Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11218419.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Original_Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Original_Female_Character(s), Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Jody_Mills
      (Mentioned), Abaddon_(Supernatural), Crowley_(Supernatural), Original
      Angel_Character(s), Castiel, Hannah_(Supernatural), Ezra, Gavin_MacLeod,
      Benjamin_(Angel), Flagstaff_(Supernatural), Tessa_(Supernatural),
      Metatron_(Supernatural), Gadreel_(Supernatural)
  Additional Tags:
      Mark_of_Cain, Men_of_Letters_Bunker, Fluff, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Porn
      with_Feelings, First_Blade, Pool_hustling, Original_Hunt, Verbal_Abuse,
      Slut_Shaming, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Rough_Sex, Past_Sexual
      Abuse, Past_Underage, Self-Hatred, Suicidal_Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort,
      Swearing, Torture, Questionable_Consent, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon
      Divergence, Season/Series_09_Spoilers, Action_Sequence
  Series:
      Part 11 of The_Lives_We_Make_for_Ourselves
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-16 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 61566
****** Prisoner of Your Eyes ******
by SoulSurvivor_36
Summary
     "First time I touched that blade, I knew. I knew that I wouldn't be
     stopped. I knew I would take down Abaddon… and anything else if I had
     to. And it wasn't a hero thing, you know? It wasn't. It was just
     calm. I knew," he said again, "And I had to go it alone, Sammy."
     …
     "About what you told Sam--"
     "What about it?" he asked her.
     "Was any of it true?"
Notes
     Hey guys! I’m sorry it’s been so long since I posted… Life… the
     universe… everything is always getting in the way! (And I forgot my
     damn towel)
     Anyways, insert here my usual spiel about integrating Delilah into
     the series while staying as close to canon as possible, followed by
     my disclaimer that I borrow a lot from the show and… you know the
     drill.
     This latest story spans from immediately after S09E19 Alex, Annie,
     Alexis, Ann and goes right up to the end, S09E23 Do You Believe in
     Miracles? Guaranteed major story arc spoilers, so just go ahead and
     watch season 9 already.
     For those of you who enjoy music, I made a Spotify playlist with all
     the songs, mentioned in all my stories in this series, so feel free
     to check that out! Here's the link: https://play.spotify.com/user/
     22v4kbg5x7xipqfpa63jsf5lq/playlist/6Vc01L3ZxyXeD3gu0kwFN8
     Anyways, enough chatter, read, enjoy, comment, share the love!
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
When I saw your face,
I became a prisoner of your eyes,
And I would do just anything,
To stay and be with you.
           
You know there are times,                                           
When I let myself wonder,
As I was going under,
You pulled me back to Earth.
           
Don't you hear me crying?
Take me in your arms again.
Tell me that you're trying,
Or is our love a lie ?
 
Delilah stared out the rain streaked window at the passing lights on the
highway.  She tried to focus beyond the darkened glass, ignoring the faded
figure reflected there: hood drawn up, body curled on the seat, eyes tired and
haunted.  She had had her fill of mirrors.  The scratchy fabric covering the
seat itched at her skin and she adjusted herself, pulling down her shirt and
sweater to cover her exposed lower back.
The whispers in her head grew loud in the surrounding quietness of the
Greyhound bus as it drove on through the night with its sleepy passengers,
bringing her home to Kansas much slower than what she had become accustomed
to.  She found that try as she might, she could not ignore them, those voices
in her head - part recollection, part twisted fears - and she wished she had
her earphones so she could drown them out with music.  They had left her alone
these past couple of weeks, the haunting whispers disappearing with the heavy
mood from Jody’s cabin as they had left it behind. But now, with what had
happened, they crowded to the front of her mind, pushing against the back of
her eyes, clamouring for her attention.  The same tired comments, all jumbled
in her head.  Removed from their contexts and mixed with her concerns, they
made the whole situation sound so much more dire than it really was.
Do they tell you everything?
How they expect you to survive this…
Everything I touch, turns to shit… I won't let that happen to you.
The Dean I know would never hit you.
And then, there had been the mirror.  She wished she could just forget what it
had shown her, but the images tormented her, even with the curse
lifted. Delilah pressed the heels of her hands into her aching eyes, trying to
rub away the illusion, but what she had seen, simply couldn’t be unseen.  As
strange as a dream, but a hundred times more vivid, it had been imbued with a
sense of authenticity, of truth.
How had everything gotten so twisted?  They had been happy, hadn’t they?  At
least for a little while.  The memory of Dean holding the First Blade, the Mark
of Cain glowing on his arm, swam up in her mind and she opened her eyes wide,
the dim lighting not enough to banish it completely and her stomach tightened
as the memories flickered by like a movie in her head.
In the month since he had first held the blade, the changes in him had been
startling.  At first, there was mostly confusion and fear that followed the
moments of darkness, but in the lead-up to the vampire hunt, those moments had
increased in frequency and the confusion was slowly replaced by an exhilaration
that was making him savage and bloodthirsty.  Getting him back from that state
wasn't easy.  Even though things seemed to have gone back to normal after their
return to the bunker, Delilah was worried that it would only be a matter of
time before she lost him completely to the effects of the mark.
                                       ~
 
The trip back from Jody’s cabin had been relatively quiet.  Sam was still
exhausted from losing so much blood and Delilah had a lot on her mind following
her breakdown.  Dean kept his eyes on the road, occasionally tapping the
steering wheel subconsciously when a familiar song came on the Impala’s
speakers.  The bunker had felt like a refuge as they traipsed in from the
garage in silence.  Sam disappeared right away down the back hallway, making a
beeline for his room without saying a word.  Delilah headed around the corner,
followed by Dean who, she assumed, would be going on to his room to drop off
his gear and unpack.  He laid a hand on her shoulder though, as she opened her
door, and when she turned back towards him, he bent down and kissed her
sweetly, sweeping her long hair back with his hand and cradling the back of her
head.  When she pulled back, he had a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes
roved over her face.  They stopped on her shoulder and the shadow of a smile
disappeared.  Delilah reached up and felt the edge of the bandage peak out from
the collar of her shirt.
“Want me to take a look at that?” he asked her.
