Chapter 7

11.45 p.m. August 5, 2012. Evanston, Wyoming

Sam groaned under his breath, rolling over again and glaring at the digital clock on the motel's nightstand. A minute had passed since the last time he'd looked.

The drive'd been easy, the small convoy making good time along the interstate until midday, then through the back roads. They'd stopped at Evanston at 7.15 p.m., the motel's owners bending over backward to accommodate them. That'd been a weird thing, getting first-class service. He'd wanted his brother there, just to see Dean's reaction.

The drive'd been a surprise—and a relief—in itself. Trish had been easy to talk to, the miles disappearing under the Jeep's tyres without the usual fatigue settling into his bones at the sight of the unending blacktop.

The conversation, picked up from earlier disclosures at the hospital, had flowed, from one subject to another mostly without pause; the occasional silences restful and without expectation. Remembering it, Sam thought the last time he'd been with someone for that long, just talking about everything and nothing had been the few days he and his brother and Ellie'd spent at Whitefish. There'd been no need to skirt around the details of his life. No need to hide anything, he realised, pushing his hair back off his forehead as he frowned. He had, though. Talked around some things.

Rolling onto his stomach, he grabbed the pillow and tucked it under his chin as he stared at the nondescript bedhead without seeing it.

"I didn't really get to know my mother," she'd said, and he'd felt the pang of that resonating through him.

"They catch the guy that did it?" he'd asked.

"Yeah, just a local man," she'd said. "Driving drunk every payday of his life, the cops knew about him but they'd given up booking him. The detective said they usually picked him up a block from the bar, but that night there'd been a hold up at the Gas'n'Sip and they forgot."

Fate, he wondered uneasily, or just bad luck? Was there a difference?

"Dad missed her, every day, I thought. He never found anyone else, but I'm not sure he really tried too hard."

Like his father, he'd thought. It hadn't just been the fear of what was after them that'd kept John Winchester running and hiding and moving constantly. He'd been shocked, hearing the anguish in his father's voice, when Meg'd killed Caleb and John's control had splintered, letting out things he was sure his father hadn't wanted them to hear from him. It hadn't really occurred to him earlier that his father had bottled up everything he'd felt for his wife, the night she'd been killed, and had never had the chance to let it out or let it go. Brief liaisons, John'd had in plenty. It hadn't been until they'd found out about Adam, that he'd considered how lonely his father must've been.

They'd been driving through a patch of empty land, dried up and a million shades of brown and yellow, and she'd straightened in her seat.

"Sam, pull over."

"What?" He'd looked around. "Why?"

"You wanted to see what I can do?" she said, waving a hand at the scenery. "This isn't a bad spot."

He'd pulled over, the Jeep leaving a mile high dust cloud as its tyres hit the dirt. "Where?"

"There." She'd pointed to a small copse of trees, a hundred or so yards off the road.

Watching her assemble and load the M40, her movements deft and economical, he'd realised he wasn't sure if he wanted to her to prove her skill or not. He'd pulled out his binoculars, scanning the area for a target. The sign, maybe a quarter mile from them, advised trespassers they'd be shot. It was clearly visible through the high-spec glasses.

"You see that sign?"

She nodded, ducking her head to the scope as she'd stretched out on the dirt. "Range, five hundred and twenty yards," she said. "Target?"

"Three rounds," he said, glancing down at her. "Into the word 'shot'."

The gun's crack was diffused by the wide open space, and he stared through the glasses, seeing the bullet hit the 'o' of 'shot'. She cleared the spent round and reloaded and the second bullet went into the 's'.

She hadn't been kidding, he thought, rolling onto his back. The third round had gone into the 't' and he knew he couldn't have done any better.

"I pass?" she'd asked, grinning up at him when she'd cleared the third casing.

"Guess so," he'd told her. He wasn't happy about it, exactly. But he wasn't unhappy about it either, he realised. The odds were high enough as it was. They'd be reduced with another good shooter. And he would be able to put her somewhere safe. Safer, he amended with an internal grimace. Out of the range of most things. "But you stay with Dwight."

Disassembling the gun, she'd agreed. He'd taken the rifle and repacked it into the back of the Jeep, watching her brush the pale, fine dust off her clothes from the corner of his eye.

Back on the road, he'd swallowed against a rush of feeling, wondering if he was being selfish, if his decisions about the woman sitting next to him were being driven by emotions he hadn't felt—or wanted—for a long time. His track record with romantic attachments wasn't great.

Tricia hadn't said much either, her gaze turned to the scenery flying past them. He couldn't blame her; even if they succeeded in Sunrise, the life she'd built for herself would be gone. Not forever, maybe, but for the foreseeable future.

The knock on the door was soft, and for a moment he didn't move, not sure he'd heard it. It came again, more decisively, and he threw the covers back and swung his legs off the bed, hand reaching for the Taurus on the nightstand automatically.

He opened the door. Tricia stood outside, her coat pulled tight around her.

"Uh, hey. What's wrong?" He peered past her.

"Nothing," she said. "I couldn't sleep, and judging by the banging on the walls in here, I thought you might be having the same problem. Can I come in?"

"Uh … yeah. Sure." He turned as she walked past him, closing the door and abruptly aware he was standing there in a threadbare tee shirt and boxers. "Sorry—I –"

"It's okay. It wasn't what you were doing that was keeping me awake." She glanced back at him and drew a bottle of whiskey from under the coat, setting it on the room's small table. "Nightcap?"

His forehead wrinkled up in surprise. "Uh –"

"Glasses? Or do you just want to swig from the bottle?" She unscrewed the cap.

He shook his head. "Uh … yeah, I'll get some … glasses."

Walking to the kitchenette, he ran a hand through his hair. Get a grip, he told himself, grabbing the two water glasses from the tray on the counter. C'mon, Sammy, you're actin' like some Victorian virgin, his brother's voice jeered, somewhere, not too distantly, at the back of his mind.

He put the glasses on the table and hesitated as Tricia shrugged out of the big coat and hung it on the back of a chair. The close-fitting, long-sleeved outfit she was wearing was covered in small butterflies. And made of some sort of soft cotton. And was, he realised belatedly, her pyjamas.

Dude! Pyjama party!

