A very long overdue chapter, and you may have thought I was hit by a bus but in fact I haven't, I'm just an awful person :( Uni has been incredibly busy and I've been sidetracked with my part time job and getting into a ton of new TV shows. Anyone watching Hannibal? BBC Sherlock? Massively into Sons of Anarchy now as well, its taken over. I also caught up on series six onwards of Supernatural, and I have to say I hate the new seasons- it just isn't the same as the old episodes! I miss the old Sam and Dean, I'm gutted- another reason this story has been neglected; I sort of lost my love for supernatural, at least the new stuff. I'll try my best to update a bit more; this story hasn't got much more to go so it will get finished. I'm on summer hols now, so I can fit this in between art and dissertation writing. Hope you enjoy and I send you all very sincere virtual hugs for being so patient. xxxx

Awareness came trickling back in fits and starts. For a time, her hearing filtered back in, and she picked up the sound of the television and the sound of someone's feet close by her bed. Someone laid a cold hand against her forehead and an achingly familiar voice spoke her name, but she couldn't open her eyes. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

She lay as still as she could, trying to control the roiling in her stomach that signalled she was sure to throw up soon. She held it back for as long as she could, and then had no choice but to lean over the side of the bed, bile rushing hot up her throat. She emptied the scant contents of her stomach, surprised to find that someone had placed a bucket by the side of her bed. She retched for a few long minutes, spitting out nothing but sour bile, trying to control the clamour of pain in her head.

"I had a feeling you were going to do that," came a calm voice from the corner of the room.

She bolted upright, half expecting to see Lucifer stood nonchalantly in the corner of the room. Then she remembered what had happened before she passed out.

Cristian was slouched in one of the ratty armchairs before the television, his face cast into sharp profile by the light from the TV. He had a half smile playing about his lips, and he was paler than she'd ever seen him. Hailing from the Californian coast, he had always been tanned golden from long days spent on the beach, and to see his skin so papery white was shocking. He was still the best thing she had ever laid her eyes on. It hurt to look at him, so she forced her eyes away with a great force of will. She stood up slowly and headed for the bathroom, trying to wrap her head around this sudden, bizarre turn of events.

She turned on the squeaking tap and splashed her face with icy cold water, swallowing great mouthfuls to wash to taste of bile out of her mouth. She glanced at the mirror hanging over the sink, and saw Cristian standing behind her, a look of great concern on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, he was still standing there. Exactly as she remembered him; tall, broad shouldered and well built, dark hair perfectly tousled, his face exactly the same one that had caught and held her attention when she first met him, seemingly a lifetime ago. She took a deep breath, her grip white knuckled on the edge of the sink.

Her sliver knife was lying on the sink next to her. She had to be sure. She had to check. She grabbed it and in a heartbeat, drew it across his forearm. His skin didn't hiss or blister, he barely even recoiled. He glanced down at his arm, where a thin line of blood was slowly leaking down his arm, a look of faint surprise on his face.

"I had to check," she whispered weakly, "If you're a revenant."

She leaned heavily against the counter, exhausted. The knife dropped from her hand and thudded to the stained carpet.

"Darlin..." he started. He reached out tentatively with one hand and laid it carefully on her shoulder. The weight was so familiar it made her heart clench.

"What mess have you gotten yourself into babe?"

She took a deep breath as if to answer, then burst into tears.

His arms came around her instantly. His embrace was cold, but comforting and painfully familiar. She turned her face into his solid chest and sobbed until her throat hurt and her lungs burned. He patted her hair gently, and simply waited quietly until her tears ran dry.

When her sobs turned to sniffs, he released her and pushed her back until she sat on the end of the bed. He curled two cold fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. He caught a stray tear on the end of his finger, watched the drop of moisture hang there for a second before letting it fall.

"You wanna tell me what happened to make you look like a crack addict?"

She laughed, the first laugh for what felt like years, "I don't look that bad."

His tone was serious again, gentle, "But you aren't right."

"This coming from the guy who's been dead for six years!"

"I think I'm doing pretty well," he said, a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

She reached out and laid her hand against his chest, covered in her favourite blue shirt, the one that brought out his eyes. There was no heartbeat, no warmth; where once he had been a beacon of life and vitality, he felt cold and strangely empty. But he was still like she remembered, still the first love she had ever had. His smile was the same, his dimples, that stubborn curl of dark hair behind his left ear that refused to lie right, the quiet strength in his shoulders. She felt fresh tears burn at the corners of her eyes.

"Cris..." she began, swallowing around the lump wedged painfully in her throat, "I...we...we burned you. I carried your ashes to that tree by that lake in California where we...you know. I scattered them there, like you always said you wanted. There was nothing of you left, how are you...how are you...here?"

He looked down at his lap, the worn denim of his jeans, and sighed deeply.

"I don't know. I just woke up under that tree, just looking up at the branches. About four days ago. I didn't know where I was, who I was, what I was doing there. It was just a...blank. I looked up, and the moon was massive, you know? Like someone had pulled it closer to the earth, and I remember thinking, Miriana would love that, and I'd ruin the romantic moment with a joke about werewolves and it all came crashing back. You, me, the Winchesters, hunting...my death. Somehow, I just knew where you were, so I wandered into this town and stole a couple of twenties out of this guys wallet and took about eight buses to get here. I didn't question why or how I was back, or what was happening to me. I just knew I needed to see you."