“Um, yeah. Thanks.”
She turned around and dropped her bag just inside the door, Dean dropping his
beside it and closing the door behind him.  She grabbed the bottom edge of her
shirt and pulled up, wincing at the unexpected stiffness in her left shoulder. 
Dean pulled the chair out from under the desk for her and she sat down.  He was
careful as he pulled the gauze and tape away from where the vampire had bitten
her and Delilah heard again Jody’s criticism from the night before: You
could’ve died last night. Why is he not here taking care of you?  Well, he is
now, she thought with a sigh.
He poked at the edges of her bite.  “How’s it looking, Doc?” she asked him,
trying to hide her worry behind her light tone.
Dean chuckled and that, more than anything, reassured her that everything was
fine.  “The skin’s looking pink, but not inflamed.  Sam did a good job cleaning
it, there’s no infection.  We can leave the bandage off now, let it breathe. 
Might want to take it easy for a couple of days.”
She stood up in front of the mirror, and turned her shoulder so she could see
the damage.   She stared at the puncture marks distractedly, then her eyes
strayed down to her side and she passed her hand on the puckered skin of her
bullet scar, preoccupied, finding herself musing for the first time about how
safe her old life had been.  She looked again at the vampire bite, another
memory from long ago swimming up, reminding her that it had not been so safe
after all.  Movement in the mirror made her look up as Dean walked up behind
her and ran his hands down her arms.
“I look like a Twilight groupie," she said, dejectedly, suddenly worried about
how he saw her scarred skin.
“No,” he said, his voice low and rough as he kissed her hair, “You look like a
hunter.  You saved our asses back there, you know.”
Delilah turned around and looked at his face, trying to read the expression
there: was that… pride?  Whatever it was, it wasn’t anger or disgust or even
regret and she found herself overwhelmed with rushing affection.  She ran her
hands over his cotton covered chest and up to his broad shoulders, finally
resting her arms around the back of his neck as she pulled herself against
him.  She tilted her head back and looked into the rich hue of his green
irises.  His face was relaxed, the corners of his mouth just barely curled up
and his eyes crinkled as he looked back at her affectionately.  He reached up
and swept a strand of her wavy brown hair back with a smile before bending down
and pressing his lips to hers softly.  She opened her mouth and closed it on
his full lower lip, taking her time kissing him, feeling her heart swell almost
painfully.
Then, Dean pulled back abruptly, leaning his forehead against hers, his eyes
squeezed shut, his mouth tense like he was in pain.  "What's wrong?" she asked
him, suddenly concerned.
He turned his head to the side, his eyes blinking open, a deep scowl twisting
his handsome features.  She moved her hand to his chin and turned him back to
look at her, the distress clear in his eyes.  When he spoke, his voice nearly
cracked and he had to start again.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I lost it back at Jody’s.  I-I saw the blood, and I
dunno, I just lost it."
Delilah sighed through her nose, relieved, "It's okay, Dean.  I get it."
"No," he said adamantly, "It's not.  I shouldn’ve yelled at you.  You did
exactly what you were supposed to do.”  A flutter went through her at the
intensity of his stare and the fervour in his voice.  He went on, lowering his
voice to a near whisper, "I was just so scared, Lilah.  I thought I lost you--"
She cut him off pressing her mouth to his again, unable to hold back, his
praise and fears telling her all she needed to know about how he felt, even if
he couldn't express it.  Her heart filled with song and she needed to let it
out or it would burst.  His arms wound around her and held her close as he
responded to her passionate kissing in kind.  He pulled her up against him
holding on so tightly she couldn't breathe, but she didn't care.
They fell into bed together, their clothes thrown off every which way in their
desperate need to be together.  Delilah rode him hard, practically feeling the
stress, tension and anxiety chipping away with each of his meeting thrusts,
until she came apart, shaking, and he rolled them over, covering her with his
sweat gleaming body.  Dean drove into her looking like he was close to breaking
as well.  Ever in control though, he suddenly pulled out and a few tugs had him
spilling his come on her still heaving stomach.  He cleaned her up with the
sweep of a tissue as he caught his breath and then collapsed, twisting onto his
back beside her, looking spent.
Delilah turned towards him, resting her head on his shoulder as he tucked her
into his side and she petted his smooth stomach contentedly.  The Mark of Cain,
ever present on his arm, caught her attention and she leaned up on her elbow,
her long tangled hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain, to look at his
relaxed face: his long, dark eyelashes resting delicately above the line of his
freckles on his cheeks, his lips parted the way they do when he's deeply
asleep.  She brushed her hand along his smooth forehead; there was no trace of
the tension from the past couple of weeks.
“How’re you feeling, Dean?”
“Mmmm, like I just had my brains fucked out by the most beautiful woman.”
He reached up his hand and pulled her down for a sloppy kiss, making her smile
and feel exasperated at the same time… not what she had been asking.  She
straightened up again.
“No, dummy.” She laid her hand on his arm, her thumb just beside the long edge
of the mark and he looked down at it.  “How’re you feeling, with this?”
Dean frowned like he hadn’t really thought about it.  He looked on, not shaking
off her hand, which she saw as a good sign.  Normally when the mark was
bothering him, he couldn’t stand having her touch him.
“I feel… good,” he said after a while, still frowning.
Delilah laughed at the contradiction between his words and facial expression
and he looked at her, the frown lines disappearing and his eyes crinkling
again, his whole face transforming into the first genuine smile she’d seen on
him in what felt like ages and her breath hitched in her chest.
“I love hearing you laugh,” he said, his voice soft and husky, his fingers
twirling a strand of her long hair.
Delilah’s heart gave a hard thump and she kissed him again, spurred on by the
demands of her heart and body.  Dean rolled onto her, one leg wedged between
hers as his arm reached for her dresser drawer and the condoms inside.  They
made love again, slowly, completely lost in each other.  They lazed around in
bed afterwards, satisfied, each wrapped in the other’s hold.  Delilah basked in
the moment, thankful for the inexplicable reprieve from the terrifying darkness
that had been looming over them for some time.