He didn't need Dean's commentary right now. His brow furrowed when Tricia picked up the bottle and poured a couple of inches into each glass.

"You want to get drunk?" He lifted his glass, eyeing the level.

"No." She smiled and clinked her glass gently against his. "I'm aiming to turn off the part of my brain that keeps thinking about half-angels and gateways to Hell and demons going to war."

"Uh huh." He swallowed a mouthful. It wasn't a bad idea. There were a few things he should stop thinking about, he realised. He wasn't sure the whiskey would help with that.

"How did you guys meet Ellie?"

It wasn't, he thought, gulping down another mouthful, a topic that far away from angels and demons.

"We sort of her met her in '95," he said, frowning at the memory. After Spokane, that hunt had come back more clearly. He'd remembered Dean not letting him see what was left of the bodies. "We were hunting the thing that killed her family. An elemental."

"Oh, so, there's a long history?" Tricia looked over the rim of her glass at him.

He shook his head. "No. We never found out what happened to her until we met her again in 2007."

"How was that?"

"Dean went back to the hospital, after we'd killed the witch," he said. His brother'd told him about that—his memories were hazier. Their father'd been injured by the witch and there'd been a few tense weeks waiting for him to heal up. "She had an aunt who took her back East."

"And in 2007?"

"We were looking for demons," he said, staring at his glass. The little town, the bar and grill, the wrongness of the quarry and the way the alley'd looked, when he'd been drawing the trap; the memories came back with a rush, strangely vivid. "Dean ran into them on his own and they—"

—they used him as bait, the thought finished in his head. He couldn't say it out loud. Glancing at her, he recognised his reluctance to say anything about that time, or what'd happened after, Dean's deal or going to Hell or what he'd done while his brother'd been gone.

"Ellie was working the same omens and she helped get him free," he said, with an internal shrug. "After that, we ran her into a few times, and, um, worked with her a few times."

"So, they've been together for—um—five years now?"

The laugh tickled his throat but he didn't let it out. The length of time it'd taken Dean to acknowledge what he felt wasn't that funny. "Uh, no. They've been together a couple of years. It took them a long time before they admitted what was going on."

Tricia's eyes widened at him. "You're kidding?"

"Nope," Sam said. He lifted his glass. "Dean—he's—uh—got some—uh—trust issues."

Which was putting it mildly, and wasn't due to having his heart broken before he'd met Ellie, he thought. He tipped his glass up, wondering what, if anything, the redhead had told Tricia. Didn't women talk about this stuff all the time?

"Well, Ellie has some trust issues as well," Tricia said candidly. "At least, from what I've noticed."

"Have you known her long?"

"A few years," she said. "She and her partner—her first partner—used to hunt a bit with Dad."

"Did you meet him?" Sam asked. The few people he'd known who had met Michael Furente had seemed ambivalent about the man.

"Yeah. A few times." She nodded and sipped her whiskey. "He was one of those unforgettable men, you know?"

He wondered what she meant. "In what way?"

"Well, he was drop-dead gorgeous, for starters," Tricia said, glancing back at him. "Had some gypsy blood, Ellie told me later. Black hair, dark brown eyes—" She smiled as faint colour filled her cheeks. "I had the worst kind of crush on him, for years. But he was a—uh, a serious guy—I mean, really serious—about the life, the job. Ellie was the only one who could get him to smile or joke around."

"I, uh, I heard he was pretty good—?"

"He was," she agreed. "Extremely good. Dad said Michael saved his life, more than once. He had a sixth sense or something. He just knew when something was wrong."

"Did, uh, Ellie tell you much about how he died?"

She shook her head. "She never mentioned that. Dad said it wasn't something that everyone needed to know." She lifted a brow at him. "Do you know?"

He dropped his gaze to his glass. "No, not really. Dean—I think she told Dean but he's never said anything about it."

Something about a demon and a trade, he recalled vaguely. Too close to what his father and brother had both done to be a comfortable topic of conversation.

"Well, I was surprised to hear he'd died on the job," Tricia said. "We stopped seeing Ellie much after that. I thought she might've stopped hunting, but Dad said she was away for a while."

Sam wondered how much Dean knew about the man who'd been Ellie's first partner and mentor.

"Anyway, I just thought she and Dean had been together for a long time. They seem—I don't know—really good together—comfortable, you know?" Trish said, jarring him back to the present.

Sam nodded. "They are good together," he said with a shrug. "Hands down, she's the best thing that ever happened to my brother, and I think—I know—she feels the same way about him, but it—uh—took them a long time to get a sense of how that worked."

"Do you think it works?" Trish asked. "Hunting together?"

"I don't know," Sam said, shaking his head. "It does for them, but I—I don't—I'm not sure it would for me. Or anyone else."

"Ellie said your grandfather and grandmother hunted together?"

For a second, he saw Samuel's face again, saw the older man's dark eyes softening with memory.

"Dee and me, we hunted for five years before Mary came along," Samuel had told him, his gaze moving around the enclosed compound. "M'brother, Nate, 'n his family, m'cousins too. You gotta history here, Sam. Nothin' to be ashamed of, either."

Banishing the moment, he shrugged. "They did. My great-uncle and cousins too."

"So, why the doubts?"

"They died, for one thing," he said, making a face as he looked down at the table. "And some of them—like Christian—their wives weren't hunters—they lived together in this fortified commune –" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know—it's just not the way I see it."

"But it's not all etched in stone, is it?" Tricia persisted. "There aren't any rules about what you do and how you live?"

"There are dangers," he pointed out. "I was in training from my seventh birthday. My brother started earlier."

She picked up her glass, taking a sip of the contents. Sam wondered—again—what she was thinking.

"Normal isn't a possibility now," he added, not even sure what normality was now. He'd told Dean he'd end up like their father, dragging Lisa and Ben around, keeping them on lockdown. It'd been all he could see for them, soul or no soul.

"Normal is a delusional concept, Sam." Tricia gave him a sardonic grin. "Mass marketing and prime-time tv made it up."

"I'll give you that," he acknowledged. "But you know what I mean."

"Once the curtain's been drawn back, you can never unknow what you know?" she asked, her voice light.

"Yeah," he said, dropping his gaze. "And you can't get free of it."

"Why would you want to?"

