Between Shadows and Light

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o'er-wrought heart and bids it break

~ William Shakespeare

Chapter 1 Denial

Albany, New York

The pickup was almost empty, the storage room behind her, almost full. Ellie wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist and picked up another box, sliding it along the tail gate until she had its weight, then turning and carrying it into the storage room, stacking it on top of the boxes already there.

The buzz of her phone, sitting on a nearby stack of boxes, gave her a good excuse to stop and she picked it up with a sigh of relief, stretching one arm above her head to ease the tightness of her shoulders and back.

"Hello?"

"Ellie? Bobby's dead."

Dean's voice was husky, the words almost slurred. Ellie leaned against the pile of boxes next to her, her tiredness forgotten at the pain she could hear too clearly across the miles between them.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," she said, not sure if the sudden tightness in her chest was for the old man or for the man on the end of the line, who'd loved him like a father.

"Uh, we're at Whitefish," he said, his voice cracking a little. "Could you … can you … uh … can you get here?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving now." She heard the line cut out and closed the phone slowly.

Bobby. Dead. She couldn't make herself believe it, not yet. It was a little under eight years since she'd first met Bobby Singer, by accident, both of them hunting for the same piece of information from the same medieval professor, and long before she'd met the brothers or had even heard much about them.

She'd passed things on to Bobby over the years, information and artefacts, books and sometimes just rumours. It hadn't really been until Dean had gone to live with the Braedens that she'd spent a lot of time with the older hunter. They'd both needed to talk to someone about the man they loved, with someone who knew him. Someone who'd understand that need to talk.

From others, directly or peripherally involved in their business, she'd heard things about Bobby Singer that'd surprised her, at first. Contradictory things she'd later realised Bobby had fostered, rumours and innuendo and outright crap. In the end, it'd been his obsession with knowing that had been their real bond. Knowing what the patterns meant and knowing the history and knowing how history repeated itself. Just knowing.

Dean … her face screwed up a little at the thought of him trying to face this loss.

He'd turned to Bobby after his father had gone. Had looked to him and relied on him and had loved him fiercely. He'd be devastated, she thought worriedly. More than devastated. She bit her lip as she realised he would find some way to blame himself for it, certain that unspoken need for punishment was still there.

For a second, she let herself imagine what his life – and her life – was going to be like without the taciturn hunter in it. Grief flowered then, rising up through her chest and into her throat, tightening both. Bobby'd had his regrets, more than a few. She knew some of them. They'd been shared over the years, over bottles and talk that'd lasted till dawn, reluctantly to begin with, then more openly. She tipped her head back, swallowing against the full feeling in her throat, hoping and sending out a prayer to whoever was listening that he'd been able to let all of them go at the last.

Taking a deep breath and forcing the bands of too-tight muscles around her chest to loosen, she wiped impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. It was going to take days to drive to Montana and she was wasting time.

She tucked the phone into her pocket, and turned back to the truck. There were only two boxes left in the tray, and she reached in, lifting one on top of the other and dragging them off. The combined weight was almost more than she could manage, and for a second, she swayed under them, finding her balance and calling up a little more from her reserves, distantly aware that over the last few months she hadn't been looking after herself nearly as well as she should've been.

She gripped the lower box hard and carried them into the storage room, setting them down on top of the others. It took a few moments for the tremble in her muscles to dissipate and she leaned against the pile, telling herself that a decent breakfast would solve the problem. Getting her stuff out of Richmond, chasing down a rugaru that'd come to maturity in South Carolina, driving back across three states to meet Dean and Sam at the tail end of a job they'd had in western Missouri, and then returning to upper New York State to finish moving her stuff to the storage unit had taken its toll. She'd been operating on takeout food and three hours of sleep out of every twenty-four for weeks now. She ran the roller door down and fastened the padlocks through the two hasps.

There were a few more things she'd been planning on doing, but they could wait, she thought as she lifted the tail gate and locked it into place. She'd been living out of a bag for the past few weeks; everything she needed was already in the pickup and she could buy anything she didn't have on the way.

Getting into the cab, she started the engine, listening as the '91 Dodge Ram V8 engine rumbled into life. Like the regular maintenance she did on her vehicles, it was a habit she'd acquired over the years, that moment of listening to the engine when it started, relaxing when it hit all the right notes. She couldn't remember when she'd started doing it, only that having a vehicle that was reliable was as important as making sure her weapons were clean and working smoothly, and, she considered, making a face at herself in the rearview mirror, making sure she was fit and healthy.