They eventually managed to tear themselves apart, and go about the rest of the
day normally.  Delilah unpacked and sorted her ruined clothes, which she threw
away, from her still useable clothes, which she threw into the washing
machine.  Dean came around, mid-sorting, and an argument about not mixing his
blood-soaked shirt and jeans in with her stuff quickly turned into him pressing
her against the whirring washing machine, kissing her passionately.  Not
winning the argument regardless, he ended up at the sink in the corner soaking
his clothes and grumbling.  Delilah looked on, smiling.  He disappeared into
the garage afterwards and didn’t come out until dinner, when he walked into the
kitchen carrying pizza and beer.
Sam had locked himself away in his room all day and didn’t reappear except to
take a few pieces of pizza and slink off back to his side of the bunker. 
Delilah briefly considered going to see him to make sure he was ok, but what
had happened at Jody’s cabin made her hesitate and she ended up staying in the
kitchen with Dean.  She fell asleep pressed against him that night, wrapped in
the comfort of his affection.
The next day, they were back in business: the business of hunting down
Abaddon.  Sam joined the search and they worked together, the three of them,
like someone had hit the master reset button.  Sam never mentioned the kiss and
she was more than happy to pretend it hadn't happened.
The next few days were research centric, the three of them falling into their
usual patterns.  Sam and Dean checked in with some of their contacts they
hadn’t heard from in a few days, adding Post-its to the map and removing others
that were now defunct soul mines dealt with by other hunters.
Delilah returned to searching the web for signs of more mining operations, but
after a few days it was becoming evident that more of them were being
eliminated than new ones found.  It actually felt like they were getting the
upper hand, except that there was still no sign of Abaddon herself, the demon
managing to stay off their radar completely.  What was she up to?  You’d think
that she would have reacted by now.
They hadn’t heard from Crowley, either, since he took the First Blade and
disappeared into thin air.  He and his demons were staying out of their way it
seemed.  There wasn’t a blip of demon activity to be found.  They briefly
considered summoning a crossroads demon again to get more information, all a
little unsettled by the quiet out there, unable to suppress the feeling that
maybe this was just the calm before the storm, or maybe they were missing
something.
A week went by with nothing new to show for their efforts and Delilah started
noticing the caged animal look returning to Dean’s eyes, the growing
restlessness and frustration all too familiar.  He wasn’t pushing her away
again, yet, but a feeling of desperation tinged their intimacy, like he was
holding on with everything he had – his kisses a bit more forceful than
necessary, his arms holding on to her tightly at night.  Delilah couldn’t help
but feel that for whatever reason, the mark was making its presence known
again.  It wasn’t long before she was waking up alone in bed, Dean’s
restiveness affecting his sleep.  She also spotted him rubbing the red scar on
his arm and knocking back whiskey like it was a cure all, once again.  By the
end of the second week, he was back to pacing furiously, and wandering from
task to task exuding a level of nervous energy that was making it difficult for
her and Sam to get anything done.  Not that they were making much headway
either way.  Two weeks and no leads, all previous trails long cold, all traces
of Abaddon just nonexistent.
The sound of a book being slammed shut made Delilah look up and she startled as
a thick leather-bound tome went flying, pages flapping before the binding hit
one of the many columns in the library and the pages crumpled under the open
cover as it fell to the floor.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam yelled, surprised.  “You mind not destroying the
reference materials?”
“Bite me.  Fucking place is full of useless shit.”
“This ‘useless shit’ is like thousands of pages of Dad’s journal.  You gonna
call that shit too?  Just ‘cause you feel like throwing a hissy fit?”
“Shut up, Sam.  Bunch of dead librarians can blow me,” he mumbled.
Delilah uncurled from her chair and picked up the book from the ground
carefully, in case Dean’s mistreatment had damaged it.  It was one of the more
arcane books that dealt with demons and thankfully, except a bent page or two,
it looked unscathed.  Behind her, the brothers continued to argue until
suddenly, Dean stood up from the table, his chair falling backwards and
clattering to the ground.  She turned around to look, but he had already
disappeared from the library.
Delilah swallowed hard, a feeling of foreboding welling up inside her, and she
put the book down on the table before picking up Dean’s chair and sitting back
down in her spot.  She was losing him again, she could feel it down to her
core.  She forced her attention back to their current search and leafed through
the mistreated book half-heartedly, knowing it was no use.
“He’s right you know,” she told Sam, who looked up at her from across the
table.  “We’ve been through everything here.  More than once.  There's nothing
that can help us find Abaddon.  The Men of Letters just didn’t have enough
information about the knights.  Maybe if they hadn’t all been killed when they
were…."
Sam sat back in his chair, leaning his elbow on the armrest and rubbing his
forehead, then staring blankly at his computer screen.  “I know,” he sighed,
then stretched his long arm towards the computer keyboard and tapped a few
keys.  “Something popped up earlier, could be a case, maybe.  Maybe just what
we need to change things up a bit.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?  Dean just lashed out at a book, I don’t
think we should let him loose on a hunt.”
“Maybe it’ll do him more good to get out there than to stay cooped up in here.”
Delilah thought about this for a moment.  Truth was, she was starting to feel
restless herself.  It would be good to get out, stretch their legs, maybe save
a person or two.
“Okay.  Where’s this?”
“Central Illinois.  Haven’t found a pattern yet, but could be people missing
their souls acting out.”
“New mine?” Dean asked, suddenly walking back into the library, a beer in his
hand.
“Dunno.  Maybe a case,” answered Sam.
“Central?  Is it anywhere near Milton?” asked Delilah.
“Um, further east.  They’ve got a murder suspect in custody in Champaign,” Sam
answered, clicking at his keyboard again.
“I’m in,” Dean said, turning back around.  “Let’s pack up and head out.”
He tilted his beer into his open mouth and drained it as he walked back out of
the room.
Delilah looked at Sam uncertainly.  “Why would they open a fresh mine so close
to the one we closed down?”
Sam shrugged and closed the lid on his laptop, picking it up as he stood and
tucking it under his arm.  “College town, maybe it’s easy pickings. Who knows? 
We’ll have to see when we get there.”