Tricia's hand slid across the table, her fingers curling around his. "Pretending things don't exist doesn't make them not exist."

Her touch, even that light, warmed him, in more ways than one. In the hospital, they'd talked, getting-to-know-you conversations, while he'd been working hard to get his muscles doing what he wanted them to again. He'd told her some things. Told her about Jess, and Madison. About his family. Some of that she'd known already, from her father, from other hunters. The relief he'd felt, being able to say it out loud, to someone who'd been listening, and who could understand, had been immense. At the time, he'd fallen over the realisation that while his brother would rather be torn limb from limb than admit to it, it was a part, at least, of what'd made Dean fall in love for the first time. That revelation had been followed closely by another. He needed the same thing.

"Do you want to raise a family in this life?" he asked, trying to simultaneously ignore and mask the faint edge in his tone he was conscious of, an edge that lurked just behind his curiosity. "I mean, worried about monsters and being hunted, instead of just worrying about bills and the mortgage and school fees?"

She gave the question the thought it deserved, he noticed, her gaze cutting away.

"I don't think there's that much difference, between the dangers of ordinary life and the dangers for a hunter's family," she said, a moment later, her eyes lifting to meet his. "Dad hunted, but he was at home more than he was away. He did most of his research at home. I didn't even realise we were different from other families until I was halfway through grade school."

She had a point, Sam thought. The only reason he and Dean been dragged all over the country was the fear driving their father for answers, for a way to stop what Azazel had planned, a way to protect his sons.

Without warning, in his mind's eye, the big living area of the main house in his grandfather's compound appeared, the detail sharp and clear. Every evening, after dinner, they'd gathered there, to kick back and relax, talk about the next day's job, shoot some pool or play darts, get onto the networked computers and or look through the printer bins of the possible cases the bots had found, or read from the extensive library of lore his grandfather had meticulously collected and stored. His cousins, so many times removed he'd lost track of exactly how they were related, all comfortable with each other—Christian and his wife, Jeanie; Mark; Gwen; Nathan Junior and his wife, Aurora, and more often than not, their two young sons, Jessie and Cord—and his grandfather, almost always with a book in one huge hand, talking, watching, reading. Then and now, he wondered how Samuel had handled the first few years of being a family, with a wife and baby to protect as well as hunting. He wished he'd thought to ask the man, when he'd had the chance.

Another memory, holding that same preternatural clarity, the unwanted legacy of being soulless and as emotionless as a machine, came back.

"You could do worse than Katie, Sam," Mark'd commented, both of them watching the slender blonde woman on the other side of the room. In her mid-twenties, graduated from college with a degree in Computer Science, and a determination to help her family do what they did however she could. She'd been teaching a reluctant Samuel how to get the internet to work for them, he remembered.

At the time, he couldn't've been less interested. Katie was attractive and intelligent, had a good sense of humour but none of those things had mattered to him. Only the hunt. Only doing what he thought he did best.

"Penny for 'em," Tricia said, pulling him back.

"Not worth a penny," he replied, more or less automatically as he lifted his glass and swallowed a burning mouthful. He wished those too-sharp memories would fade with time, but they didn't.

Setting his glass down, he drew in a breath and said, "My brother isn't finding it easy, right now. He wants to protect the people he loves, keep them safe, and that doesn't always work out."

"Ellie said she'd be doing research for a while," Tricia said. "Something about a database for hunters?"

Nodding, Sam said, "Um, yeah, we think that'll help."

"I think things can work out if both people are really honest about what they want."

His gaze sharpened involuntarily on her. "It should," he agreed warily.

"What do you want, Sam?"

His mouth dried out, his pulse thundering in his ears suddenly. He didn't know. It'd been a long, long time since he'd thought about what he wanted. The last thing he'd truly wanted had been to find a way to stop his brother from going to Hell. After, he'd told himself he wanted to kill Lilith, avenge Dean's death, but that'd been mixed up with the insane flushes of power that Ruby's blood had sent sizzling through him. He'd wanted to put the devil back in his Cage, but even that hadn't been that clear, all tangled with guilt for letting demonkind manipulate him into letting the devil out. He'd wanted peace, when all he could see was Lucifer and the flames flickering against the ice.

"I don't know," he said, the words coming out almost by themselves. "I haven't thought about that—for a while."

She lifted a brow at him, topping up his glass from the bottle. "Do you want to step off the carousel and see what else is out there?"

Pulling in a deep breath, Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think that's possible."

"Anything's possible, if you're willing to sacrifice everything for it."

"That sounds like a quote," he prevaricated, shooting a sideways glance at her.

Smiling, she nodded. "J. M. Barrie."

His brow wrinkled up.

"He wrote Peter Pan," Tricia clarified.

Sacrifice everything, Sam thought. Giving up now, walking away, that would be sacrificing more than his family.

"I can't do that," he said. "Not walk away and let everyone go."

She nodded. "I can't either."

Ducking his head, he realised how neatly she'd set that trap. "Fair enough."

"But I'd like to get you know you, Sam," she said, tipping a little more whiskey into her glass and lifting it. "And while I wouldn't want to hunt like Ellie does, I wouldn't be averse to putting what I can do to work."

"What d'you mean?" he asked, his gaze rising to meet hers. "Stick around, maybe permanently?"

"I've been thinking about it." She tilted her head to the side, seeming to study the colours of the liquid in the glass she held. "A lot depends on you."

Sam's breath caught in his throat as a flood of images, bright and fast and unexpected, filled his mind.

"Me?" His voice rose to a squeak and he coughed self-consciously behind a hand, lifting his glass and tipping the contents into his mouth.

"I'm not really that attracted to Garth."

The few remaining drops of the whiskey followed a whistling gulp of air into his lungs, burning furiously, and Sam leaned forward, glass clunking to the table top as he wheezed and coughed to get it back out.

When his eyes stopped watering, he looked across at her, wiping his cheeks and running his hand over his brow and through his hair.

Tricia was smiling at him. "Sorry."

"You don't look that sorry," he said, shaking his head.

"You turned a beautiful shade of puce," she acknowledged. "Thought I was going to have to give you mouth-to-mouth."

Heat flushed up his neck and he glanced away. "Uh …"

"Sam?" Tricia asked, leaning forward. "Are you a romantic?"