On the passenger side, a map laid open. She picked it up and did some mental calculations. At least two and a half days to Whitefish. The pickup wasn't economical, but it was useful. And inconspicuous; plain white, well-dusted, it looked like any one of the millions of similar farm or work vehicles. Studying the map for a moment, she memorised the main roads and her exits, then pulled out, and headed for the interstate.

Thirty hours later. Whitefish, Montana

Sam stood by the window of the cabin, staring outside, listening to the cold silence that filled the room. Mostly it was coming from his brother. Dean hadn't moved much from the sofa since they'd burned Bobby's body on the pyre. In the last four days, they hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to each other. He understood the silence. There wasn't anything to say. Not to each other. Bobby had been there when their father had sacrificed himself for his oldest son. He'd been there when Dean had made his deal and when the hellhounds had come. It'd been Bobby's place Dean'd gone to when he'd been pulled out of Hell, and it'd been Bobby who'd somehow regained enough control of his body to turn a knife on himself when Meg'd ordered the demon possessing him to kill Dean.

The view outside started to blur and he blinked, forcing himself to breathe past the sore and aching obstruction in his throat, leaning against the counter. He couldn't think of a single thing he could say that would make it any better. More easily understood.

Luck ran out, their father used to tell them. Roman had made the shot at night, with a running target, in the seconds it'd taken Bobby to get into the van and close the door. A one in a million shot. But sometimes, luck ran out.

Dean stared at nothing, his mind engaged in its own brand of torture as the grief swelled. He wanted to sleep, to forget for a while but when he closed his eyes, all he saw were the people he'd lost, and razoring pain would bring him to his feet, to pace restlessly, anger and anguish battling for possession. After a while, he gave up on the idea of sleep, sitting on the couch instead, not even trying to make sense of the thoughts and memories and emotions that washed through him, bucketing and jostling and cascading like rapids in a mountain river.

Okay, son, don't worry, go back to the room with Rufus, and I'll find your daddy … sure, inside the barrel there are grooves cut, like little hills and valleys, which make it spin when it's pushed through by the charge … Dean, you still want to help me pull apart an engine? … so don't be clomping your great feet hard onto the ground, step soft, watch out for the ground cover, try and be as quiet as you can … you're not giving them a chance to be themselves, John. You could leave them here for a week or so if you've got to be doing something, they're doing all right here … yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people …

Inside, somewhere down deep, something was howling. He couldn't let it out. Letting it out wouldn't help. He didn't know how to let go, didn't even know how to accept that the man was gone. And mixed in with his grief, was anger, a fury that burned deep and hot, for the thing that had killed him. He couldn't untangle that rage from the grief. And he wanted the rage, needed it. Without it, facing the levis would be a much harder prospect. An impossible prospect.

Your dad was a strong man, Dean, stronger than most. But he made a lot of mistakes over the years, mostly with you … what did you do!? … have you got that low of an opinion of yourself? Are you that screwed in the head?! …your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit ... I'll use my game leg and kick your friggin' ass! Yeah, you better run! …

The memories wouldn't shut down and they wouldn't shut up. He'd been aware, for a long time now, that when his father had died, it'd been Bobby who'd filled the place where he'd been. The realisation had dawned very slowly that Bobby'd been more – had been the father that he'd wanted, the one who was always there. He'd spent his life doing everything possible to please John Winchester, but his father's obsession with hunting, with revenge, had always taken priority over his sons, whether he'd meant it to or not. And him and Sam … they'd both known it, both felt it. Bobby had been the one to throw a ball around with, to listen to their problems, who dropped everything to come when they asked for help.

Look, I get it wasn't easy. But that's life! And it's as close to happiness as I've ever seen a hunter get. It ain't like I wanted to lie to you, son. But you were out, Dean …

He ducked his head, feeling that shock again, that aching disbelief when he'd realised Bobby didn't know him, even after all they'd been through, even after all Bobby'd done for him. He hadn't been out, he'd been in Hell's waiting room, dying inside, with nowhere else to go, seeing the years stretch out ahead of him, filled with lies and a loneliness he'd only slowly come to recognise as being born of the pretence of being someone he wasn't. Trying to be something he wasn't.