He walked out as well and Delilah headed for her room to pack.  She threw an
extra pair of jeans and a few tops into her bag, remembering to also grab a
suit jacket to hide her gun in Illinois.  She packed her angel blade and tucked
her silver knife in its usual place inside her boot.  She checked her clip and
stuck her gun in its holster which she clipped to her hip, safety on.  On her
way to the garage, she detoured up the stairs to the gun range and grabbed a
couple of spare clips, one loaded with silver bullets, just in case, and a
spare with devil’s traps.
Surprisingly, she was the first of them to get to the garage and she walked
over to Baby, parked in her usual spot by the door.  She dropped her bag on the
ground and leaned up against the car’s side, waiting for one of the boys to
show up with the key to open the trunk.  It wasn’t long before Dean arrived
with his own bag.  Delilah watched him unlock the trunk and throw it inside. 
He reached down for hers too but she pushed off from the car and stepped in
front of him, grabbing his wrist loosely in her hand.  He looked at her,
straightening up, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“You sure you want to go hunting?” she asked him, glad they had a chance to
talk about this without Sam.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at his feet, his voice rough. “I need to get out
of here.  Feels like I’m gonna explode.”  Delilah didn’t say anything, unable
to stop herself from thinking back to the last time he’d been like this.  Dean
looked away awkwardly and grabbed her bag, putting it in the trunk beside his. 
“Just point me at something I can hit,” he said, his voice firm again, “I’ll be
fine.”
Sam came up the steps and added his bag to theirs and closed the trunk.  Dean
walked around her and reached for the driver’s door, but Delilah grabbed the
keys out of his hand, thinking of the beer and whiskey he’d been busy
disappearing down his throat.
“I’m driving.  Not a discussion,” she added when he opened his mouth to
protest.
He moved out of the way and opened the back door instead, while she settled
behind the wheel.
                                       ~
By the time Delilah pulled into the parking lot of the Days Inn on the north
side of town, it was already late and they decided to head into town to hunt
down some dinner.  They ended up in a local dive bar, surrounded by a crowd of
college kids, out for an evening on the town.
“Ah man, look at these bozos,” Dean said, leaning back against the seat of
their booth and looking around at the patrons of the bar, the now empty plates
pushed to the edge of the table so Sam could set up his laptop. “We could make
a killing hustling these punks.”  He knocked back his whiskey with a grimace
and set the tumbler down on the table, looking like he might actually be in a
good mood.  Maybe getting out of the bunker had been a good idea after all. 
“What you say, Sammy?  Wanna see how much lunch money we can get our hands on?”
“Yeah, man.  Go have some fun.  I’m trying to work the case.  I found a few
isolated spots our demon could be holed up in near here.  Might go check a few
of them out.”
Dean shook his head with a disapproving look and slid out from the booth
towards the pool tables across the room.  Delilah watched as he spoke to a
waitress briefly then continued on towards the table, looking significantly
less coordinated than usual.  She smiled, thinking back to when she and Sam had
hustled together.
She watched him walk up to the cue rack on the wall and go through each one,
like he was going to find one that was best among the cheap wood.  Delilah
noticed a couple of guys glancing over at him as he took one cue off the rack
and sighted down the length with one eye, while his arm wobbled slightly.  They
were dressed like normal guys out for a drink and a game, but they clearly had
money to burn; they both had their hair meticulously styled, their shirts and
jeans designer by the looks of it, one of them had a medium thick gold chain
around his neck and the other had a nice watch and they were drinking imported
beer.  They had potential, if their wallets matched their style.
Just then the waitress came back up to Dean with a beer bottle and he pulled
out his money clip, slowly leafing through the bills, in full view of the kids
at the table who were now talking to each other, not paying attention to him. 
Dean paid for his drink and put the rest of the money away.  He gave the
waitress a decidedly lopsided grin and Delilah found herself chuckling at his
goofiness.  She looked back to the college boys who were racking up the balls
at their table.  He’s going to have to do better if he wants to get their
attention, thought Delilah.  Dean walked right past them towards the little
sidebar along the wall where a pretty, young blonde was sitting, sipping a
bright blue beverage.  Probably a Blue Lagoon or some other ridiculous
concoction, Delilah thought derisively as she realized just how he was going to
get their attention.  She reminded herself that Dean was in the middle of a con
and she shouldn’t take it personally.  Not that she could help it, seeing him
leaning casually next to where the girl was sitting, his charming manner
pulling a shy smile from her.  Unbelievable.  He had to be at least ten years
older than her, what was she thinking?
She turned around to look at Sam, deciding that maybe working the case would be
a better option than watching Dean flirt, but the younger brother was smirking
at her.  “Why don’t you go join him?  Hustling’s more fun up close.”
“I wouldn’t want to throw him off,” she said, glancing back towards Dean.  He
was now talking with the two guys, his attentions clearly noticed, one of them
looked particularly annoyed.  Maybe the sweet young thing was with him.  She
was looking pretty annoyed herself, but her eyes kept darting back to Dean. 
What smooth line did he use on her?  She almost felt bad, seeing the interest
in the girl’s eye, that he had just used her to get the attention of his mark.
With one last encouragement from Sam, Delilah slid out from the booth and
headed towards the table where Dean was talking up a storm at the two boys, who
only looked semi-interested in what he had to say.  Delilah ran through a
couple of scenarios in her head, how could she help get their money?  She
walked up to Dean.
“Rick!” she called out the first name that came to mind.  “Just what in the
hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dean turned towards her, he had his money in his hand again.  With his tousled
hair and slow smile, it was amazing how completely inept he looked, throw in a
slur and… “Aw, hey Ilsa.” Delilah suppressed a smile, of course he knew exactly
which Rick she had been thinking about, “Nothin’.  Just, you know, gettin’
ready to play a little pool with these fine gentlemen.”
She glanced at his hand holding the money and then to the two guys quickly, who
each raised a hand in greeting, clearly unsure.  She grabbed Dean by the open
edges of his shirt and turned him away slightly, talking in a strained whisper
that was plenty loud for anyone to hear.  “No, Rick! You know what happens when
you drink.  You can't just keep throwing away our money!”
“Aw, come on, baby,” he drawled out, “It’s nothin’, just a bit a’flavour to
make the game more fun. Right boys?”