He didn't know how to answer that. The whole conversation had careened out of control and the whiskey in his stomach and airways was making him too hot to be able to think clearly.

A hand curled around his, and his gaze snapped back to her involuntarily.

"I don't want to spend tonight alone."

Say something, a voice yammered at the back of his mind. He had memories, a lot of them, of flirting and seducing effortlessly, of getting what he'd needed really smoothly, back when he'd been flying soulless and hadn't really given a damn. His mouth wouldn't work. His tongue was thick and dry and he swallowed, trying to work up some saliva.

"Last night on earth?" he croaked, his brother's line coming to the rescue.

Tricia shook her head. "No. Not really."

Her eyes met his, and he realised they were really several shades of blue, a mosaic of blues.

"A promise of tomorrows," she said, one fine, dark brow lifting.

He nodded and got to his feet. That was better. He didn't think he could do melancholy right now.

August 6, 2012. Kettleman City, California

Ellie stretched out and opened her eyes. The room was still dim. She turned her head, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Six a.m.

She was very aware of her skin. The silky touch of warm fabric under her, the cooler air on her shoulders, the heat and textures of the man lying beside her, all of it reported in great detail along every inch of her body.

Turning over, she propped herself on one elbow and studied the smooth expanse of Dean's back. There was a short, red line where she'd cut out the stitches a week ago, nothing else to show where the glass had gone in. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingertip along it lightly.

Despite being healed twice by the angel, he still had a lot of scars, she thought, her fingertip finding a rough patch of skin lower, over his ribs. Not as many as she had, but more than a few. The worst ones were on the inside, where they couldn't be readily seen. They showed up, every now and again in his eyes, in the way he reacted to some things, didn't react at all to others.

She let her fingers trail down the indentation of his spine, firmly enough not to tickle. He rolled back, his arm dropping heavily against her. Her fingers slid softly over the big muscles of his shoulder, slowing as they reached the puckered and twisting scar that ran over his chest. A close encounter with a lamia, he'd said. Not that one should've even been in this country.

Her pulse accelerated as she looked at him. The crawling flux of heat made her smile, a little derisively, at herself. Too many things about him could cause that response; touch, taste, smell, sight, the sound of his voice in the darkness, raw with need.

Dean rolled onto his back, and she looked over the scars on his chest, his stomach, her hand following her gaze absently. He huffed a slow exhale, eyelids lifting slightly. Did she want to wake him?

Yes. She definitely did.

He came to awareness on the tail end of a long, soft moan, still resonating in his throat, as another wave of pleasure rolled over and through him. His hips lifted as the muscles of his back and legs contracted, and he could feel the silken curtain of her hair spread over his stomach, the strands sliding over his skin, adding to and inflaming the cacophony of sensation.

It was the sight of her that tipped him over, as much as the feelings that were building, a dam filled and overflowing. The sight of her mouth on him, and the flick of her tongue, and that was it—he was gone.

His heart was slowing down when he realised she hadn't moved, wasn't stopping.

"Whoa. Hey." He shifted up onto his elbows.

She lifted her head, smiling. "You're young."

"Not that young. I'm in, but it's gonna take me some time." He leaned forward, kissing her. "Uh, what's going on?"

She made a face. "Hormones, blood flow, increased sensitivity."

The smile that spread slowly over his face was partly astonishment, partly satisfaction. "You want me."

"Yes." She laughed, her expression wry. "All the time."

"All you had to do was say."

He pushed her down and covered her mouth with his, his hand caressing her neck, slipping lower to brush over her breast, thumb rubbing over her nipple as she pushed against him, the sharp inhale of her breath sending a shiver through him.

Breaking the kiss, he sucked in a deep breath at the sight of her face; her expression, almost stormy with desire, lit him up instantly. He'd never quite figured out why her arousal had that effect on him, and he'd stopped questioning it a long time ago. It just was, like the double-beat his heart gave when he saw her smile. And the flood of tenderness that filled him when he watched her sleep. He slid his hand down her body, over the bump and between her legs, his body throbbing as he watched her face, his fingers slipping through moist, silky folds, dipping into her. She arched up, driving her hips against him and her moan vibrated through him.

"Ellie," he breathed, his heart accelerating again.

She opened her eyes and looked into his, shaking her head slightly. "Not slow, not tender, Dean. Hard and fast and deep."

That had to be the quickest comeback ever, he thought incoherently as he rolled over her, her legs wrapping around him, and he pushed into her hot, welcoming wetness … hard and fast and deep.

He lay on his back, warm, every muscle heavy and loose, his arms wrapped around her. Her cheek was in the hollow of his shoulder, her hair spilling over his shoulder and chest. There probably were things that felt better, somewhere in the world, he thought. He couldn't imagine any of them.

It was hard to remember that in a few hours they'd be going through a gate into Hell. The whole idea seemed ridiculous, here and now. They were together. They were going to have a family. They should've been looking for a home, Ellie picking out a dress, or whatever it was women did when they were planning a wedding.

He frowned as he realised neither of them had even mentioned the subject again. The frown deepened as he thought on that a bit longer. She hadn't really talked about what would happen later at all.

"Ellie?"

"Mmm?"

"I—uh—never really asked you about this," he said, his hand moving from her hip, fingers spreading out to cup the shallow curve of her stomach. "If you, uh, you know, wanted it."

He felt her cheek lift as she smiled. "It's a bit late to worry about that, isn't it?"

"Yeah." It was, but he still needed to know. "Are you—okay with it? I mean … are you happy?"

She rolled to the side, shifting onto her elbow and lifting her head to look at him. "What do you think?"

"Nuh-uh. Tell me," he said, face screwing up at the tactic. "The truth. How you feel about it."

"The truth is … I'm very happy, Dean."

In the grey light creeping around the edge of the curtains, he could see her face, her eyes looking into his. Her gaze dropped for a moment, a small crease appearing between her brows. When she looked back at him it'd gone and a slight smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

"Lucifer is in the power of the arch-demons, and they're probably working out how to take the planet by force before Heaven can respond," she said, the tone of her voice completely pragmatic. "The Others are already in the country, and our friends have gone to fight them; we have to raise the most powerful archangel from the ninth level of Hell …"

Moving her hand up to his chest, she leaned closer. "But, you know, every morning I wake up next to you, and every night, your arms are around me when I go to sleep, and —"

She hesitated, glancing away and back to him, the one-sided smile deepening the dimple beside her cheek. "—inside of me, our child is growing, yours and mine."

