If You Needed Somebody

You know, one day you look at this person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with.

~ Rain King, X-Files

Chapter 1

August 2009. Central Park, New York City

The city's buildings towered around the park, glass and chrome and steel and concrete holding the day's heat and blocking the movement of the air, and the incessant whine of insects filled the water-laced and rocky woodland surrounding him, blurring and muting the sounds of traffic on the avenues to either side of the greensward. Dean slapped at the mosquito buzzing around his head, wondering why the damned city had to be so humid in summer. He shifted his position against the roots of the tree irritably as another protrusion dug into his back.

Aside from his current problem of being eaten alive by the smallest inhabitants of the Big Apple, he felt pretty good, all things being equal. He'd been working alone for a while, unconcerned by anyone else's needs, untroubled by the greater considerations of angels or demons. Everyone had left him alone and that, he'd gradually come to realise, was the way he liked it.

Leaning against the rough bark of the tree at his back, he acknowledged that he still didn't know what he was going to do about his brother, that he hadn't dealt with the blow that had driven them apart to begin with. He'd been doing his best not to think about it at all, and for once, it was working.

The faint snap of a twig in the nearby copse of trees brought his attention back to what he was doing. He stilled against the trunk, eyes half-closed as he listened. A moment later, there was a soft click, one rock falling against another, from the same direction.

Along the path that ran from one side of the park to the other, a solitary man moved into the pool of light cast by one of the few working overhead sodium lamps, his head down and hands in his pockets. Dean watched him pass by without moving. In his late thirties, expensive suit and shoes, the gleam of a gold watch on one wrist. One of the many success stories of the city, Dean thought distantly, filing the brief assessment away. The success had a taint; the man's expression was drawn, his concentration not on his surroundings, but directed inwardly.

The night air stirred, a vagrant sigh through the treeline along the path. It brought the faint scent of carrion with it as it brushed by Dean's cheek. Not so unnatural here, in the woodlands. Dead squirrel or bird could've been rotting up wind from him. He didn't think that was it and he tensed a little, his concentration at pin-point focus, rewarded with another crackle from the undergrowth beside the path, a hundred yards or so away on the other side of the narrow trail.

Sliding up the tree's trunk, he was careful to keep his movements incremental. Ten yards from him, the man had stopped on the path, his head cocked to one side, a puzzled frown on his face.

Dean eased around the roots of the tree, and began to move, placing his feet with care, holding the long silver awl flat along his flank.

Dean? Dean! Help … help me … Dean, p-p-please.

The whispering call floated through the trees. Dean's jaw muscle flexed in response. He didn't know what the man on the path was hearing, but he could hear his brother's voice, calling him for help, hoarse and raw and desperate. It didn't really help to know it was a trick, a ruse to draw him closer, to trap him and kill him and drink his soul. The voice was very real, acting on the nerve endings and imagination like fire.

A flickered sideways glance showed him that the man had heard something he hadn't been expecting, his shoulders shaking. He stared at the woods that flanked the left hand side of the path, his expression a mixture of longing and despair.

Standing in the deep shadow of an out-thrust boulder on the other side, Dean watched and waited. If he moved too soon, the crocotta would escape. Sonofabitch monster had gotten away once in the last week and he wasn't prepared to let it happen again.

The suit turned towards the wood, taking a hesitant step toward the voice that called him. Far back, under the shadows of the trees, Dean caught the flicker of movement against the blackness. The man took another step, as the call floated to him again. In the faint light, Dean saw his profile, the tracks of his tears glistening dully down the sides of his face.

Stepping over the low bank of ferns and shrubs that separated the path from the woodland, the man hesitated again before the trees, clearly fearing the darkness beneath the canopy. The whisper called out to him and he took the first step that carried him into the shadows.

Moving away, Dean backtracked and crossed the path further down, angling back into the woods. He had maybe two or three minutes before the crocotta caught and drained his victim. That wasn't happening on his watch, not this time.

The trees closed in as he eeled between the trunks and the undergrowth, his night vision adjusting fast to the deepening darkness. He slowed for a second as he saw them; two figures standing close together in a tiny clearing, silhouetted against the lighter vegetation behind them. He watched as the man slumped forward, his limp body held by the monster as it lowered its mouth toward his face.