“Yeah, whatever.  It’s just for kicks,” one of the two guys said.  He tapped
his friend’s shoulder then pulled out his wallet and dropped a twenty on the
table.  Delilah could clearly see it was just one of many bills in there, the
folded leather bulging.
“Excuse you, this is none of your business.” She turned back to Dean, who had a
curious smile on his face, like he was enjoying seeing where she was going with
this.  “Rick, please. I’m begging you. You said you wouldn’t do this anymore. 
You promised me.”
“Hey! I can beat these guys!” he said, swaying slightly, “Don’t you want nice
things? I can give you nice things.”
Delilah tried not to frown, this was getting random.  “Fine!” she said loudly,
pushing away from him and turning to look at all of them, “but if this gets out
of hand, I’m putting my foot down and we’re out of here.”
“Scout’s honour,” Dean said, straightening up and raising his hand to his
heart.
With a quick wink for her, he turned around to face the two college boys,
pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from his folded clip money, and put it on the
table edge.
The first game went pretty much as expected – Dean lost flat out, his hands
shaky, the cue squealing off the cue ball.  If he sank one in the whole game,
it was clearly a lucky shot.  In the meantime, the kid he was playing against,
the one with the gold chain, was a decent enough player.  No fancy trick shots
or anything, but he could clearly see the angles in his head, although his
weakness was in planning the next shot; he sank everything he went for, but
didn’t really get past two shots in a row before he cornered himself, unable to
get a clear shot.  Delilah focused on looking annoyed and concerned, all the
while really laughing on the inside whenever Dean missed or couldn’t get the
cue to lie flat on his thumb’s edge.  The game over, the kid reached for the
two bills on the table, but Dean flailed his hands at him.
“Waaait, wait, wait a minute.  Come on, give a guy a chance to win it back,
yeah?”  He moved in towards them, glancing back at her obviously, and she
crossed her arms on her chest looking pissed.  “Look guys, you can’t do this to
me.  The missus, she’ll kill me.”
“Maybe you should quit, pops,” said one of the college brats.
Delilah raised her eyebrows, and Dean jerked his head back, frowning and
pouting his lips, confused.  “Pops?” he said, a note of arrogance creeping into
his tone.  “Ok, how ‘bout this, son… double or nothing.”
The player’s friend smacked him on the shoulder, looking excited, and Dean took
that as his cue to pull a couple of twenties from his clip and tap them down on
the table edge with the other two bills.  Delilah walked up to Dean again.  She
pretended to try and convince him to walk away, but to no avail.  The kid
looked at her, then at the money on the edge of the table, and picked up his
cue again, looking cocky.  “Ok, fine.  Let’s go again.”
Delilah looked at Dean, pleadingly, keeping up the charade, but as he racked
the balls nearsightedly, she threw her arms dramatically and walked off, back
to where she had been sitting.  Once again, he lost the game, managing to sink
a few more balls than before, but the kid still winning by a long shot.  This
time though, when the game was over, instead of reaching for the bills, the kid
took out a few twenties and added them confidently to the growing pile.
“How ‘bout one last game?  Two hundred bucks.”
Dean, who was looking considerably drunker, having ordered several more beers
to keep up the pretence, took out his clip and started counting bills slowly. 
Delilah pushed off, taking on her role again.  She added an edge of desperation
to her voice this time.
“Rick, please.  I watched him play, you can’t beat him.  Let’s just go home. 
You said you’d stop.”
“Babe, I almost had him.  I can get him!”  He turned back towards the kid and
slammed some bills on the table.  “Let’s do five.”
“No!”
“Stop it, Ilsa.  Why can’t you just trust me?”
“Because you always do this, and you just keep throwing our money out the
window!”
“Bah,” Dean waved her off and the college kid looked through his wallet and
took out the rest of his money.
“Fine by me.  And I’ll even let you break.”
Delilah moved off to the side again and watched as Dean played.  His entire
demeanour changed.  Now, he was focused and precise, his break was clean,
sinking two balls and pretty soon, he was mopping the floor with the kid, each
shot lined up perfectly for the next.  By the time he sank the eight, his
opponent hadn’t even played a single time.  Dean straightened up with a fake
air of surprise on his face and a cocky grin, like he didn’t know what just
happened.  The two guys were looking genuinely shocked, and as Dean reached for
the stack of bills on the table, they snapped out of it, fury etching their
faces.
“You hustled us!” the watch guy said, taking a threatening step towards Dean,
his fists clenched.
On high alert, Delilah pushed off from her stool and took a few steps towards
them so she could help subdue them if a fight broke out.
“Give me back my money, now!” the player said, holding his cue aloft in a tight
fist, the threat clear.
Dean carefully put the money away in his pocket and a dark, calmness came over
him, all drunken pretence vanished, leaving him looking square and hard and
completely dangerous.  Delilah shifted her stance slightly so she could step
between him and the two kids, in case he lost control.
 “Look here.  You intentionally engaged in gambling with a stranger, Ilsa here
even told you that I do this all the time.  Nice touch, babe, by the way.”
“Thank you,” she answered, not taking her eyes off the potential fight.
“So, the way I see it,” Dean said, addressing his marks again, “You can either
walk away with a little less money in your pocket, or you can crawl away with a
few broken bones.  Your choice.”
The two guys stood fuming there for a minute that stretched on forever before
the young blonde came up to them and pulled the suckers away, throwing an evil
glare at Dean, like she couldn’t believe what kind of scoundrel he had turned
out to be.  Delilah just caught his puckered lips as he sent a kiss her way as
a farewell.  She was relieved that the fight had been averted.  They watched
the three college kids until they were out of the bar.  Delilah started moving
away, back towards the table where they had left Sam.  “Why is it, that your
hustles always end with people wanting to beat you to a pulp?” she asked him.
“I dunno, my charming wit just seems to irritate them.”  There was no trace of
that dark stare anymore, the heavy mood miraculously dissipated.
Delilah snorted, “Charm, you mean your taunting wise-ass comments.”
She glanced back at him a few steps away from the table and Dean turned a full
ear-to-ear grin on her before grabbing her wrist and spinning her around,
holding her close around the waist.  He slowly leaned in towards her and put
his hand under her chin, making her heart beat wildly. “Here’s lookin’ at you
kid,” he said, reciting the classic line of his con-character’s namesake, in
his rough, rumbling voice.