"It sounds sappy, and maybe that's the hormones," she added with a shrug. "But I don't honestly think I've ever been this happy."

The words reverberated through him, trapping his breath in his throat and drying out his mouth. It was sappy, he thought, but it wasn't the hormones.

"Okay, your turn," Ellie said, inching closer to him. "In full detail."

He let his breath out in a long exhale, shaking his head. "Hey, c'mon, what the hell can I ever say now that's going to top that?"

A breathy laugh tickled his shoulder. "Guess you'll have to show me, then?"

"That—" He sucked in a deep breath, rolling onto his side. "—that I can do."

I-80 E, Wyoming

Sam adjusted the visor, cutting the harsh glare from the unending concrete ribbon of the interstate, and glanced across at Tricia. She was sleeping against the passenger door, her long legs crossed in the well. They hadn't gotten much sleep last night. He was still a little surprised at what'd happened. Surprised at himself. He'd gotten by on so little for so long now it felt as if he'd forgotten what it could be like.

Yeah well, put it away until this part's over, he reminded himself firmly. Don't need distractions right now.

Far ahead on the road, he could see Twist's truck, steady in the same lane. Behind him, Garth was driving Marcus' four wheel drive, with the Watcher riding shotgun. A fun ride, he thought, recalling Penemue's cool and ancient regard with a smile. The fallen angel had grilled him pretty thoroughly on the plan, on the possibilities, probabilities and likely outcomes, not missing a single thing. It was fair enough, he'd thought at the time. Penemue was risking his life—a mortal life—and those of his brothers and their children, relying on his judgement. The least he could do was show he was well prepared. When they'd hit Nevada, the angel, Danyael, had left to find the Others, to offer the hook, Penemue'd remarked. It was hard to tell if the Watcher thought it was going to work or not.

Eyes on the road and body engaged in driving, his mind was free to consider the powers of these fallen angels and their children.

In Oregon, he'd read what little was around on them, both the biblical references and the unsanctioned ancient texts, pulled from Ellie's library, from Bobby's and what little remained of Bill's, and from the online archives of a dozen theological universities around the world. The irin we-qadishin, they'd been called, the Aramaic words referring to both watchers and holy ones together. Fallen deliberately, they didn't have the power of Heaven behind them, but that didn't mean they weren't more powerful than an ordinary man, although he wasn't sure of how exactly.

Lucifer had fallen when Michael had defeated him and his army; the eldest archangel had been judge, jury and executioner when he'd thrown his younger brother into the Cage. Anna had fallen, had torn out her Grace and found a human woman to be reborn in. The Watcher had listened to that story, brows rising. Apparently it was a big deal to be able to invade the biological process at precisely the right moment, infusing the cells with a celestial frequency. Angels didn't have souls, the Watcher'd said. They were energy, like souls, but they lacked the Divine Spark of human souls.

Further discussions with the Watcher had made it clear that what Anna had done wasn't the way it'd worked with the Others, or with the Watchers. Baraquiel had said they'd fallen with God's blessing, their Grace intact, and had been charged with guiding humanity to maturity. The fallen angel had tried to explain how they'd formed their bodies. That'd gotten mixed up with a lot of the more confusing references in the texts about cutting off wings. He wasn't sure of that either, popular fiction had made a lot of that in the last few years.

Penemue had told him that they could hear Heaven. Could hear the angels talking, could sometimes see what they saw. He wondered if Cas was keeping good security up there, making sure that he used a cone-of-silence or something angelic along those lines. If he wasn't, the Others would know what was coming for them.

His thoughts veered to his brother, and what Dean and Ellie were attempting to do. He wondered if he should start mourning now. It seemed an impossible task. His memories of the Pit were violent and fragmented; he couldn't remember the details of what it had looked like, only how it had felt. And those he kept locked down as much as he could. He had one clear memory of his half-brother in there. Michael had withdrawn for a moment and he remembered Adam's face, the expression in his eyes as he'd looked around, face slack with shock. That was it. He didn't think that Adam would be sane if they got him out.

Tricia stirred and opened her eyes. She looked around as she straightened up, then back to Sam.

"Sorry about that." She yawned. "Where are we?"

"About eighty miles from Sunrise. We should have enough time to get set up before dark." An unexpected and unwarranted feeling of doubt kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

"Will Danyael be able to let us know when they're coming?"

"Penemue said he would." Sam glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the road behind them. "We'll have to trust him on that."

She slid across the seat, and laid a hand on his thigh. He jumped a little, glancing at her.

"Don't take it so seriously, Sam. It was just sex, not like we're engaged or anything." She grinned at him and shifted back.

"Yeah, uh, of course."

I-5 California

Los Angeles, Dean thought, his gaze flicking sourly at the traffic crawling to either side of them.

"Take Ventura Freeway." Ellie craned her neck to peer ahead. "Should be coming up soon."

He nodded and changed lanes, slowing a little to accommodate the speed around him. He saw the curving turn and took it. "How far are we?"

"Not far, a few miles. We take the Foothill Freeway in a few minutes, heading north."

"How many people live here?"

"Greater metro region? Or just Pasadena?" she asked.

"All of it," he said, waving a hand around.

"About seventeen million, give or take," she told him. "Maybe a hundred and forty thousand here, I think."

"Rats in a sewer," he muttered, a scowl drawing his brows together as another of the ubiquitous four-wheel-drive wagons cut in ahead of him. He hadn't seen one that looked like it'd ever been off-road, not so much as a gravel chip in the immaculate, mirror-smooth paint finishes.

Ellie smiled, looking around at the tract housing and the concrete, the patches of green amidst the buildings. "I thought you were quite fond of suburbia?"

He curled his lip. "Not like this."

They took the Foothill north, getting off before the wash and turning left onto Oak Drive. The gravelled access road was only a hundred yards further on. They'd left most of their gear back in Oregon, bringing only what they could carry. If all went according to plan, their exit would be a long way from here and they wouldn't be coming back for the truck.

