing his beer and getting to his feet to take the bottle to the trash can in the kitchen. "About using him."

He turned back, seeing his brother's brows knit up. "No, you weren't."

"Mike told you different, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his expression uneasy. "And, yeah, I'd do it again, the same way, if that's the way it had to play out. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Smiling, Sam leaned back against the rough kitchen bench. "No, and that's what makes the difference between you and them."

He watched as his brother finished his beer, wondering if Dean would ever be able to see that clearly. They might have to use hard tactics to kill the things they hunted, but Dean would never cross the line between human and monster. He'd never relinquish his guilt at what he had to do.

Turning to look out the cabin's window, he knew he couldn't make the same claim. He'd done things that were monstrous. They lay, poisonous stains on his soul, and he wasn't sure that even taking the devil back to Hell had been enough to pay for them.

"So, uh, can Bobby, um, manifest now? Here?" he asked. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about the past, here on his own. He wanted to think about something else now.

"Guess so," Dean said. He got to his feet and walked to the duffel, unzipping it and pulling out the silver flask. "Bobby?"

The air in the cabin got colder, until they could see their breath hanging in white clouds in front of their mouths. Eyes widening, Sam watched as Bobby materialised by the couch.

"Hey," he said softly to the ghost. "Geez, Bobby, it's good to see you again."

"You too, Sam," Bobby said, floating a little closer, looking at the wall of stringed notes and photographs, the number in the centre. "You figure out what the levis are doin' while we was gone?"

Sam blinked. "Uh … no … not all of it."

"Told Dean I couldn't remember much of what I found before that asshole shot me," Bobby said. "It's comin' back."

He turned back to Sam, the brim of his cap shadowing his face. "You let the devil in, Sam?"

Sam dropped his gaze. "Not intentionally."

"Couldn't talk to you while he was sitting there."

"Yeah, I –" Sam looked up. "He's gone, now."

Bobby nodded. "I know. He's got a game plan, doesn't he? Something he still wants to do up here?"

Heaving a sigh, Sam nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, I don't know what it is, but he wanted something."

"Have to keep an eye on him, then," Bobby remarked.

Turning to Dean, the spirit added, "Can't say I was real whoops on being kept in the bag for the ride home, Dean."

"Uh –" Dean's gaze cut to the side.

"Yeah, you wanted your privacy, I get it," Bobby forestalled whatever excuse Dean'd been searching for. "You take care of her? Get her home?"

Sam watched Dean nod, wondering what the ghost knew about the two of them. More than he'd ever let on, he thought.

"You talk with her some?"

"Yeah," Dean said, looking back at Bobby. "Some."

"It's a start, ain't it?" Bobby asked. "Not goin' t'get all fixed at once, but it's better'n than it was?"

"Yeah." Dean ducked his head. "Yeah, a lot better than it was."

"There ya go."

"What's wrong with her, Bobby?" Dean asked, staring at him. "What's going on no one wants to tell me about?"

Bobby glanced around the rustic room. "Good to be back here. Travelling all the time really ain't my thing."

He flickered and disappeared.

"Goddamn it!"

"What?" Sam asked. "Is something wrong with Ellie?"

"How the hell should I know?" Dean snapped. "No one tells me anything!"

"Whoa, hey, it's me," Sam said, holding up his hands. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

Scowling at the floor, Dean went to the fridge, pulling out another couple of beers and tossing one to Sam.

"It's – uh – complicated."

"She's alright?" Sam pressed. "You said she was alright?"

"She said she was alright," Dean corrected him. "She was – she was sleeping a lot. Said the last couple of months had been, uh, tiring."

Sam blinked at him. "Well, yeah, I guess they were," he said, thinking about the little he knew of what'd been going on for her. "I mean, she moved, you two broke up –"

Dean shook his head impatiently. "She was sleeping most of the time, Sam. Dropping off in the middle of goddamned conversations."

That didn't sound like Ellie, Sam thought. He could see it was bugging the living hell out of his brother.

"Anything else?"

Dean's brows drew together. "You ever hear of something called 'folic acid'?"

Sam ran the term through his memories and shook his head. "Never heard of it. You want me to look it up?"

"Yeah."

Sam turned for the couch, picking up the laptop and setting it onto the kitchen table, opening it and sitting down.

"Uh, folic acid?" He typed into the search field.

"Yeah, uh, see if it's related to – uh – fatigue," Dean said, moving around to stand behind him. "And – uh – increased appetite."

Sam's brow wrinkled up. "Anything else?"

For a moment there was silence behind him, then Dean leaned closer, staring at the screen over his shoulder. "Yeah, bigger breasts."

Sam turned his head, one brow shooting up. "What?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, making a hurry-up gesture with one hand, his tone irritable. "Just type it in."

"Right." Sam typed the last variable and read them back. "Folic acid, fatigue, increased appetite, and uh, bigger breasts … right?"

"Right."

He hit Enter.

Instantly, the search results came up, over four million of them. He stared at the screen, his mouth dropping open.

"Uh, yeah, Dean –"

Dean looked over his brother's shoulder, eyes scanning rapidly down the list returned. A single, common word leapt out at him from every single summary, clear and in English and completely incomprehensible.

Pregnancy.

"Uh."

His knees wobbled and gave way and he dropped without warning into the chair behind him.

Sam turned around to look at him. "You okay, man?"

Sitting in the chair, his gaze still glued to the screen, Dean's face was white, the scattering of freckles over nose and checks standing out like faded ink spots. Was he breathing, Sam wondered?

"Uh."

Breathing, Sam thought, but clearly not okay. He got to his feet. What did you do for this kind of shock anyway?