Now, you find your reasons to get back in the game. I don't care if it's love or spite or a ten-dollar bet. I've been to enough funerals. I mean it. You die before me, and I'll kill you …

He took a deep breath, trying to relax the muscles that kept contracting against every fucking memory. He couldn't deal with it but he could let it wash through him, he told himself. Let it not hit so hard every goddamned second.

Behind his closed lids, they paraded past again, the people he'd loved and lost … his mother, his father, Ash and Pamela, Ellen and Jo, Lisa and Ben, Anna, Rufus, Cas and now Bobby … people who had helped him, helped him and Sam … people who had been their support system … people who had helped –

He straightened up slowly. All of the people who helped them. And now, there was only a couple of people who fit that category left … and only one of them that he couldn't stand to lose.

The fear that shot through him, icing his veins, launched him off the sofa, his legs tingling and prickling with pins and needles from not being used for awhile. He saw his brother, standing by the small kitchen's window and snapped, "Where was Ellie the last time she called?"

Sam turned to look at him, his brow furrowing up. "Uh, Michigan, I think. Why?"

"How many friends do we have left, Sam? Who've we got now to go for help?"

Sam frowned, thinking about it. "There's Frank?"

"Frank isn't a friend. He's one step from the padded cell," Dean said sharply. "Everyone who ever helped us is dead, Sam. Everyone." He walked across the room, head down and staring at the floor, his brows knotted together. They'd tracked them to Riverside, had known the car, known the room. What if they'd found her, on the road, at a fill up, alone? Vulnerable? "We're running and hiding. We got no base, no nothing. It won't take long for them to find us here, and then we'll be on the run again."

"What're you saying?" Sam shook his head. "That we're being targeted? Dean, c'mon, the levis weren't even around last year."

Dean shook his head impatiently. "No. Right. I know. But –" He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. The back of his neck was itching, prickling with the anxiety he could feeling churning away in his stomach. "I mean, there's got to be some reason everyone we were close to is dead."

Sam's stared at him uncertainly. "Dean, all our friends – our family – everyone we've lost were in the life, Dean. That's all it is."

Dean's shoulders slumped. Sam was right. She was in the life. Maybe that was just a matter of time as well.

I-90W, Montana

Rubbing her eyes with one hand as she peered through the rain at the sign, Ellie could just make out the letters as she sped by. Bozeman. Ten miles. She nodded tiredly. She could get some coffee there and send a message.

The rain had been with her for the last two hundred miles. She was getting sick of the sound of the wipers across the windshield, sick of the hiss under the tyres, sick of the grey skies and chilled air.

The trip was never-ending. Too much coffee, too much anxiety over every small delay and looking at her watch hadn't helped, only reminding her that she was still too far away.

Grief had hit a few times, triggered by small recollections that seemed to burst into her mind, involuntarily and unwelcomed; once by the sight of a man in a grimy, grease-covered baseball cap at a fill-up in Indiana; another by a laid-back song on the radio. She wasn't sure if she was getting through it, or if trying to deal in incremental dribs and drabs was making it worse. The driving helped, keeping her attention on something other than her memories, but she'd had to pull over a few times, tears coming without warning, just there and blinding her, indistinguishable from the droplets that smeared her windshield between wipes.

He wasn't like any kid I'd known. Another memory of the old man's voice, gruff and a little slurred from the whiskey. In the book-strewn and dust-covered living room, the firelight had lit up one side of Bobby's face in gold, catching the russet in his beard, outlining his lashes. The other side was shadowed in ochre, his hat pushed back off his forehead. The rest of the room had been in varying shades of darkness, curtains drawn against the winter chill and every now and then, a smattering of sleet would hit the glass. He was quiet, you know, 'cept with his brother, but by God, he was determined. Nothing got past him and he never gave up on anything.

That had been the winter of 2010. Dean had been living in Cicero for the last eight months. Sam had been hunting with his grandfather and cousins, although she hadn't found out about that until much later. She'd stopped in at the salvage yard with two books Bobby'd asked her about; an angelology written by the Church in the fourteenth century and a Georgian herbalist's manual. A third book, written in Japanese and detailing the history of a sorcerer from that land, accompanied a bottle of Elijah Craig, wrapped with a red ribbon. She'd hoped to get there on Bobby's birthday, but the developing weather had put her back a day. Bobby hadn't seemed to mind.