The wide scrubby wash was deserted in the late afternoon sunshine. The concrete and gravel storm drain held an odd, hollow silence, as if even the birds didn't come here. Not at all creepy, Dean thought, making a face as he pulled off the road, cut the engine and looked around.

Opening the passenger door, Ellie slid out, and turned back to grab her pack, one hand diving in to rummage around for the EMF. Dean left the keys in the ignition and pushed his door open, going to the rear to grab the canvas gear bag.

He followed Ellie as she crossed the stream and began to walk along the sandy bank. Her head was bowed over the EMF in her hand, and he shifted his gaze to scan along the buildings and houses that were perched high above the arroyo. His father had walked here, with Bill Harvelle, he thought suddenly. Along this bank, to a Gate that couldn't be closed, but didn't stand open all the time.

Ahead, Ellie had stopped, the EMF's volume turned down to avoid attracting unnecessary attention. Over her shoulder, he could see the needle in the gauge flattened and unmoving against the red line.

"What?" he asked, watching her turn her head from side to side, the small crease marring her forehead.

"Can you feel it?" she asked him, her voice low.

A shiver ran down his spine. He could feel it; a sense of wrongness here, close by. It was hotter here than it had been a few feet away, and still, as if the air movement had been blocked by something.

Turning his head to look back at her, he caught the movement in the corner of his eye; a flicker of light, like a sheer curtain caught by a draught. He snapped his gaze back to where he thought he'd seen the movement, but there was nothing there. Just the faint shimmer of heat rising from the pale sand and gravel.

"It's here." Ellie looked down at the EMF. "Not quite open."

They felt a warm wind on their faces at the same time, carrying the smell of brimstone on it, faint cries barely discernible against the noise of the traffic on the freeway.

Ellie grabbed Dean's hand, accelerating abruptly and dragging him behind her. His eyes widened when she seemed to vanish in front of him, her hand still tightly gripped around his, then he was through and falling, Ellie disappearing under him, and the smell of sulphur was much stronger, the heat drying his skin and eyes and lungs, and the light a deep, flickering carnelian, pulsing slowly.

Sunrise, Wyoming

Sam turned onto the dirt road and slowed the car right down. Ahead he could see the dust raised by Twist's truck, and he hung back, not sure the suspension would cope with the corrugations and holes if he went through them too fast.

They bounced over the railway tracks, and turned right, following the cloud of dust deeper into Colt's pentagram. The church was on the north-west point, the rails enclosing it laid along the flattish ground just at the foot of the rising slopes. He glanced into the mirror, seeing a cloud of dust rising behind him. Beyond that, as the road twisted and turned, he could see another one further back. Everyone present and accounted for, he thought.

The Colt was locked in the trunk. Bobby had shown him how to make more bullets for it, as Ruby had taught Bobby. He was still a little nervous about the damned thing here, so close to the Gate it opened, but they could use it, and Dean and Ellie wouldn't be able to, not and keep their presence in Hell a secret.

He followed Twist around a wide patch of mesquite, and down the mouth of the canyon. He could see the church roof now, the dull gleam of the sunlight on the tin and lead flashing. Relayed via Frank, Penemue had told them that Danyel's hook had been taken.

The Others were on their way.

Fourth level of Hell.

Dean heard Ellie's grunt the second before he hit the ground and the same noise exploded involuntarily from him. He rolled over onto his knees and saw her, getting to her feet, rubbing her arm.

"Quite a long drop." She winced as she twisted her arm to look at the elbow. It was missing a couple of layers of skin and oozing blood, but the joint was working properly. She picked up her bag and pulled it over her shoulder, looking around.

"You alright?" He looked at her arm. She nodded and turned, looking down the rocky path that led between the high walls of volcanic rock, laughing softly.

"It was worth it."

"You know where we are?" He raised a sceptical brow as he took in the reddish-tinged rock tunnel.

"Not more than a couple of hundred yards from the abyss."

Abruptly, he remembered the staircase he and Sam had come down, the spread of darkness when they stepped into a cavern. Or what they'd thought might've been a cavern. It'd been too big and too dark to see anything. He remembered the silence of it. Not a silence devoid of life but a waiting silence, like something was hiding there, in the blackness.

Shouldering his duffel, he followed her as she walked confidently down the tunnel. There was a faint movement of air, carrying the smells of brimstone and scorched metal. Their boots clocked softly against the rock and Ellie turned at the end of the tunnel, ducking her head to enter a low doorway.

Dean bent double to get under the lintel of rock, his gaze flicking around. They were in an enclosed stair of stone; twisting, unevenly spaced steps gouged from the rock leading upward to his right, and downward to his left.

Same stairs, he thought, straightening in the higher tunnel. The stench was stronger here, funnelled up on the heat rising from the chasm that lay somewhere lower.

Adoian Baltim.

The Enochian name for the split between the upper and lower levels of Hell. As he followed Ellie down the stairs, watching his footing and grinding his teeth against the abrupt changes in height, the dry text of a book Katherine had given him a long time ago filled his mind.

A chasm between the planes. The split is replicated, as far as studies can show, across all three of the dimensions. At the base, miles into the planet's crust—metaphysical or physical was a hotly contested academic question by the religious scholars who'd written the book—a river of molten stone and metal, into which those who'd betrayed their oaths were thrown into, day after day—or what counted for days, in Hell's screwed-up time, he thought absently—their agony eternal. The Styx and the Acheron had been born during the same fiery eruptions that'd seen the end of most of the dinosaurs, the argument ran, and had remained as life had evolved, been the first hell into which the earliest sinners had be sentenced as punishment for their crimes. Back then, though, sin had been simple and without religious dogma attached.

And it was guarded by the daeva; demons so ancient only their essences existed, clothed in constructs created by the terror in the minds of the souls they tortured.

She'd been down here, alone. The thought, like an infected barb in his flesh, set off a shiver. Alone in this place, looking for him. Looking for a way to get him out.

He couldn't let go of it, didn't matter how much he tried. Too many questions and a nagging sense that he was still missing something, something important. It wouldn't, he thought, make a difference to how he felt or what was between them, but it still felt like there was something he needed to know.

"What made you think you could get me back, when I was here?" he asked, his voice low as they rounded another curving bend in the descending tunnel.