Dean ran, not worried about the noise he made now. He covered the twenty yards between them in seconds and jumped, the long, pointed awl he held swinging up into the air and plunging down into the back of the crocotta's neck even as it was pulling away, dropping its victim.

It struggled and thrashed on the ground in front of him, the metal driven through the spine and into the earth, and he shifted his weight over the creature's back, holding it down until the limbs stopped flailing and the chest subsided one last time under his knees.

Turning, he scrambled off the crocotta and crouched beside the guy, rolling him onto his back and resting his fingertips against the thin skin at the side of his neck. He was alive, his pulse strong. Pulling out a flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it on. The suit was a mess, he thought absently. The crocotta had hit the dude with a rock to subdue him and the headwound was bleeding profusely, as headwounds do. He felt around the long shallow cut carefully, checking the man's eyes and ears. Nothing moved under his fingertips and he thought there was a good chance there was no fracture.

Turning off the light and tucking it back in his pocket, he shifted backwards and gripped the man's wrists in one hand as he levered the body upright and took the dead weight over his shoulder. He straightened his legs and rose slowly, right arm hooked over the back of the man's legs.

He turned, walking out of the woods carefully, feeling for the ground before he committed to each step. Neither of them would cope well with a fall. The car was parked in a dark lot near the reservoir and if he didn't run into anything or anyone else, he'd be done with the job in an hour.

The small bar was densely packed, the mingled scents of perfume and cigarette smoke, alcohol and sweat combining with the heat to be near-asphyxiating. Doors and windows had been opened, the faints scents of traffic fumes, baked concrete and melted asphalt adding to the mix.

Dean leaned back against the counter, savouring the icy chill of a beer as he watched the Irish-flavoured rock band pounding out another song, the dull ache of adrenalin hangover and abused muscles fading bit by bit.

He'd dropped the vic off at the ER, telling the flustered nurse he'd found him in the park unconscious and left as soon as the guy was on a gurney. Finding a rare parking slot two blocks down, the noise and lights of the bar had drawn him with the promise of a few hours of thinking of nothing, and the possibilities of shedding the tensions of the last week. Job done.

On the small stage, the band switched to a quieter song, the lights dimming slightly as sweaty and heated and amorous couples squeezed together in the tiny, cleared space in front of the stage. Dean's gaze lingered appreciatively on the press of gyrating, scantily-clad ladies. He swallowed another mouthful of cold beer, his eyes roaming speculatively. The combination of the raw energy of the place, his satisfaction in the job and the chill fizz of the drink gave him the distance he was looking for, letting him be someone else for a while.

He watched the young woman make her way along the edge of the crowded bar toward him. Long, glossy, black hair was swept up into a soft knot on her head, loosened tendrils framing a pretty, dark-eyed face. She caught his gaze and gave him a slow smile and he let his eyes rove admiringly over her curves, outlined against the tautly-stretched fabric of a cut-off, sleeveless tee shirt and skin-tight, denim mini-skirt. A welcomed and familiar frisson of heat curled lazily through his groin as he returned the smile. His night was definitely picking up.

The flash of red hit his peripheral vision in the doorway to the street and he turned his head. Under the glare of the overhead lights near the pool tables, the vivid shade was unmistakable; copper-bright, loose and long. Without thinking, Dean reached back and put his beer on the counter, sliding off the bar stool as he tried to keep the owner of that hair in sight, mentally cursing the crowd closing in around her.

"Hey."

He looked down distractedly, seeing the curvy, dark-haired, young woman standing in front of him. She seemed vaguely familiar.

"Uh, hey," he said, gaze rising, peering over the top of her head as he caught another glimpse of red near the corner of the room. It was a big city, but he'd never seen that particular shade of red on anyone else, or the long, striding walk that reminded him of a cat.

"You looked kinda lonely," the brunette pouted, taking a step closer, her hands sliding under his tee shirt, long nails grazing over his skin. Glancing down in irritation, Dean took a short step back, catching her wrist and pushing her hands away. He suddenly remembered why she seemed familiar, but the glow had disappeared with the sight of the hunter and he didn't have the time or inclination for the brunette now.

"Maybe I can help?" she persisted, pushing back against his grip.

"Uh, yeah, not really," he told her, offering a half-hearted smile as he scanned the room again. "I-uh-no, look, sorry, I gotta go."

