In the dark of the dying dusk, the three figures bunched on the side of the road are smudged into the shadows cast by the headlights of the abandoned motorcycle that crouches silently nearby. At their backs, the ocean continues its rhythmic roar, a low back drop of brainless noise, comforting in its consistency.

(it feels strange, hugging a ghost from her past. Like it isn't quite tangible, as if tendrils of Eli Navarro will slide through her fingertips like smoke if she doesn't clutch him hard enough)

(perhaps she is the ghost in this situation and if she can hear Lilly laughing at her, she'll deny it)

The thought drifts through her scattered mind and causes a strangled laugh to bubble free; it's a lot, bordering on too much, being back, finally holding one of the key pieces of her past firmly in her arms again. Veronica always believed she reached her breaking point in that basement, but in her mind's eye, a wall is growing steadily closer. The laugh sounds suspiciously like a sob.

At her back, Veronica can sense Dean shift restlessly in the shadows, the instincts they seem to share itching and snarling to do something in the face of this emotional cluster; she knows the clever hunter has already begun stitching together what's happening here, just as she knows he'll hide the slash of hurt he's likely to feel. She also knows he wants to reach for her, gather her close just as he did after her nightmare, because human contact settles her. And she also knows he won't and that is something incredible, not interfering.

(when she begins thinking about seeing others again, Wallace, Logan, … her father, her mind goes numb, ice sliding through her fingers, fear and shame tasting like ash in her mouth)

(coming back to Neptune may just break her to pieces)

But Veronica can't focus on Dean and his restless energy, that same energy that hums in her bones; all she can focus on his Weevil shaking in her arms, thinks he might just shake apart.

(maybe it's her that's shaking)

"V," he murmurs again, a broken consonant of noise. There's a world of emotion in that one syllable that hovers between them, years of memories and lost time. It tugs at the tangle of everything that she was and is and has become tucked deep in her chest.

"Yeah," is all she can say, a whisper doing its best to answer so much that remains unspoken.

When they finally separate, Eli pulling away with a strange swirl of cold and leather with the loss of contact. They both ignore the tears gleaming in the other's eyes.

"You back?" he asks roughly, stare deep and searching for something inside her.

Guilt floods Veronica's throat, clamping down like a vice, thick and unforgiving. The hope in the biker's eyes is a new form of torture, grating down her spine.

(because she doesn't know, Gods how could she, given it took a case and Dean, her wonderful, dented Dean who matches her missing bits like a puzzle piece, to get her back to Neptune in one piece in the first place, a place she was never planning on setting foot in again, not with her darkness and they things she knows)

All she can do is lift a shoulder, something vile twisting in her stomach at how Weevil's features crumple, just a little.

"Well, it's good to see you again V," he finally says at length, swiping a sleeve of his jacket across his eyes to clear them. "I figured you'd never set foot back here the way you blew out like hell was at your heels." There's a question buried there, tucked away between mild accusation and genuine happiness, but Veronica is suddenly laughing, an odd jerking snort.

(hell, funny, because hell is pain and suffering and fire, demons and psychological and physical torture, breaking of minds and spirits and wait that does sound vaguely like Neptune doesn't it)

Dean snickers behind her, a bit of the tension in his shoulders bleeding away.

(because he knows hell, intimately familiar with it, been there and got the postcard, Technicolor memories trapped in synapses that will never be washed clean and Dean is incapable of comparing forty years of torment to a tiny sea-side town, he's never had a home that played games with his mind and soul, can't quite grasp the concept)

Weevil starts a little when Dean laughs, attention skittering to the hunter lurking behind Veronica's shoulder, forgotten in the moment. The biker's shoulders go up, a hair trigger reaction to the unknown born through his years of fighting to remain at the top of the PCH bikers; a daunting task that's taken little slices of his heart over the years.

"And who's this white-boy?" Eli asks, hard and cocky and bold, as if there aren't tears still hiding in his lashes. The bravado settles Veronica; it's refreshing and a welcome escape from the thoughts of ghosts and pasts.

Choking back the last of the snickers until they get trapped in her chest, rattling around like an angry Wendigo, Veronica glances over her shoulder at Dean.