Ellie slowed on the steps below and glanced back over her shoulder. "There were references to souls being pulled out of Hell, returned to their lives."

By angels, he thought, remembering Bobby's books. The old hunter hadn't found anything about people doing the same thing. She'd told him about travelling, looking for the answers in old libraries, monasteries—hell, he thought derisively, he'd seen her collection, some of it anyway.

"At the time," she continued, "I was more worried about how to find you here. I didn't have the right information to pull you back."

She wouldn't've been able to see him, a soul torturing others. He wouldn't've been able to see her either, he realised, pausing mid-stride.

"How were you gonna find me?"

"Yure gave me a spell," she said, her voice muffled as she kept moving. "Most souls hang onto what they looked like in life. I thought it'd work."

Some reservation in her voice sharpened his attention. "It didn't?"

"I think it did," she said, slowing again. "But I couldn't find you in these levels, and I needed more information on the abyss. That, among other things, was what I went looking for at St Catherine's."

The monastery in Egypt, he recalled. Where she'd met the Watcher.

"How long did it take you to get through here?" Months, he wondered? Even in Hell's time, it couldn't've been quick.

"A while."

"How'd you even find your way around?" The second level was a maze; he remembered reading a little about it in one of Katherine's books. A rat's maze of dead ends and doubled-back tunnels.

"One of my contacts, on the West Coast. John. He's a—an exorcist, kind of—and he told me about the upper levels."

"Just gave you the lowdown on how to get around Hell?"

He caught the brief flash of her grin below. "Well, he's got his contacts too."

She turned left, abandoning the downward path for a level tunnel. He stopped at the junction and looked down. He would have kept going down, he knew. Obviously, that wasn't the right way. He sighed and turned left, extending his stride a little to catch up with her.

The tunnel was getting narrower and darker, and was no longer straight, twisting and turning, limiting their line of vision to a few yards. Dean swore under his breath as he ran into an outcropping, unable to see it in the deepening gloom.

"You okay?" Her voice was low, and he peered ahead, barely able to make her out.

"Gettin' dark in here."

He heard her exhale, the soft scuffle of her feet on the rock.

"Gonna get worse. You got your lighter?"

"Gotta flashlight?"

"No," she said, her face a pale blur as he got closer and she looked up at him. "It's too alien here. It'll draw attention."

She dropped to her knees in front of him, rummaging through her pack. A moment later, she pulled something out of it, holding her hand up for the lighter.

The small flame brightened the space immediately around her, making him blink. She dipped the lighter's flame to something on the ground, and it caught. He recognised the small oil lamp, with its wick of cotton.

Handing him back the lighter, she got to her feet, swinging the bag back over her shoulder and holding the lamp out. Didn't do much for them, Dean thought, glancing around. The light reached a few feet, enough to see the pitted rock under their feet, and the walls around them but not much else.

Dean looked at her profile, outlined in the faint yellow glow. In his mind's eye, he saw her face again, lit up by the light behind him, in the boy's apartment. The look in her eyes, an expression he hadn't been able to decipher then, but that he knew now.

The implications of that memory, things he'd never considered, never even thought about, sent a shockwave through him. In the soft glow of the lamplight, he could see the tiny lines of tension around her mouth, the small crease between her brows as she walked cautiously forward into the darkness. As much as he wanted to ask her now, to confirm what he knew, he couldn't. It was the wrong time and definitely the wrong place to have this discussion. He filed it away unwillingly, and followed her through the tunnel in silence.

Sunrise, Wyoming

Garth sat on the boulder, the binoculars held to his eyes, and watched the road. When the first puff of dust appeared, he felt his heart thump hard against his ribs. He waited for the second and was rewarded with the sight of it a few minutes later. Putting the binoculars back in their case, he slid off the rock, half-falling, half-scrambling down the hillside and walking fast toward the church.

"They're here."

Sam turned to look at him, nodding. "Let's do it."

Tricia and Dwight climbed to the high windows at the front of the church, both carrying heavy-calibre, long-range rifles. The range was around two hundred yards, they were responsible for taking out the vehicles and picking off whoever they could. Trent and Twist picked up the remaining long-range sniper rifles and headed to opposite sides of the canyon, climbing up through the rocks to get settled in among the Watchers and nephilim, waiting hidden in the scrub and brush.

The cross-fire would take out a few more, even the odds, Sam thought as he watched them climbing. He had the Colt and an M-40; he'd start spraying once the vehicles were down, and hopefully keep enough of them on the ground that the Watchers could do their butcher's work.

Sam slid the Colt's long barrel through his belt, where it was clearly obvious. The machine gun he slung over his shoulder, the gun lying flat against his shoulder blade and flank. He took a deep breath as the clouds of dust drew nearer, able to see the vehicles now, several cars and pickups, followed by a half dozen larger trucks. He had a feeling the Others would be armed as heavily as they were, and he tapped the Kevlar vest that lay under his shirt for reassurance. Frank had acquired several of them from an old friend in law enforcement. Penemue hadn't been able to give him much information on how much experience the Others were likely to have with modern field weapons; he hoped they'd go for the body shots.

The leading cars slowed as they took in the closed nature of the canyon, noses dipping with the hard application of brakes.

Watching from the church doorway, Sam could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. Come on in, no one here but us hunters, he thought uneasily. Don't get cold feet now.

For a long moment, the cars idled forward, but someone must have felt confident enough that the natural formation wasn't a trap. He released his held breath as the vehicles increased their speed, moving deeper into the throat of the canyon.

The leading SUV pulled over behind Twist's truck, the driver turning off the engine and waiting for the dust to settle before getting out.

Definitely Fallen, Sam thought, watching him approach. He was tall; taller by several inches, he estimated. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and long legs, dust-covered mottled fatigues not hiding the almost feline fluidity of his gait as he walked toward the church doors.

Sam straightened unconsciously when the fallen angel stopped in front of him. The golden-grey eyes narrowed against the glare of the light on the church's bleached exterior boards as they met his. Pale skin, unmarked by either the years of time or any scar or blemish, and a perfectly symmetrical face of unearthly beauty, was framed by long, auburn hair, lit to a fiery red by the bright morning sunshine.