I should'a had it out with John, but the one time I tried – well, guess you heard about that? She had. Dean had told her about the last time he and Sam had stayed with Bobby when they'd still been kids. Bobby had looked at her over the rim of his glass and shaken his head. It was the wrong time, tha's all, he'd said. Bill, and then Ellen … John, he – he just couldn't handle anything else. I kicked meself for weeks after, never mind what he said to me, I could see he couldn't take it but I jes kept pushing. Dean needed someone to step in, you know, he'd gone on, eyes closing with his memories. Needed someone to tell him he wasn't expendable. Christ, Ellie, I made some mistakes. With Karen. With John. With Dean. I can't undo them, can't fix what I broke. He'd looked up at her, his eyes wide and filled with tears. I couldn't talk to him about Hell … I was too afraid. 'Fraid I'd make it worse, trying to push him. I thought he'd close up and disappear, like his dad did. I was so damned glad you did, girl. Someone had to. He needed to get it out.

Blinking impatiently, she dragged in a deeper breath against that memory,. Neither of them had talked about where Dean was at that time or what he was doing. Sometimes, she'd felt as if the two of them were mourning Dean's passing, not just trying to find a way to deal with him being alive but not around.

Two lanes over, a truck blared its airhorn and she started, fingers tightening on the wheel. Another few minutes and she could stop, she thought. A chance to stretch her legs, freshen up, grab some hot food, fresh coffee and then the last push up into the mountains.

Whitefish, Montana

"Where the hell is she?" Dean looked out the window at the gathering darkness. "The text said she'd be about five hours, and that was seven hours ago."

Sam looked up from his book. "Maybe she got a flat, or ran out of gas. Stop worrying, she's perfectly capable of dealing with whatever it is."

Neither of them mentioned the possibility that she'd been tracked, attacked and was lying, half-eaten somewhere between Bozeman and the cabin.

Dean remained by the window, the tumbler of whiskey forgotten on the counter beside him, hands shoved into his pockets. Just because Sam hadn't said it, and he hadn't said it, didn't mean it hadn't happened, just that way.

He was still standing there twenty minutes later when he saw the sweep of the headlights against the trees near the end of the drive. He moved to the door, picking up the shotgun, now loaded with a mixture of salt, borax and iron shot, and waited.

Sam looked up when he heard the engine, dropping his book on the arm of the chair. He walked to the window and picked up the pump action, standing to one side of the glass.

The truck's engine died and the door opened. The light spilling from the cabin windows lit a little of the yard in front, and both Sam and Dean saw it catch her hair in a blaze of copper as Ellie swung around with her bag over her shoulder. Dean put the shotgun down and picked up his switchblade, opening the door as she walked up the steps.

She looked at him, her gaze dropping to the knife in his hand, and she let her bag fall to the porch boards, rolling up the sleeve on her right arm and offering it to him. Meeting her eyes, he made a small incision along the muscle just below the elbow, glancing down as red blood spilled from it. He took the dressing from his pocket and ripped the sterilised packing open with his teeth, folding it gently over the cut and taping it down.

Both turned as Sam stepped through the doorway, a small bag of salt in one hand, a silver flask in the other. He tipped a little salt on Ellie's held-out palm, watched her lick it off, and offered her the flask. The holy water gurgled in the narrow neck as she drank a mouthful.

"Sorry." Dean's mouth twisted in a rueful grimace.

"Can't be too sure," she said, brushing off the apology. Her gaze moved to Sam. "How're you doing, Sam?"

"Been better, but we're still alive," he said, with a shrug. "You alright?"

"About the same."

"I'll, uh, let you two …" Sam turned around and walked back into the house.

Lifting a hand, she brushed her fingertips lightly over Dean's cheek and took a step closer. "You look like hell."

He ducked his head for a second, tilting it as he looked back at her from under his brows. "Yeah? You look beautiful."

"Been a rough one." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah." His half-smile vanished and he looked past her to the car. "Where were you?"

"Upstate New York," she told him, slipping her arms around him. "Got a storage unit there and shoved everything into it until I can find something better."

Dean calculated the distances and time and exhaled against her hair. "Dammit, Ellie, that's some haul."

"Hey," she said, tucking her cheek against his chest as his arms came around her. "You ask, you get."

"I didn't think –"

"Dean," she said, leaning back a little against his hold. "We're not counting cost here, okay? How are you?"