Delilah felt the surge of passion, and Ilsa’s words just rolled off her tongue,
“Kiss me, kiss me as if it were the last time.”
Dean’s mouth came down on hers in a hungry kiss and Delilah gave in to it,
relishing the feel of his lips on hers, losing herself in the moment.  An
awkward cough came from right beside them and Delilah pulled away from Dean,
straightening up again and turning her head towards the long-haired Winchester
who was pointedly staring at his computer screen.  Delilah quirked her mouth as
she said, in her huskiest, Ingrid Bergman voice, “Play it once, Sam.  For old
time’s sake.”
Sam shook his head, but couldn’t stop a smile from pulling at his lips. 
“Couple a’ drunks,” he mumbled and went back to his search.
Delilah sat down in the booth and slid down the polished wooden bench to the
end, letting Dean sit down beside her.  She picked up the conversation where
they had left off, before Dean had side-tracked it with his foolishness.
“Seriously, though.  You both get yourselves into these fist-fight situations
when you hustle.  There has got to be a better way.”
“People don’t like being taken advantage of.  The trick is to look scary enough
that they don’t want to take you on.  Sam,” Dean said, looking at his brother
with a grin on his face, “you remember that time up north when we ended up
getting jumped by like seven or eight guys?”
Sam smiled and looked up at his brother.  “Dude, those guys couldn’t know we
usually tag team it against vampires and demons.”
“Poor schmucks never saw it coming.”
“Yeah, well, I prefer a hustle that leaves everyone satisfied,” Delilah said,
waving at the waitress to bring them a couple of refills on their drinks.
“Yeah, princess, ‘cause you can take a half grand off someone and not piss ‘em
off?  That’s something I’d like to see.”
Delilah cocked her head to the side, disregarding the princess comment, deep in
thought.  She ran through a couple of ideas again and came up with something
that could potentially work.  The waitress brought them their drinks and she
pulled out some money from her coat pocket.  She took her tumbler, as Dean
reached over for his, and she took a sip, working out the details in her head.
“Alright.  I’ll play.  But I’m gonna need space.  You can’t interfere, okay?”
Dean narrowed his eyes at her, considering it, then finally agreed, clinking
his glass against hers.  Delilah downed her whiskey, getting a disapproving
look from Dean.  “You’re supposed to sip that.  Not knock it back like cheap
rum.”
Delilah burst out laughing, feeling the slow burn down her esophagus and into
her stomach.  “Look who’s talking,” she said as she gestured for him to let her
out of the booth.
She stood up beside him and pressed herself against his fit body and tilting
her head back like she was going to kiss him.  Dean made to meet her halfway,
but she surreptitiously pulled her gun and holster off her belt and passed them
to him.  He frowned, clearly not expecting that, and she just reached up and
pecked him quickly on the corner of the mouth before walking off towards the
still deserted pool table.
She meticulously racked the balls, working slowly, like she wasn’t sure what
went where, getting herself into character.  She was going to line this trap
with honey, she decided, moving off towards the stools in the corner and
shrugging off her jean jacket to hang it on a peg.  She was wearing her
favourite pair of skinny jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin and a
tight light-blue V-neck T-shirt that gave a decent look at her cleavage.  While
her back was turned to the room to look at the cues, she pulled it down a
little more, just for emphasis.
The idea was simple.  To lure a mark in, she was going to play on her own,
looking like she was trying to improve her game.  Someone was bound to want to
come help her out, give her a free lesson, and when they did she’d let them,
flirting a little.
She had been moving the balls around the table for about thirty minutes,
looking frustrated, by the time someone fell for the bait.  After a little
chatting and bullshit back story about trying to take her mind off some jerk
who had stood her up, the guy – tall, average build, clear blue eyes, cocky
smirk – graciously offered to help her with that.  They started playing pool
and she let him give her tips and pointers, letting him get in close, pressing
against her to show her the best way to hold the cue (it wasn’t) and where to
tuck the end for better aim (under her breast apparently) and how to stand
(which required his hands on her hips).  Delilah hoped Dean was getting an
eyeful, but she was so focused on her con that she didn’t have much time to
spare for him.  Her game “improved slightly” and she made a big show of being
excited that she sank a ball.  They played for another twenty minutes, before
she casually let it slip that she learned best with incentives and what if
there was a reward for every ball she sank?  The guy, Logan as it turned out,
suggested a kiss for every ball and she tried to look bashful and coy all at
once before suggesting maybe they could do money instead.  Like five dollars
every ball they sank.  He agreed and they played a full game, Delilah holding
her own and coming up only ten dollars in the hole.  Continuing to flirt and
distract him, she suggested they increase the stakes, so she’d be even more
motivated.  He seemed to hesitate and she got really close to him, squeezing
between him and the table and playing with his buttons.  She threw in her
number if he won, and suddenly money was no concern, even when she said fifty
dollars a ball.
Her heart rate pounding from the excitement of the hustle, she broke, leaning
low over the table for Logan’s benefit and she concentrated, making sure to
line up each shot.  She let the thrill show on her face every time a ball was
knocked into a pocket, trying to look surprised and genuinely excited.  He kept
trying to calm her down, reminding her to breathe deeply before she took her
shot, he was actually helping her to hustle him.
When she sank the eight ball, sealing the deal on four hundred bucks, the guy
actually looked proud.  He counted out the bills and handed them to her, while
she looked stunned.  Then, she grabbed his hand as though she couldn't contain
her excitement, pulling a pen from her hanging jacket, and wrote a random
seven-digit number in his palm, letting him fill in the missing area code.
“Call me,” she said, looking into his clear blue eyes and when he bent down and
his lips connected to hers, she didn’t pull away, letting the kiss take its
natural course.  When they pulled apart again, she had the money safely in her
pocket and he was walking away, looking back at her grinning.  She took down
her jacket and, when he was out of the bar, she walked back over to where Sam
and Dean were still sitting.  Dean was looking like he had swallowed some
ectoplasm or something, his arm stretched along the top of the seat, his jaw
working as he stared at the table top.