"What?"

"Have a nice night," he muttered, stepping around her and into the crowd, neck craning in the direction he'd last seen the redhead.

"Bastard!"

He heard the brunette's indignant exclamation distantly as he pushed his way into the crowd. Another glimpse of red closer to the back kept him working his way through the tightly-packed dancers in front of the small stage, but he was forced to a stop when he lost her completely a moment later. He turned around, wishing briefly he had his brother's extra couple of inches.

Knowing Ellie's ability to disappear without a trace even without a crowd to hide in, Dean scanned the bar carefully. The restrooms were behind him, and he ruled them out, deciding she couldn't have gotten past him without him seeing her, the room was too small. His gaze passed twice over the nondescript door to one side of the stage without noticing it. When it finally registered, he realised where it most likely led, pushing his way through the packed mob toward it.

The door opened just as he reached the short flight of steps that led up to it, and Ellie stood on the top step for a moment, talking to someone behind her. Her hair was loose, flame-bright and spilling over her bare shoulders and back. A thin, white singlet was stretched over her breasts and stomach, tight enough to show the lines of her ribs and the jut of her shoulder blades.

Dean's gaze dropped involuntarily, following the close-fitting, old and faded denim of her jeans down the length of her legs to a pair of leather sandals on her feet. The bulky and unfashionably huge leather backpack she carried with her everywhere was slung over one shoulder, and the cut-away of the singlet's sleeves revealed a tattoo on the flat plane of her right shoulder blade, a triquetra in a circle.

He felt an odd flutter in his stomach, seeing her again. The last time had been in Long Beach and the old easiness between them hadn't really been there. He tried to ignore his vague apprehensions as he looked up at her face. She was nodding to her companion, and when she turned back to the steps in front of her, her kohl-rimmed, jade-green eyes met his.

And passed over him without recognition.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice a little higher and crisper than he remembered, filled with the flat vowels of an upper-class background, the slightly nasal drawl of the East Coast. He backed away in confusion as she came down the stairs and walked past without looking at him again, turning to follow her as she headed through the crowd for the front door of the bar. Behind her, a man in his mid-thirties pushed past, glancing disinterestedly at him as he passed. The guy's hair was blonde, but strands of silver caught the light.

Dean leaned back against the wall beside the steps, watching as they exited the bar, feeling as if he'd been sucker-punched. It was her, he was certain of it. The crescent moon birthmark lying under her collarbone had been easily visible over the scooped neck of the singlet. He didn't know why she'd blown him off. They hadn't parted on bad terms, at least, he thought, not that bad. She'd looked different, wondering if that had anything to do with it. He'd never seen her wearing make-up before, or with her hair loose, or for that matter, wearing anything other than shirts and jeans or fatigues. Had sounded different too.

Some kind of trouble? He pushed himself off the wall, threading his way back through the packed floor to the door.

Running down the sidewalk to the car, he saw her get into a black Ferrari parked outside the bar and swore under his breath. The car – the get-up – the weirdness – he couldn't come up with a good explanation for any of it, and he wondered why the hell he was trying.

The city was full, the traffic crawling for the most part, and he managed to catch up with the car on Bowery, cutting off the yellow cabs with a reckless disregard for New York tempers as the low-slung car ahead of him switched lanes and made turns with the same insouciance. At Delancey, the Ferrari ran the red and he lost her, sitting at the intersection and watching as the car sped down toward the Williamsburg Bridge and disappeared in the sea of taillights.

Whatever was going on, he thought tiredly, whatever she was involved in, he couldn't help her now.

It was a little after one in the a.m. when he parked the Impala in the narrow lot behind his hotel, his thoughts still circling around Ellie's strange behaviour in the club, and he climbed the four flights of stairs to his room without noticing the smells of the one-star hotel, or the sounds of the other guests, or their televisions, in the rooms he passed.

His earlier buzz, the satisfaction of the hunt, the normal cheerfulness he felt working alone, those had gone, along with the desire to spend the night decompressing in the simplest and most effective way he knew. An image of the brunette's incredulous expression as he'd brushed her off replayed in his mind and he let out a gusty exhale, pushing it aside without much regret.