For a moment, he could feel it all, bulging at his battered and rapidly wearing down internal walls, tearing at him. He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on her, forcing it all back down again. He'd wanted her here, needed her to be here but he wasn't ready to let it out. Not yet.

"Still standing," he offered a moment later, turning them both slightly and taking a step toward the door.

Ellie glanced around the cabin's living area as they walked in, noting the wall at the rear, half-covered with possible leads and directions for the leviathans. Dick Roman's photograph was prominently displayed in a variety of poses that featured his shark-like grin and a couple of them had a few well-placed holes in them. She turned away and looked over the rest of the open room, eyes narrowing a little at the dust that covered the horizontal surfaces of the furniture and the dishes that were overtaking the small kitchen counter and table.

Keeping a clean environment wouldn't have been on either of their minds, she thought, turning back to look from Sam to Dean. "What happened?"

Dean made a frustrated gesture and turned away, walking out of the room. A moment later, the sound of running water and clanking of pipes came from somewhere in the back.

"We got a lead," Sam said, his expression uncomfortable as he dragged his attention back to her and gestured at the table between living area and kitchen. "In Jersey. Thought we were well back from the front line, but it turned out we weren't. Bobby was grabbed and when we tried to get him out, Roman shot him."

Under the matter-of-fact explanation there was a wealth of pain and regret and she wondered if either of them had talked to the other about it, or if both had locked away their emotions. Following Sam to the table, she asked, "What were you chasing? And why was Roman there?"

"Started out with something taking people in the Jersey woods," Sam explained, dropping into a chair and staring at the laptop sitting open on the table top. "It was something. The bigmouths, they're doing something to the food –"

"Additives?" Ellie asked. She pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table. "Roman Enterprises just went on a big buying spree, all kinds of food stuff from growing to processing, packaging and delivery."

Sam nodded. "Looked like they were trialling it through a chain restaurant. Biggersons." He ran his hand through his hair, the gesture sharp with frustration. "What we could see of it, it makes people dozy. Really dozy. But there's a small percentage that go the other way."

"What other way?"

"The thing we went there to find was – had been – human," Sam told her. "Bobby and me –" He looked down at the table for a moment. "Uh, Bobby and me, we did an autopsy on the body. Adrenal gland was huge, way bigger than it should've been, Bobby said."

She thought about that. "So, the desired effect is to reduce hormonal and metabolic activity, damp it all down, but in some of the population it has the opposite effect, revving it all up." She lifted a questioning brow at him. "Any idea of the percentage?"

"Nothing accurate," Sam said. "But we saw three, out of a town of about three thousand."

"Dean sampled it," he added, his face screwing up at the memory. "Took him about twelve hours to sleep off a couple of sandwiches, and he was stoned – didn't give a crap what was happening when he was under the influence."

"Soylent Green," Ellie said, the association coming to her immediately. Sam nodded.

"Yeah, that's what it looks like."

"That might work for western countries with plenty of wealth and no limits on consumption," she commented diffidently. "It's not going to have the same effect on the world's biggest populations."

Shrugging, Sam said, "Maybe they're not worried about a timeline. If they get a big enough base, introducing it to other countries isn't going to be a problem."

"Probably not," Ellie agreed, rubbing her fingertips over her brow tiredly. "So why was Roman there?"

"We're not sure, but I got the impression he was just keeping his finger on the pulse."

"Hands on," she remarked, half to herself. "That's interesting."

"You think he's the original?"

"Yeah, I do," she told him, glancing around as a door slammed. "He's copied Roman to get as much control as he can. I would think he'll aim higher as soon as the company stuff is settled and bedded down and running smoothly."

"Bobby gave us a set of numbers, before he died," Sam said, gesturing at the wall of the room. "Five digits, no idea what they're relating to."

"Five?" Ellie turned in the chair to look at them. "That's not helpful."

"No, we gave Frank fifteen thousand to get to work on them, but we haven't heard anything yet," he told her.

Ellie looked back at him. "Whatever Roman's doing, he's slotted himself into a place where he's going to be hard to get to –"

"He's not untouchable," Dean grated as he walked back into the room, crossing to the fridge and pulling out three beers. He waved a bottle at Ellie questioningly and she nodded. "He wants to get his hands dirty and we got close, but he – he was stronger than the others. Borax burned but it didn't knock him down, not for long enough."