She felt the words like a physical blow to the chest. She curled her hands in the collar of his plaid shirt, pulling him closer.

"I tried Cris, I tried to stop him, but I couldn't and he just kept...flaying the skin off your bones and I couldn't move, I couldn't get to you, I was pinned and I couldn't...I couldn't..." she fought for words. She felt short of breath, panicked. Her knuckles were white, her fingers aching from gripping his shirt so tightly.

"I'm so sorry!" she wailed, "I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't good enough, and I let you die, it was all my fault!"

He prised her hands loose from his shirt and cupped her face in his hands, "None of it was your fault. It was just the wrong place, wrong time. Never blame yourself. I'd die a thousand deaths to keep you safe, to keep you whole."

He leaned forwards and crushed his lips against hers, hard enough to knock the breath from her body. She threw one arm around his neck and curled her free hand in his dark hair. She parted her lips to the sweep of his tongue across her lower lip, and he moaned, a pained sound deep in his throat. Her heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she felt it was sure to burst clean out.

He pulled away and ran a shaking hand through her hair, pushing the strands away from her face.

"Christ, I love you so fucking much it hurts," he choked out, "I'd forgotten."

She pressed her forehead to his, trying to catch her breath, "I love you. I love you, I love you."

They sat like that for a few long minutes, breathing in each others exhales. She was shaking all over, and he was too. There was so much still unsaid, so many questions that needed answering. But she didn't want to know. She just wanted time alone with him, to convince herself the last six years hadn't happened, and there were still young and desperately in love.

She pulled away from him, "I...want to freshen up a bit...I'm not really on top of my personal hygiene right now."

He wrinkled his nose, "And I thought I was the dead one; it's you that smells like a dead skunk."

She thumped his arm playfully and rose from the bed. She felt his eyes keenly on her back as she walked to the grubby bathroom and shut the door. She looked at her fevered reflection in the mirror and barely recognised herself. No real surprise there; she hadn't recognised herself for a good few months.

She stripped her old clothes off turned on the creaking, clanking shower and stood shivering under the sputtering spray, despite the searing heat of the water. She picked up her shampoo and scrubbed it frantically through her greasy hair, washing away the dirt. She heard the sound of the TV flicking through channels through the thin walls. She sat down heavily on the cool tiles and rested her head against the wall. It all felt unreal, like she was watching someone else's life through a fogged mirror.

When the shower began to run cool, she stood on shaky legs and turned off the water, reaching for a long bath towel and dried herself off. She pulled a tattered Black Sabbath shirt over her head and roughly dried her hair. She felt cleaner, refreshed, even if her mind was no clearer.

She stepped out of the bathroom to see Cristian watching the TV, his forearms resting on his thighs. The colours flickered across his pale face and glinted in his eyes, making him seem unearthly and ethereal, something he had never been. He had always been strong and firm. His arm looked almost healed, just a thin pink line left.

He looked up at her entry and jumped to his feet. He walked towards her, almost shyly.

"Miriana," he said gently, "we need to talk-"

She reached up and put her hand over his mouth, "Not now. I don't want to talk right now, I don't."

"But-" he began, but she cut him off again.

"Please. I just want to forget, just for a bit."

She stood on her tip toes to kiss him, but he was unyielding. The TV continued to murmur in the background.

She pulled back just a little and slid her arms around his shoulders, curling her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"I don't think we should," he said quietly.

She looked straight in his deep eyes, sensing that his resolve was faltering, "Please, Cristian."

He surrendered with a groan, crushing her to him. He walked them backwards until they reached the rumpled bed, while she undid the buttons of his shirt deftly and pulled it from his shoulders. He reached to the hem of her T-shirt, fingers grazing against her upper thighs and the scars painted there. He pulled it up and over her head, and she shivered when the cool air kissed her skin, still a little damp from the shower. She reached down between them and pulled the belt through his jeans, unzipping them and pushing them down his slim hips. He curled his arms underneath her thighs and lifted her easily, wrapping her legs around his waist. The world was spinning, and she pulled her mouth away to suck air into her lungs. Finding the hollow of her throat, he sucked at it until she felt a bruise flood her skin. He turned them, laid her on the bed like she was crafted from glass and knelt over her, her thighs against his knees.

"Hell, Miriana," he ground out, "Jesus you're so beautiful."

A sweet ache had settled in between her legs and she reached out to him needily, pulling his mouth back to hers. His lips trailed lower, over her throat and down to the silvery scar between her breasts and lower still, down to her scarred hip and thigh. Her head fell back against the pillow when his fingers hooked through the lace of her underwear and pulled it away. She felt heavy and languid with desire, something she hadn't truly felt for years.