"You have a key, I believe." The voice was smooth and deep, a cultured baritone.

Sam nodded, his gaze lifting over the man's head to watch as the rest of the vehicles crawled into the area in front of the church and came to a stop, the dust they'd raised swirling above the ground and blowing away.

"I do." Sam met the fallen's eyes again. "And a long list of the things we want for it."

"I am Gadriel," the once-angel said. "Where is the Gate that this key opens?"

Sam gestured toward the south east. "You drove past it. It's at the centre of the railways. That's why we're meeting here."

Gadriel's gaze dipped to the gun pushed through Sam's belt. "You know, you have no need for weapons with us. We are not here to fight."

Sam smiled, looking down at the Colt and drawing it from his belt slowly. "This isn't a weapon, Gadriel. It's the key."

The angel looked up at him, surprise animating his features. "Then let us complete the transaction." He took a step forward.

Sam looked at him, seeing something other than friendliness glinting at the back of the vivid eyes. "Yeah. Let's."

He raised his hand, running it through his hair.

The resulting volley of gunshots was shocking in the quiet valley, but was quickly drowned out by the first explosion, one of the big trucks taking a hit to the fuel tank and igniting. The rear end lifted high into the air with the force and flames spread over the timber and canvas frame, immolating its passengers.

Gadriel spun around, falling to the ground and pulling an automatic from beneath his coat as the gunfire began. He looked up at Sam, the 9mm barrel swinging around. His eyes widened as Sam cocked the Colt, centring the barrel's notched sight over the angel's heart.

"Sorry, it's also a weapon," he said, pulling the trigger.

The bullet hit Gadriel in the heart and lightning discharged deep with the body, crackling and spreading through the torso and limbs, filling the unseeing eyes with iridescent blue fire.

In the open ground between the ridges, bullets flew; a deadly crossfire between Trent and Twist, keeping the Others pinned tightly to their vehicles. One by one, Tricia or Dwight's aim found their targets; the engines and gas tanks, immobilising or igniting the trucks and cars and pickups, sending billowing clouds of black smoke into the still air.

Fourth Level of Hell

The tunnel narrowed, the rough-cut steps winding and steep. Phosphorescent creatures clung to the damp walls, invertebrates and funghi, mostly, flinching away from the gentle light of the lamp. Here and there, Dean thought he caught sight of larger creatures, or the movement of larger creatures, but he couldn't get a good look at them, glimpsing only a leg or a tail as they scurried away from their footsteps. None of them looked normal, but then he was in Hell and what was normal down here anyway?

The passage opened, the walls drawing back. Ahead of him, Ellie stopped, the small flame of the oil lamp flickering wildly as draughts of warm wind rose and swirled around them. The light enclosed them, its strength dwarfed by the vast space Dean could sense but not see surrounding them. The moving air, thick with the reek of brimstone and carrying the taste of burned metal, cooled the sweat on his body. He looked around, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

"This it?" he whispered to the woman beside him.

"Yeah." Ellie's answer was equally low.

Very distantly, he could hear things in the dark.

Sunrise, Wyoming.

The area in front of the church was a wasteland, burned out vehicles and still burning ones spread across it, bodies littering the ground. Garth and Twist had ceased fire at Sam's signal and the Watchers came down the hillside, their blades winking and flashing in the dying sunlight, to finish the job.

It was one thing to have someone tell you that an angel or their offspring could not be killed until the heart was taken, Garth realised, his nose wrinkling up in distaste. It was another to realise the truth of it for yourself, as the bodies that were perforated with bullets began to move, rising from the ground, burned or shot or crushed, and looking around for their enemies. He leapt back as a man he'd been about to step over reached for him, the skin of his body crackling and black, his eyes vivid in the burned face.

"Break right, Garth."

He dove to the side at Sam's command. The Colt fired once, into the heart, and the man fell again.

"Take out the hearts before you step over them," Sam suggested.

"Yeah."

Garth pulled the machete from his belt and moved a lot more cautiously as he continued his reconnaissance of the area.

Scanning the area, Sam thought that perhaps half of the Others had been killed outright in the attack; chests burned out completely or pulverised in the hail of bullets. That cut the odds against them, but still left a big number for them to deal with.

He slid the Colt back through his belt and hefted the machete, walking toward the nearest and pushing his sensibilities and doubts aside as he swung the blade down and cut through the ribcage, plunging his hand into the hole to rip the heart free of the chest. The body arched up as he removed the heart, the eyes flying open, staring into his, then the light died out of them and the flesh was still. Sam dropped the heart onto the ground and threw up convulsively. He stood for a moment, spitting and wiping his mouth then his jaw tightened as he moved onto the next one.

Trent and Twist came down the hillside, their long hunting knives in their hands. Trent didn't see the angel who rose up behind him, its arm snaking around his neck, inexorable pressure against the spine. Tricia's rifle cracked from the church window and the angel released its hold, falling to the ground with half the skull missing where the big calibre bullet had exited. Sam nodded at the church and turned away as Trent dropped to his knees and stabbed through the ribs, cutting out the heart and tossing it aside.

In his peripheral vision, he caught movement. More and more of the remaining angels and nephilim were rising. The hunt became an eerily silent game of cat and mouse as the Watchers and hunters moved through the wreckage, and the angels fought back.

Sam ducked under the wild swing of one, his machete slicing upwards as he stepped close. The point hit bone and flexed sickening in his hand, twisting off the ribs. He was too close, and the angel gripped his arm, the fingers disappearing into the flesh and breaking the bone. The scream that tore out of Sam's throat echoed around the hills, and the angel didn't hear the footsteps behind him, as a long black blade plunged through its back, and a darkly tanned hand followed, tearing the heart from its chest.

Penemue threw the heart aside as the angel collapsed, leaning forward to prise the dead fingers out of Sam's arm. The Watcher touched the wound, bringing the two ends of the bone into line, and a flash of light and heat pulsed under Sam's skin, fusing the ends into a whole.

It wasn't like Castiel's healing, with the power of Heaven's souls behind it. The holes from the fingers were still visible in his muscle, but the break had been healed and the pain had lessened. Clambering to his feet, Sam nodded his thanks to the Watcher. The two of them continued together, as the others paired up instinctively as well, and the number of corpses mounted.