"A stronger solution might change that," Ellie said, taking the beer as he passed it to her. "Or internally delivered, instead of externally."

A cold grin appeared on Dean's face. "That, I like."

"I've been looking for that spell," Ellie said. "The one you said the witch used in Indiana."

"Any luck?" Sam asked, taking his beer and opening it. "We couldn't find anything."

"Well, I found out where it came from, but it's not going to be any help," Ellie told him. "Needs a witch of a certain amount of power – it's not something anyone can do."

Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the hours of driving hit her. "There has to be a reason for them not increasing as well."

"What d'you mean?" Dean asked.

"Well," she said, opening her eyes and straightening up to look at him. "They're pretty much organised, they've infiltrated the power bases they need and they've gone proactive on securing their food supplies. So why aren't they multiplying?"

Dean frowned, turning to look at Sam. "They make copies, don't they?"

Sam's brow was furrowed. "She's right. At the moment, they've only been making copies of humans. They haven't been increasing their numbers."

"Do we know that?" Dean asked, his face screwing up at the thought. "We don't even know how many Cas was carrying around!"

Sam shook his head. "If they'd been reproducing, we'd know about it," he said.

"Well, maybe they can't," Dean argued.

"Or," Ellie suggested, her nose wrinkling up as she yawned. "Maybe they can't – yet."

She put the beer down and leaned back from the table, reaching for her pack. "Almost forgot," she mumbled, rummaging through the contents.

Pulling out a wrapped package, she tossed it onto the table between the brothers. "You must be nearly tapped out by now?"

Sam glanced at his brother and pulled the wrapping off. Six bound packs of bills spilled out and Dean's brows shot up as he realised they were hundreds.

"The hell's this?" he asked, looking at Ellie.

"Operating funds," she replied, covering another yawn with her hand. "My contribution to keeping you two on the road."

"Ellie, there's –" Sam fanned one of the packs, counting the cash. "– what? Thirty thousand here?"

"Well, Frank doesn't come cheap, does he?" she asked, getting to her feet and looking around. "I don't mean to be a party pooper, but I'd kill for a hot shower and a few hours of sleep?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, dragging his gaze from the pile of money on the table and getting up. "Come on."

"'Night, Sam," she said, following him up the stairs.

"'Night, Ellie, and – thanks," Sam called back, stacking the packs together.

Dean walked up the stairs and stopped when they reached the door of the room under the gable.

"There's a bathroom, through there," he said, looking down at her, seeing the purple shadows around her eyes under the brighter light. "You alright?"

"Just a bit punchy from the drive," Ellie said, peering past him into the room. "This was Rufus' place?"

He nodded. The upstairs consisted of only one bedroom, built under the roof, with a small bathroom off it. Downstairs had another bedroom and a more utilitarian bath, tucked in the back. When they'd moved in, Bobby'd taken the upstairs room, Sam the back room and he'd been sleeping on the couch. Since the old hunter had died, he hadn't been up here.

Following Ellie into the room, he looked around. There was a queen-sized bed in the centre, the door to the bath on the right. A couple of cupboards and chests of drawers were against the full-height walls, a long, low bookcase spanned the room where the roof sloped down. Like the first floor, the timbers had been lined and painted, a long while ago. It looked okay, he thought.

Ellie had dropped her backpack on the floor by the bed. She walked to the bathroom and pushed the door open, flicking on the light. Beyond her, he could see the gleam of white porcelain, the corner of a vanity and a glass shower screen.

She turned back to him. "I won't be long."

Nodding, he watched her turn back to the bathroom, stepping inside and closing the door. His head was still spinning from the wad of cash she'd dumped on them. He went back down the stairs.

"We got someplace to put that?" he asked his brother, gesturing at the money as he stopped by the table and reached for his beer.

"Yeah, Rufus has a safe in the basement," Sam said, glancing at him.

"You don't look that surprised." Dean looked at him accusingly.

Sam shrugged. "Ellie said something about it last time we saw her," he said, waving his hand apologetically. "Her folks were pretty loaded, apparently. Her aunt too. She lives off the inheritance, mostly investments she said."

"What?"

"You never asked her about it?" Sam's brow arched upward sceptically.

Dean scowled at the table. "No – uh, no. I thought she was like us, just scamming and scrapin' by."

He looked up at Sam's half-strangled snort.