She shed the last of his clothes and lifted her legs around his waist, meeting his eyes. He looked shaken, vulnerable. She brushed a hand against his cheek, a reassurance, and he surged forwards; the rush of their union made them both cry out, their voices suddenly loud. They fell back together as easy as breathing. The world fell away, somehow muted, like someone had turned the volume down. The press of his body, the mattress underneath her, his mouth; they all felt hyper real, and everything else felt somehow fake, an illusion. In those few hours, the last six years had never happened, and she was back to the person she had been. She didn't care that it was probably wrong on so many levels or that Dean would have enough ammunition to wind her up for years, or that her long dead boyfriend had returned with no explanation. She didn't care at all. She had enough of doing the right thing, of being moral.

Afterwards, she laid with her head against his chest, doing her best to ignore the lack of heartbeat and focusing instead on the rush of breath in and out of his body. His hand moved steadily through her slightly damp hair, pulling the tangles loose. His chest bore the marks of her nails, her collarbone the shape of his teeth. She'd told him everything; all that had happened with the Winchesters, Dean's death, the angels, the impending apocalypse, her Aunt's death. He took it all in with surprising calmness. She had the distinct impression that he knew something he wasn't telling, but she didn't want to ask. She didn't want to ruin the moment.

Her phone rang suddenly, cutting through the hush that had been lulling her to sleep.

"Don't answer it," he murmured against her hair.

"Mmmm," she mumbled. She reached out and slapped her phone off. Within seconds it began ringing again, and she sat up, reaching across him to check the screen.

He slapped her arm playfully, "Leave it."

It was Dean. She got the impression he was going to keep ringing until she answered or blew her brains out. She might as well get rid of him now.

"I'll just get rid of him," she said, pulling the sheet around her and sliding from the bed, avoiding his arms as he tried to hook her back in.

She slid into the bathroom and shut the door, sliding her thumb across the screen to answer the call.

"What?" she said shortly. Cristian's sudden reappearance may have healed some of the shards of her wounded soul, but she had not forgotten her anger.

"Finally, you answer your Goddamn phone!" Dean's voice sounded rough and sleep deprived, "Where the hell have you been?"

"You actually care?" she asked bitterly.

His voice softened momentarily, "Of course I do."

"I needed time away," she said with a heavy sigh, "Time to...deal with stuff."

"I know, I get it. Look Miriana..."

"It doesn't matter Dean," she said quietly, "I understand."

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, broken by a rush of static as Dean heaved something like a relieved sigh.

"What are you ringing me for Dean?"

"There's some serious crap going down at Bobby's," Dean said, the haggard edge returning to his voice, "Revenants everywhere, people popping up from the grave. Well, like revenants, I'm not so sure they are. They're definitely dead though. But they don't look dead, just a bit peaky. Bobby's wife is back."

She swallowed hard. She could hear Crisitian flipping through channels again. She felt sick. She remembered Bobby's wife, a kindly, pretty blond woman forever foisting pies on her whenever she visited, clucking over her health like a mother hen. It had almost destroyed Bobby when she died.

"I reckon its the apocalypse screwing everything's mojo. Check the Good Book, there's tons of crap in there about the dead rising. It's a sign, Miriana, things are going bad."

She found her voice, somehow, small in the back of her throat, "And how is Bobby's wife?"

"Alright, but...it ain't gonna last Miriana. Nothing good ever comes of this, I'm telling you. It's gonna go South soon, I'm telling you. Seen any activity where you are?"

She glanced through the crack in the door. She could see the light playing across Cristian's body, sprawled across the sheets. Her fingers traced the love bites strewn across her collarbone. Did he know why he had been risen from the dead? Who had crafted him back into, well, un-death? Was that what he was hiding?

"Nothing," she managed to get out, her voice strangled, "Nothing at all."

"Good. I think things are getting rough here, Miriana. I might have to put Karen down before she hurts Bobby, but he won't let me anywhere near her. It's killing him, Miriana. What should I do?"

She clutched the sheet tighter around her. She suddenly felt very naked, in more ways than one. Poor Bobby.

"I don't know, Dean."

"If you can get here soon, Miriana...I'd...I'd really appreciate it. We might need your help."

She shivered, "I'll try."

"Look Miriana, I know I haven't been there for you recently, but...I...oh crap, I'm not good at this. I just need to see you."

"I know, I understand, but I just...I need a few more days. I'll try Dean, I will."

He sighed again. He sounded as exhausted as she suddenly felt.

"Alright. Look just...take care of yourself."

He hung up the phone, leaving her listening to the drone of static. She put the phone on the countertop and put her head in her hands. The bottom of her stomach seemed to have dropped clean out of her body. She should have known better, she should have not been caught up in him and kicked him out instantly. What had she been thinking? Nothing ever happened without a reason, and for her, it was never a good reason. She couldn't tell Dean or Sam, or Castiel. They'd kill Cristian instantly, and they'd throw her in a strait jacket for even considering letting him in her bed. Maybe she was starting to lose her mind; it was bound to have happened at some point. She heard him humming along to a commercial on the TV, and she was transported back again to six years ago, lying in his bed and listening to him imitate news readers and actors, cursing at the football and picking holes in all her favourite films simply to wind her up, his eyes crinkled with laughter, and she sank to the floor, pulling the sheet around her shivering body.