It'd been three – or four – months, he thought, since he and Sam had last seen Ellie. The vengeful spirit in Long Beach had taken the three of them to bring it down and send it on its way. At the time, he'd been too distracted by his brother's behaviour to talk to her much, and while she'd been cordial, the ease they'd had before hadn't really been there. And whose fault was that, he asked himself derisively, reaching the top landing and turning for his room.

You don't need anyone.

He wondered if she knew what'd happened – to Sam – to the fucking world – when Lilith had died and the last seal had been broken.

Lilith's going to break the final seal. Zachariah's wide, completely insincere, grin returned with the memory of the angel's gleeful voice. Fait accompli at this point. Train's left the station.

He'd believed the angels, even when he'd known that some of them were rotten. He'd believed he'd been raised for a reason, a means of redemption, a way to get the blackness off his soul. He'd been wrong. Lilith had been the final seal and Sam had been put into position to kill her.

Sam, Sam, Sam. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Forget about him, would you? You have larger concerns. Why do you think I'm confiding in you? You're still vital, Dean. We weren't lying about your destiny. Just ... omitted a few pertinent details. But nothing's changed. You are chosen. You will stop it. The angel'd shrugged disinterestedly. Just... not Lilith, or the apocalypse. That's all.

Cas had finally chosen sides and gotten him to the convent too late, his brother standing with Ruby in a state of shock as the first demon's blood had run across the floor and opened up the cage.

You chose a demon … over your own brother.

He stopped at the door to his room, leaning against it as he tried to force that line of thought far away, back down where it hadn't been eating at him for the last few weeks. There was no question Sam would've done it all differently if he'd known. No doubt Sam's remorse was real and the fear of what he'd become, or almost become, was still what was driving his little brother. None of it changed the one simple fact that given a choice, between Ruby and him, Sam'd chosen Ruby. Had believed, been convinced, that he was the stronger. The only one to do the job.

He'd been right, Dean thought tiredly. Just not in the way either of them could've imagined.

Ellie hadn't believed the angels. Had told him whatever Ruby was doing, it wasn't for Sam's benefit, that the angels were playing a long game and he and his brother were just pawns, important for some parts, expendable for the rest. He closed his eyes, remembering the doubts she'd re-ignited in him, every time the subject'd come up.

It hadn't been that he hadn't wanted to believe her. He'd just wanted to believe in his purpose more. He'd needed to believe that he could undo what he'd done. Needed it bad enough to ignore his instincts, ignore what was right in front of him.

Pushing the key into the lock, he turned it and opened the room door, one hand slapping the wall beside the frame for the light switch.

The room, cheap and drab, leapt into stark clarity under the murky, low-wattage light, but he didn't notice the cracks in the walls or the old, tired furniture or the threadbare state of the dirty, grey carpet.

Did she know that the devil was free and the apocalypse was under way? He thought of War, the first Horseman, and what it'd done to that little town in Colorado. The seals of the cage had been broken, and now Heaven was breaking the seals of the end of days, one by one, according to both Bobby and Cas.

Tossing his keys onto the dresser, he put the bottle of whiskey he'd bought on the nightstand and flipped on the small, ancient TV as he walked past. In one corner of the room, a tiny alcove held what the hotel called kitchen facilities. There was an electric kettle and a tray of cups, instant coffee in individual vacuum-sealed foil bags, tea bags, sachets of sugar and creamer. Two glasses completed the room's culinary inventory and he took one, stopping by the TV on his way back to the bed, twisting the knob to change channels until he came to a news broadcast.

She would've talked to someone, he decided, his attention only half on the screen. Found out something. And she hadn't called, or tried to get in touch. Had, in fact, he recalled with a reprise of the sense of shock he'd felt then, ignored him completely, only a couple of hours ago.

You don't need anyone, she'd said to him.

He hadn't told her she was wrong.

He needed people. Not many, just a few. To trust. To put his back against when the world was coming to an end. He'd already lost most of the people he'd loved and trusted, lost the scant few places he'd tentatively allowed himself to think of as home. He couldn't admit to anyone what those losses had done.

Waste of time thinking about this crap, he told himself, shoving the past back where it belonged. Do the job. That's important. That's something he could do.

He looked back at the TV as the anchor began to read out the days' news, forcing his concentration to where he needed it.