"He's…" she starts –

(how to put into words what Dean is, her friend, her companion, her pack, the person who's help stitch her broken self-back together the same way she has to him)

- "Dean," she finishes lamely, smiling slightly when he rolls his eyes at her. The way his lips twitch into a tiny smirk and the cock of his head tells her enough and she responds in kind, with a gentle dip of her head and flash of teeth. The gap between them settles for the moment, caught on studier ground.

When Eli grunts in acknowledgement, she rolls her eyes at the boys, and continues, "Dean, this is Eli."

"How do you do?" Dean offers, pulling forth a faint drawl that curls around each word in politeness.

Eli offers only a quick bob of the head, which Dean returns.

Dean's cell phone chirps to life in that moment, breaking the spell that surrounds the trio. Frowning as Dean pulls the phone from his pocket and answers, Veronica returns her attention to Weevil. The low rumble of Dean's voice is too low to pick out any distinct words, try as she might to catch a snippet.

"It's good to see you too Eli," she murmurs gently.

"How long are you in town for V? If you aren't back?" Weevil asks, gaze flicking back and forth between her and the hunter on the phone behind her.

"I don't know yet, depends on some things," she answers, deliberately vague.

Weevil narrows his eyes at her before mumbling a muffled "mmhmm."

Dean snaps his phone shut and moves closer, leaning over Veronica's shoulder to murmur, "that was Bobby; he's set up a meeting for you with Sam for tomorrow."

(a bitterness tucked under his words, hard to catch but easy to taste if you know where to look, lurking like something gone bad)

Veronica only nods shortly, letting herself sway back slightly to press her shoulder against his chest, her wordless way of passing support. She feels him lean into the touch briefly, before stepping back, warmth vanishing in the now-night breeze.

"We should probably be getting back," she says quietly.

"You should let the sheriff know you're alive," is all Eli tells her, accusation threading his tone, before he gets back on his motorcycle, pausing with his helmet in his hands. "He's not the same man anymore. And I'd like to see my bike again before you go, check up on the old girl and all." It's an olive branch that she snatches by nodding.

(astonishingly painful shards of cold steel guilt and remorse at the mention of the Sheriff, smells of home and the office lifting from the cold tar under her feet)

And then he's gone, roaring into the night.

For a long moment, Dean and Veronica stand there in silence, each lost in thought.

(sam, sam, sam, sam, sam)

(dad, dad, dad, dad, dad)

Finally, Veronica breaks the silence.

(walls carefully reconstructed, the first slice is always the worst, the leader of the PCH bikers leaving a bloodless gash in his parting words)

"Let's get back."

Dean nods, reaching out to cup a rough-worn hand around her cheek. Veronica presses into the touch, eyes closing and hand reaching out to rest her palm against the warmth of his chest. Under her fingertips, his heartbeat thrums steadily, warm and real and alive. They stand like that for a long moment, silent but for their breathing.

(communicating)

(they come to an agreement; it's time to strip everything away, fill in all the details of Sam and Neptune and the chaos that seems to cling to them like a poltergeist. Let the last front fall, because if they don't, neither them are apt to make it out of this town)

(love)

The run back into Neptune is at a slower pace, Veronica no longer trying to outrun her demons, instead letting them settle in alongside her. Seeing Weevil again –

(in the time after the basement and the time before Dean, she remembers finding him, a broken creature healing in the spare bedroom of his house, passed onto him from his grandmother. She swore Eli to secrecy as he dressed wounds and tried his best to navigate the wasteland of a person once his friend, near feral in the first few days, angry and fearful in turn, struggling and trapped in a damaged body that wanted nothing more than to run on legs that were too weak to support her)

- was enough to let go of those first claws of her past.

As they near their motel, her hood stays down and Dean trades her half-hearted swipes and elbow jabs as they move to ease away some of the tension in their hearts. It's a shadow of what a normal training session might consist of, but it's a piece of normal in this maelstrom.

They stop briefly at a 24 hour gas station, Veronica remaining outside in the relative darkness of a broken light, while Dean heads in and stocks up on the all-night research essentials. Packets of chips and jerky, a few cans of energy drink (Veronica), a box of apple flips (Dean), and a case of beer make up the collection. They walk the last mile and a half loaded down with the haul, quiet and contemplative.

A/N: A short one, but it's just the last little bridge until we get to the real meat of the story. Thanks for sticking with me.

Hearts always, A.