"C'mon, Dean, she flies back and forth to Europe, stays at better places than we do – you didn't notice that?"

"I –" He stopped, looking away. He hadn't thought about it. He remembered the conversation about hotels in Manhattan and shook his head. "I don't know. I just didn't think about."

"Well, she's got plenty, so don't look a gift horse in the mouth." Sam tilted his head a little, looking up as the sound of running water from upstairs stopped.

"You ready to call it a night?"

Dean nodded, finishing the beer and lobbing it across the room into the trash can by the fridge.

"I get you can't talk to me," Sam said, not looking at him as he picked up the money and turned away. "But talk to her, okay?"

Watching Sam walking toward the basement door, Dean let out a soft exhale. It wasn't that he couldn't talk to his brother, he thought sourly. He didn't think he'd be able to talk much to Ellie either. His head was a mess and he was tired and the only thing he really wanted was to lie down next to her, absorb the warmth and comfort she gave him and sleep.

He turned for the stairs and walked up them slowly. Pushing open the bedroom door, he stopped as he saw her, sitting on the edge of the bed and towelling her hair. He closed the door, head ducking as he felt his tiredness evaporate at the sight, a flush of heat rising through him.

Ellie looked around, combing through her hair with her fingers. "Hey. I left you some hot."

Dean stood by the door, arousal momentarily overwhelmed by a disproportionate reaction to the simple statement. The tension he'd felt, knotting his stomach and the muscles of his shoulders and neck for the last few days, dissolved abruptly, swept aside or pushed out by an almost shocking feeling of peace and complete familiarity.

He walked across the room, waving a hand toward the bathroom. "Won't be long."

"Take your time."

The bathroom was steamy and warm, and he stripped fast, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor as he turned the water on.

How was it she made wherever they were feel like that, he wondered absently, grabbing the soap. Just those tiny little moments of knowing him? Details he'd hardly noticed with anyone else? He'd gotten into the habit of showering before Lisa in Cicero, when he'd found she never left enough hot water for him. It hadn't bothered him that much, just another little thing, really, like the eggs … and the toothpaste … and the laundry …

He turned around and let the flow pour over his neck and back, revelling in the heat, no tension he could feel in any part of him, but the sensation hypnotically soothing anyway.

The eleven months he'd spent in the little house in Indiana had been full of contradictions, he thought a few moments later, reluctantly turning off the water and stepping out of the glass-framed cubicle. There'd been a kind of a peace there; knowing what he was doing every day, routine and comfort and nothing out of the ordinary, but it wasn't the right kind of peace. It didn't let him be who he was and he'd spent a lot of time pretending to be someone he wasn't.

Grabbing a towel from the rail, he dried off as he walked to the vanity. He'd felt empty there, he admitted, lifting a hand and wiping the condensation from the mirror. Staring at the smeary reflection looking back at him, he remembered the way Lisa's eyes had cut away when he'd tried to tell her about parts of his life, remembered the feeling that she'd rather not know. The things he'd had to tell her, had wanted to tell someone, he'd thought she'd understood.

He'd been shocked by what she'd said to him about Sam when she'd called and the spell of Veritas had been on him. Shocked and, later on, disappointed. It'd turned out she'd listened to him spill his guts and had thought he was an idiot for sacrificing himself for his brother.

He wrapped the towel around his hips and pushed those memories aside. He never should've gone there, he knew. Should've ignored his promise to Sam. He picked up the razor and shaving cream, squirting the cream onto his palm and wiping it thinly over his cheeks and jaw and down his throat. He wasn't going to escape from his past, drawing the razor's edge across his skin, turning on the tap and rinsing it, tapping it against the edge of the sink. Or from who he was.

In the last few months, the way he'd felt about that had been swinging a hundred and eighty degrees, north to south, part of him wanting to get back the clarity he could still remember having about his life; another part wanting to get as far from hunting, and, he acknowledged heavily, the way he saw himself now, as he could.

He bent to wash the last of the cream from his face, fingertips automatically assessing the closeness of the shave, then straightened, turning off the water and reaching for the hand towel as he looked back at the mirror. The man who stared back was older, harder, he thought. The guy he'd been, before Hell, confident in what he did, what he could do, looking for simple things and easy fun, scared most of the time that he wasn't strong enough and hiding it under a rapid-fire mouth and a give-'em-hell-attitude, that guy'd gone completely.