“Nice,” Sam said, looking at her, his laptop closed, a beer in his hand.  Had
he watched her hustle?
“Thanks,” she answered with a smile, pulling out the won bills and dropping
them on the table.
"Where did you learn to play pool like that?" he asked her, sipping at his
beer, looking at her, curious.
Delilah rubbed the back of her neck, slightly embarrassed.  "Uh, college,
actually.  It was a good way to pick up guys." She could feel herself blushing,
but she went on anyways, "Turns out I actually liked the game though, so I
learned how to play.  Some guys think it's a turn on when I win."
Dean huffed and Sam glanced at his brother, smirking, before taking another
swallow of beer.  Delilah frowned and turned her head to look at him.  He was
frowning at the table and slowly turning his glass of whiskey.  What Sam
thought was funny about it though was a mystery to her.
“Did you have to kiss him?” Dean grumbled, revealing the reason behind his
frown.
“He kissed me!" she exclaimed, refraining from bringing up the young blonde he
had flirted with himself barely an hour ago.  "Besides, it was part of the
con.  If I'd pulled away it wouldn't have worked.  That guy walked away with a
fake number and four hundred bucks lighter than when he came in, and he was
happy about it.”
“Yeah, well, good for you.  I’m not about to start kissing guys in bars to win
money.  Talk about starting a friggin’ fight."
He took a sip of whiskey, and Delilah wondered how many he had choked down
while she had been working her con.  She slid down the bench seat and slipped
under his arm.  His head tilted towards her slightly as she pressed herself
against him, raising her hand to stroke his scruffy jaw.
“I don’t know,” she said teasingly, “Big green eyes like yours, pouty lips… I’m
sure you could reel in quite a few boys.”  She pressed her lips to his neck,
and then laid another kiss against the soft skin in front of his ear.  He
turned his head and captured her mouth, holding her firmly behind the head and
his other arm wrapping around her shoulders possessively.
“I should take you back to the motel and show you some real kissing,” he
rumbled against her lips, making her smile at his silly insecurity.
“Guys!  I’m sitting right here,” Sam said, clearly irritated again with their
public display.
“Mmmm, you got a wild goose chase we can send Sam on?” Dean pushed on.
Delilah pulled away slowly, the kiss lingering, her whole body warm and
tingling in a way it had failed to do when her conned mark had kissed her.
“Stop teasing your brother,” she told him.  She pulled her phone out of her
pocket and was surprised to see that it was going on 2 a.m.  “Besides, I’m
gonna need my beauty sleep if we’re going after something tomorrow.”
They returned to the motel, Sam behind the wheel.  There had been no single
rooms left when they checked in earlier, some sort of convention in town
apparently, so they ended up bunking in a double room – two queen beds. 
Everyone was pretty tired and they fell into their respective beds, Dean
holding her body against his tightly under the covers.
                                       ⭐
***** Aletheia *****
Delilah’s eyes snapped open and she looked around the dark motel room for what
had woken her.  She heard again the sound that had triggered an alarm in her
subconscious and she rolled over to stare at the motel door that had just
clicked shut.  Judging from the deep breathing in the other bed, Sam was still
fast asleep.  It was Dean who was no longer laying beside her.  From the
coolness of the sheets on his side, she’d say he’d been out of bed for a bit
too.
Delilah scurried out from under the blankets, reaching to the floor for her
jeans which she slipped on as she moved towards the door to catch up to him. 
She grabbed her jean jacket from where she had draped it over a chair back and
carefully turned the handle and pulled the door open, hoping Sam’s own
subconscious wouldn’t register it like hers had.  She just as quietly closed
the door behind her and then threw on her jacket, looking around for where Dean
had disappeared to.
She spotted him right away walking across the parking lot away from where the
Impala was parked.  “Dean,” she called out to him and he stopped and turned to
face her, his body language oozing annoyance.  He was dressed in a dark suit
with a light shirt and a striped tie that was slightly askew.  Delilah frowned
as she looked around the still pitch-black sky, wondering what time it was and
why he was already dressed as FBI.
“Where are you going?”
“Coffee.”
She pulled out her phone and glanced at the lit-up screen: 5 a.m.  Her
confusion grew again. “Why are you up this early?  Come back to bed.  You
barely got, what? Two, three hours of sleep?”
“Less,” he mumbled, looking around.
Delilah walked up to him, and reached to straighten his tie but he moved away
abruptly with an irritated huff.  She dropped her arms again, feeling like
maybe she shouldn’t press.  There was clearly something going on with him. 
Then he grabbed his right arm with a wince and started pressing into the flesh
just below his elbow.
Delilah frowned, concerned.  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked him as
she stepped up to him, hoping to comfort him.
“Why do you care?” he asked, harshly.
She tilted her head back to look at his face, making eye contact.  He was
looking so furious, wild almost, but that didn’t change how she felt about
him.  Not that she was going to risk repeating those words to him.  “You know
why, Dean.”
“Yeah?  What is it with you?  You’re so desperate to see something that's not
there.  Or are you so stupid that you actually believe I care about you?  Why
don’t you find someone else to pine over?  You’re pathetic.”
Delilah swallowed hard, trying not to show how deeply his words hurt.  It was
the mark talking.  Dean would never be this cruel.  She took a deep breath and
tried again, reaching to wrap her arms around him. “You're worrying me.  This
isn't you talking.”
Before she could completely close the gap, Dean brushed her off, like she was
nothing more than a clingy spider web he’d stepped through.  “You’re so fucking
delusional, Delilah… you actually believe that, don't you?  You can take your
concern and shove it up your ass for all I care. You’re nothing, worthless.  We
should’ve thrown you out ages ago.”
Delilah took a step back as Dean moved towards her. Her heart was racing, fear
flooding her system.  She was paralyzed.  What was happening?  An image, a
memory from her childhood, swam up in her mind: her father bearing down on her,
his face inches away as he yelled at her, calling her useless, a burden, and
threatening to leave her behind.  What the hell was happening?
She kept her mouth closed tightly, afraid that anything she might say could
infuriate him more.  Afraid that the next sound she made might be what starts
him hitting her.  He took another step towards her and she flinched, unable to
stop herself, her heart just slamming against her ribs.  She should run away,
why wasn’t she running away?