Only two items held his attention. The suicide of a high-ranking political aide this morning, inexplicable due to a lack of cause of death.

And two more deaths in Central Park.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean reached blindly back for the bottle as he stared at the flickering screen. He'd killed the crocotta, less than five hours ago. There shouldn't have been any more deaths. But the body count had doubled in the last five hours. Pouring whiskey into his glass, he tossed it back, and got up to change the set to another news channel.

Same story. A man killed, maybe an hour after he'd dropped off the guy in the ER. And a woman, killed less than an hour after that, her body found by a late-night jogger, not even that far from where he'd ganked the monster. The cops couldn't've searched the whole area, he thought. The body would be there till the morning sun got to it.

He turned back to the bed and pulled the army duffel from under it, dropping the big bag onto the end of the bed and unzipping it. His father's journal was wrapped in a handful of tee shirts and he unwrapped it impatiently, tossing the shirts back into the bag and flipping the pages until he came to the entry on the crocotta. Silver or iron stake through the spine. He frowned.

Yep, well that's what he'd done. It couldn't be the same one. But they didn't hunt in packs. Or maybe they did?

Picking up the glass, he poured another shot from the bottle, and shifted back to the headboard as he returned the bottle to the nightstand. Pushing the pillows up behind his back, his gaze alternated between the TV's screen and the book in his hand.

His father's entry on the creatures was thin. John Winchester had hunted one with the Tasarovs, years ago, and he and Sam had taken one down year before last, but the lore was shaky, and it seemed dependent on the culture. They were a type of shapeshifter and, like werewolves and shifters, were thought to hunt alone, territorial and independent.

Of course, he considered, skinwalkers were also shifters and they were happy to hunt in packs when the opportunity arose.

It was unlikely but possible there were a group of crocottas working together … or maybe just in the same greater metropolitan area, he thought, staring at the TV without seeing the images filling the screen. A really big city, like this one, was probably an ideal location. The streets were busy no matter what hour of the day, or day of the year, and there were a million dark and shadowy places to hide when calling their victims. And a million places to hide in plain sight in between meals.

In Ohio, the monster's voice had been his father's, exact in every detail, every nuance and shade and variation. And the damned thing had been able to pry into his skull enough to know about the demon, and about the deal, tailoring its conversations to seem bonafide, knowing things only his family had known.

He got off the bed, moving restlessly around the room, brows drawn together as he reviewed that case. There'd been discrepancies, even then, he remembered. The crocotta had sent him off to confront another guy, while luring Sam to the telco building. At the time, they'd figured the monster thought it would have no trouble with Sam and come calling for the souls of him and the poor schmuck he'd been targeted on after they'd killed each other. There didn't seem to be any other reason for wasting two potential kills otherwise.

It took him a couple of minutes to realise what he was looking for and another to remember Sam'd taken the laptop and he was going to have to get another one. Finishing his whiskey, he walked back to the bed, telling himself he'd go to the library in the morning, see if he could find more about the mythology of the creatures.

The brisk knock on his door was unexpected and he swung around, almost dropping the glass in his hand. No one knew where he was right now, not even Bobby. He set the glass down, and turned off the television, then walked to the door, unlocking it but leaving the chain on. Opening the door a crack, he stared at the woman standing there.

Ellie looked back at him through the narrow gap.

"Are you going to let me in?" She tilted her head to one side and smiled, one brow rising.

Dean stared back at her numbly for several seconds before closing the door and leaning his forehead against it. How the hell had she found him, he wondered, freeing the chain and telling himself the acceleration of his pulse was a left-over from the interruption of his thoughts, just an aftermath of the shock of finding out he hadn't finished the job after all.

He opened the door and stepped aside, watching her as she walked in past him. She looked around, and he got a bright snapshot of the room as she might've been seeing it; the drab and peeling floral wallpaper, thin, grimy carpet, the worn and faded armchair to one side of the sagging bed with its ugly, cheap spread and the short, lumpy sofa that matched nothing else in the room on the other. As he glanced around at the room's obvious deficiencies, a smell he hadn't noticed before registered as well. Old-lady smell. The sweetish scent of talc and dust and mice droppings.