Ellie'd been right. Bobby'd been right. His head wasn't in the game, and he'd get himself killed, or worse, someone he cared about, if he couldn't figure a way to get himself straight.

Tossing the towel on the side of the sink, Dean turned for the door, hitting the lights as he came out. The lamp on the nightstand on his side of the bed was lit, and he looked at Ellie, lying under the covers, the lamp's light brightening the long coppery spill of her hair over the pillows. He thought she was sleeping, but she opened her eyes as he walked over, propping herself on one elbow.

He dropped the towel by the bed and slid in beside her. "Thought you'd be out for the count by now."

"Not a chance," she told him, her eyes searching his as he settled himself. "How're you doing? Really?"

If anyone else'd asked that question, he knew he'd've clammed up tight, not wanting to think about it, much less talk. He reached behind to readjust the pillow behind his head, not sure if it was the way he felt about her that made a difference, or if it was the way she was that'd gotten down deep inside him and made him feel that way. "I'm, uh, numb, I guess."

"That doesn't sound good," Ellie commented, wriggling closer to him. "Why haven't you talked to Sam about it? He needs it as much as you do."

Looking away, Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I can't."

"Trust?"

Yeah, he thought. It wasn't back. Not even close. "Probably," he told her, rolling onto his side to look at her. "That's been – a-a-a roller coaster with Sam for a long time."

"Because of Ruby."

"Mostly, yeah," he agreed more readily. He'd thought he's made his peace about the choices his brother had made but the angel's more recent betrayal had brought a lot of it back up again. "And Cas. And the other stuff."

"Can you talk about Bobby?" she asked, her voice softening.

He leaned back, closing his eyes. Down deep, down where it was just him, all that was a mess, churning and circling and tangled and he had no idea of how to begin to talk about it. Thinking about it for days hadn't helped.

"Not yet," he said, when the silence had gone on too long. He opened his eyes and looked at her apologetically. "Sometime. But not now."

He reached out, running his fingers over her cheek, her jawline and down the long curve of her neck, heat building as he watched her eyes widen slightly, her lips part. "I know you're tired."

She shivered as his fingers slipped over her collarbone, lightly down the side of her breast, smiling a little at her reactions. "Not that tired," she told him, voice wry.

The brush of her mouth on his was unbearably soft and tentative, and a familiar tremble ran through him, igniting his nerves at the charge that made the lightest touch feel like the belt of a high voltage line. Wrapping an arm around her and pulling her against him, his response was immediate, needful with desire, goaded on by an overload of emotion. At this minute, he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the way it felt, that sweet, sweet ride, lose himself in her and wipe everything else out.

For a moment, the kiss, hungry and demanding on both sides did just that. The past disappeared along with the future and he felt entirely himself, immersed in sensation.

Seconds later that feeling disappeared completely. He felt it vanish, desire turning to ash, his arousal gone, leaving a yearning ache and a tightness in his throat and chest and the shocking prick behind his eyes. He lifted his head, his arms closing more tightly around her as he felt her surprise. Ducking his head, he pressed his cheek against her neck, feeling his heart rate drop, his breathing slow. Sensation fizzled out along his nerve endings, drowned by a welling emotion that seemed to be sucking out every bit of energy he had.

"Shi-s-s-sorry," he managed to get out, not able to explain what'd happened or why.

Ellie shifted her position under him, and he felt a gentle exhale against his temple. "You can't keep ignoring your feelings, Dean," she told him, her voice very low. "You can't pretend they're not there."

He shook his head, unable to get anything out past the obstruction in his throat. It wasn't that. He didn't think he was trying to ignore the grief that thrummed and pulsed right the way through him, not just for Bobby but everyone he'd lost, everyone he'd failed to keep safe over the years. But he couldn't let it go either.

"Th-that's not – it," he finally forced out, sucking in a breath and easing himself off her as her arms came around him. He realised she could feel the rigidity in his body, muscles contracted and hard as he fought against the emotions that were rolling through and over the top of him.

The last tears he'd shed had been for his brother, gone down into a hole with the devil, and, he'd thought at the time, never coming back. Since then, his feelings had battered and bludgeoned him, but he'd kept them inside, neither willing nor able to find the easiest release for them, afraid of the power he could sense in them. If he gave in and let them go, he wasn't sure there'd be anything left.