Not one of the city's finer establishments, he realised, and probably more than a few steps down from the ubiquitous and invariably ugly motel rooms he'd become accustomed to over the years. He wasn't sure how he'd failed to notice the shortcomings before.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, focussing his gaze back on her. She was still dressed in the singlet and jeans from the bar, the loose spill of her hair and make-up disorienting against the room's shabbiness and under the dim lighting.

Pulling her phone from her jacket pocket, Ellie waggled it at him as if it was an explanation. "Not so hard when you carry around one of these. I have my sources," she told him, putting it back as she stopped in the middle of the room and turned back to him. "I saw the Impala out the back. Did you follow for long? I lost sight of you after the bridge."

"I thought you were in trouble," Dean said, hearing the faint edge of accusation in his voice as he closed the door and leaned back against it.

She gave him a small shrug, her gaze steady on his. "Yeah, sorry about that. The guy I was with – he's – well, he's a little jumpy. His wife was killed last month in Soho. The police couldn't help him, and he found my name. But he thinks he's clutching at straws. I didn't want to make him more spooked about what was going on than he already was."

"Found your name?" Dean's brows lifted as he wondered about all the things he was coming to realise he didn't know about her. She knew a lot about him, he thought, but she wasn't much for volunteering information.

"Friend of a friend." She turned away with a shrug.

"So this–" He waved a hand at her, looking her up and down. "– this is all an act?"

Ellie grinned at him, unoffended.

"This is the way the contact came," she told him, her voice and expression subtly morphing back to the arrogant look he'd seen at the bar. "I went to school in Boston, it's not much of an act."

Letting the backpack slide off her arm to the floor, she glanced around the room again, her expression and voice returning to normal. "What're you doing here, Dean?"

"Hunting crocottas." He walked across the room for his glass. Hunters got jobs in every kind of way. He didn't remember her mentioning anything about the East Coast, though. "You think your … uh – job's – wife met one?"

She nodded. "I'm sure of it. I've been here four weeks now, and I'm pretty certain there were at least six of them working Manhattan."

"Six?" Dean stopped dead. "They don't hunt in packs. Do they?"

"No," Ellie said, a small crease centring between her brows. "They seem to be hunting as individuals. They don't need or like others of their kind around. But apparently New York is the place to be for them. Millions of victims, lots of hiding places, not a lot of community feeling." She moved to the chair, sitting down, her eyes narrowing. "But you already figured on more of them, didn't you?"

He glanced down at the glass on the nightstand. "Killed one tonight, in the park. Came back here and there's two more deaths on the news." He frowned. "You said 'were'?"

"Got another glass?"

Dean found the second glass on the counter and poured some whiskey into it, handing it to her before he returned to the bed.

"Where's Sam?" Ellie sipped her whiskey.

"We're … uh … taking a vacation, from each other," he said, sitting down. It was one way of describing it.

"Why?" She looked at him directly. His gaze dropped to the floor, mouth twisting into a reluctant and rueful smile at the question. She often asked him hard-to-answer, too-direct questions, and he was often surprised into answering them honestly. But he didn't think he could talk about it this time. What Sam had done. How he'd felt about it … it was a wound that was too deep, too fresh, to let out.

"Uh, just thought it was time we, uh, went our own ways for a while." Not quite the truth, but close enough, he thought, meeting her eyes uncomfortably.

Ellie inclined her head. "That sounds … sensible. Not like you guys to go for the sensible plan." She gave him a half-smile to take any sting out of the comment.

"Yeah. Well, first time for everything," he agreed noncommittally, looking away.

"So, how are you doing?"

He shrugged, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass as he thought about it. "I'm good. I'm not chewed out every day by worry. I'm, uh, happy."

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

The corner of his mouth lifted as he acknowledged her doubt. "Yeah, really."

"Well, I'll drink to that." She lifted her glass to him and swallowed a mouthful.

He tipped his glass and drank, looking at her over it.

He was good. It had surprised him, when he'd first recognised it, but it was true. Hunting on his own, away from the whole angel/demon power struggle, it was like the old days. Hunting without Sam meant that he could concentrate on what he was doing, could get the job done without that background edge of worry about his brother, without the need to even think of anyone else. His memories hadn't disappeared but they'd been lessened, somehow, when he didn't have to hide them all the time.

His gaze slid absently to the long, graceful curve of her throat when she tipped the glass back, a slight jolt hitting his nervous system as he wondered vaguely if the skin there was as smooth as it looked. He looked away, taking a deep breath.

"So. Do we team up for these crocottas or handle half each on our own?" he asked, his head ducking to hide his surprise at the randomness of the question, coming out of nowhere.

Ellie finished her whiskey and turned to look consideringly at him. "I thought you were happy working alone?"

"I am. But six of them …" He looked down into his glass. "I wouldn't say no to some help."

She laughed. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't either," she admitted, the laughter fading to a smile. He felt that jolt again. The smile was one he'd been wanting to see again for a while.

Getting to her feet, she carried the glass to the counter and rinsed it out, setting it on the drainer. "Sam killed Lilith, didn't he?"

"Yeah, she was the last seal."

"How was he building his strength?"

He didn't want to admit to it, not even now, not even to her. She could find out from someone, the thought crossed his mind a second later. If she really wanted to know.

"He was drinking demon blood."

Said out loud, like that, no excuses, made it worse, he found.

"Ruby's?"

"Mostly," he said. "Sometimes others."

To his surprise, she didn't seem to find it abhorrent or disgusting. Her expression, under the murky overhead light, was thoughtful.

"You don't seem all that shocked."

Ellie lifted her gaze back to him. "I told you, Dean, there were some ways to … to take shortcuts with the strengthening of mental power," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "I just didn't think that he'd use that one."

Dean snorted without amusement. "No, didn't occur to me either, till I saw it."

"Are you alright?"

He looked away. "No," he said. "About that? No."

"Lucifer's out now, looking for a vessel," she said, her voice becoming matter-of-fact. "Sam's his vessel, you know."

"Yeah, I heard that."

"And you're Michael's."

He couldn't help the involuntary look he gave her, astonished that she knew that part, closing his mouth on the next obvious question. He sounded like a broken record every time he asked it.

She shook her head at him. "I take it the angels still aren't telling you anything?"

"He – they said I'd be the one to stop it."

Her mouth compressed as her gaze cut away. "The bloodlines of the Winchesters and Campbells. Descended from Araquiel and Azazel. A trillion-to-one-shot that those lines would ever join. Much worse odds that they'd produce men strong enough."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, a shiver trickling up his spine. He knew what she was talking about, he thought disorientedly. A flicker of dizziness at the unexpected familiarity of it made him sway slightly.

"Whatever's going on up there, it's been going on for a long time."

Dean reached for the bottle, pouring himself another shot and getting up. He crossed the space between them, setting his glass as he picked hers up and poured another shot into it. She took it without looking at it, or at him, her eyes unfocussed.

"You heard about Bobby?"

Ellie looked up at him, the crease back between her brows. "I haven't been able to reach Bobby for weeks."

Dean let out his breath, leaning beside her against the counter and setting the bottle down. "He was possessed," he said, staring at the other side of the room. "They were trying to find something and he – he stabbed himself to stop them from killing me."

"Oh … Bobby …" Ellie said, her glass hitting the counter with a thump. "Well, that explains–what were they trying to find?"

"The sword of Michael."

He felt her gaze shift to him, and turned his head to meet her eyes as she asked, "You?"

"Yeah. Me."

"They'll hunt you no matter where you go," she said, and he felt another trickle of ice slip down his neck. She made those jumps effortlessly, he thought, lifting his glass.

"Yeah, well, they'll have to find me first," he said, sucking down a breath and tossing the shot in his glass back. "And I got a job to do."

The bravado in his voice was for her, he admitted to himself, walking back to the bed and dropping onto it. Zachariah hadn't pulled any punches in showing him how far the angels would go to get his consent.

"You said there were six, you thought," he said to change the subject, waving a hand at the TV on the dresser, not wanting to think about the things he'd been so successful in not thinking about the last couple of weeks. What the angels wanted. What the demons wanted. What his brother was doing. "You seen 'em?"

Ellie glanced at the muted television, nodding. "When I got here, there were a couple of attacks per week, in the park, in Soho and in Harlem. I got the two who working those areas, but the park's too big to cover alone."

She looked down at the whiskey in her glass, swallowing the last mouthful and twisting around to put it into the sink. "There's a diner down on the corner, I'll meet you there at seven?"

"What?" He stared blankly at her.

"Got find myself some digs," she explained, walking over to her bag. "I was staying down at the West Village, but that's – well, it's not available now."

"You're not going to find a room now," he told her, glancing at his watch.

"Oh, I'll find something," she assured him as she headed for the door.

"Ellie." Dean got to his feet. "Wait a sec."

She stopped, glancing back at him over her shoulder and waiting. He had the uncomfortable feeling she knew what he was going to say before he'd even thought of saying it, and he swallowed nervously.

"I – uh – I thought –" he stumbled over the words, looking around the room. "You been busy?"

There was a flash of amusement in her eyes, he thought, looking at her as she ducked her head to hide it. She always knew when he was full of shit.

"Yeah, you could say that," she said, her tone light. "But the reason I didn't get in touch was that I figured you didn't want any help."

He frowned at that. "C'mon, that's not – we called you last time," he told her defensively.

"You know I'm not talking about that," she said, her gaze swivelling back at the door.

"Stay here."

The words – the invitation – came out before he could stop it and he stared at her, feeling as bewildered as she looked.

"I mean, you know, not, uh, just … you can have the bed," he hurried to clarify what he'd said, waving an arm around the room in a diversionary gesture. "If we're working together on this, it'll be easier …"

He trailed off, not sure of what he meant, a glance at his watch showing it was nearly half past two in the morning. "Why waste more cash on another room?" he offered, knowing it was a hopelessly lame excuse, unable to think of anything better.

Ellie turned back toward him, her expression cautious, he thought.

"What's going on?" she asked and he shook his head.

"Nothin', just, you know …" he hedged, trying to think of anything that might sound compelling, unsure of why it was important. "It's, uh, not great but better than trying to work with me here and you somewhere blocks away."

That did sound somewhat better, he decided. There was no chance of her being able to get a room in the same hotel; his'd been the last vacancy, the manager'd told him when he'd signed in, like it was a big deal. That meant somewhere further away. Harder to bounce ideas off each other if the other wasn't around.

He still didn't know what had prompted the offer and he wasn't sure he wanted to investigate it any more closely. For some reason, it just seemed important to stick together on this case.

"Alright," she said, looking at the sofa. "I'll take that."

"Good," he said, his breath huffing out in a long exhale. The sense of relief was as disproportionate to the situation as his offer'd been. He shoved that thought away unlooked-at as well.

"We'll see how it goes," she added, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

"What?" He looked at her. "You don't trust me?"

"Trust isn't the issue," she said, her voice dry. Wiping a hand along her cheek, she grimaced, and turned around, looking for the bathroom door. "Nothing like this city for grime," she threw over her shoulder, heading for it.

He watched her walk into the bathroom, the door closing behind her, and immediately found himself on edge. What the hell had he been thinking, asking her to stay with him?

The answer hovered, just past the perimeter of conscious thought, and he deliberately ignored it, not in the mood for self-analysis. They were going to work together. She was a capable hunter and the odds would be a lot more in their favour pooling their skills and knowledge and resources than each trying to take on the crocottas on their own.

He looked around the room again, noticing the empty paper bag lying on the floor, his duffel open, last week's bloody and dirt-encrusted clothing hanging out of it. He walked over to the side of the bed, picking up the paper bag, and shoving the clothes back into the depths of the duffle before he zipped it closed and pushed it under the bed with his foot.

So, maybe sharing a room with her wasn't such a hot idea. He wasn't used to having anyone around but Sam. Sure as hell wasn't used to living with a woman. The way she'd looked at the bar slipped involuntarily into his head; the scooped singlet hugging the curves of her breasts and taut over the flatness of her stomach, her soft old denim jeans showing the length and curves of her legs.

He took a deep breath and scanned the room again, focussing on the crappy furniture to banish the image. He'd just have to live with it. He'd made too big a deal of it to withdraw the invitation now.

The pipes banged a little and he heard the tap running behind the closed bathroom door, the squeak of the shower taps. Walking slowly back to the counter in the alcove, he picked up the bottle and poured himself a fresh double and returned to the TV set, turning the volume up a little when he saw the latest news broadcast playing. He returned to the bed and settled himself at the head, leaning back against the thin heap of pillows and forcing himself to concentrate on the screen.