Dean suddenly turned and stalked off across the street without another word,
disappearing through the door of the 24h coffee shop.  Not sure what to do or
how to feel, Delilah turned around and headed back to the motel room.  He just
needs to cool off, he’ll kick himself later for what he said.
He just needs space.
                                       ~
“Dean says he’s done with the interview at the police station, girl’s
certifiable, apparently, but not soulless.”
Delilah snapped out of her reverie and focused on the hazel eyes looking right
at her from across the diner table, rays of sunshine piercing through the cloud
cover and through the window bathing him in golden light.  She blinked away the
last of the confrontation from that morning and tried to shake herself back to
the present situation.  She and Sam had gone to interview another possible
victim, while Dean tackled the suspect in custody at the police station.  They
had come to the same conclusion: certifiable but soul intact.  The girl was on
suicide watch at Presence Covenant, the mental ward, restrained and sedated.
“Okay,” Sam said, pushing his half-eaten plate away to the side and looking
right at her, his intense focus making her turn her head away, avoiding his
scrutiny.  “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” she answered, not even convincing herself.
“Did something happen?  With Dean?” he asked, and Delilah couldn’t help but
look up at him, hypnotized by the flecks of golden brown and green struggling
to pierce through the currently grey irises.  “What did the jerk do this time?”
Half-heartedly, Delilah relayed to Sam some of the things Dean had told her
that morning in the motel parking lot, feeling her insides writhe and then
deflate as the dark cloud brought on by those same words became heavier.  When
she was done, Sam swore emphatically.
“Again?  Why do you put up with his bullshit, Delilah?”  Sam reached across the
table suddenly, but ended up grabbing the salt and shaking it over his plate of
fries without eating them.  Had he been about to take her hand, she wondered,
confused and… disappointed?
She drew her hands away and stuck them safely in her lap as she leaned back
against the booth’s padded backrest, frowning in confusion as odd feelings
stirred in her stomach.  “It’s not him Sam.  It’s that mark on his arm.  It’s
changing him, making him say and do those things.”
Sam didn’t respond, he fixed her with his unwavering stare, making her
uncomfortable, and something else too she just couldn’t put her finger on.  Her
brain was such mush, it didn’t mean anything.  She met his gaze and felt a jolt
go through her, her heart giving a harder thump suddenly.  What the hell?
“Delilah, listen to me.  Dean doesn’t need the mark to be violent and cruel. 
It’s a cop out.  He’s being an asshole because that’s what he is… a fucking
asshole.  You deserve better.”
Delilah looked down again.  Better?  What was better?  This was what she
wanted.  Dean was what she wanted.  Sam was wrong, it was the mark making him
act out.
“We should get back to the case,” Delilah said, trying to distract herself away
from her problems.
                                       ~
Sam and Delilah walked into the motel room.  While they had stopped for lunch,
Dean had gone to the morgue and found nothing supernatural about the dead body:
shot in the chest, point blank, just like the report said.  With the soul
harvesting off the table, they were now looking at possession or witchcraft. 
Dean was going to look around the girls’ apartments, see if he couldn’t find
hex bags, sulfur or get an EMF reading.  She and Sam were going to hit the
local hangout spots, see if they could get more information on the two people
they had identified as victims of whatever was going on.  They needed to change
into more casual clothes, hopefully blending better with the college crowd, and
not drawing the ghost/demon/witch’s notice before they were ready.
She was somewhat relieved that she hadn’t crossed paths with the older
Winchester since that morning.  No matter how she had justified his behaviour,
she didn’t think she could take another spat of verbal abuse.  The uncanny
resemblance between Dean’s behaviour and her father had thrown her for a loop. 
Not that she was really surprised, she tended to attract that kind of man.  It
was what she deserved after all.  She shook herself again, chasing away the
dark thought.  You deserve better, she heard Sam say again, even if she wasn’t
convinced.
Delilah rummaged through her bag containing her clothes and pulled out her
jeans and a thin, loose knit merlot-coloured shirt she liked to wear over tank
tops because of the way it hung off her shoulder.  “Like the slut you are,” her
father sneered at her and she shuddered, putting the shirt down.  Where were
these memories coming from?  Dean’s behaviour that morning must have jogged a
few things loose.
Movement on Sam’s side of the room caught her attention and she turned her head
just as he removed the white t-shirt he had been wearing under his dress
shirt.  Delilah couldn’t tear her eyes away even as she told herself to stop
staring.  The late afternoon light seeping into the room through the thin
curtains was dim, but the lamps gave off a golden glow that outlined each of
Sam’s well-developed muscles, as well as the patch of dark, curly hair on his
chest tapering off to a fine line down the centre of his stomach and
disappearing under the waistband of his pants.  There really wasn’t a scrap of
loose skin on him: an Adonis carved out of marble.  As she watched, he shook
the hair out of his face and caught her staring at him.  Delilah turned her
head away quickly, already feeling the blush on her cheeks.  Get it together,
Delilah.  It’s Sam: your friend and Dean’s brother.  And you don’t deserve
either one of them.
She felt his warm hand on her shoulder before she even realized he had moved. 
She stiffened in surprise but didn’t fight him when he gently turned her
towards him.  He leaned down, his fingertips holding her nape through her hair
and when his lips connected to hers, she was standing on tiptoes reaching for
him, her head tilted way back to accommodate his height.
What the fuck are you doing?  she demanded of herself even as she opened her
mouth and pressed her lips against his.  It was like she couldn’t control
herself.  But she knew that wasn’t really true.  She wanted this, and had for a
while now, she realized.  Slut.  His hands moved down her shoulder blades and
she raised her arms to his bare chest automatically, then swept them up to his
broad shoulders and down his upper arms, feeling the firm curves of his fit
body.  He hooked under her arms and raised her effortlessly off the ground, his
arms bulging under her fingers.  She wrapped her legs around his waist as he
held her tightly.  Their kissing became ravenous and she felt the growing
desperation inside her even as she continued to yell at herself to stop before
it was too late, and yet another part of her gave in.  She needed Sam’s gentle
friendship, she couldn’t lose him like she was losing Dean, and if sex was what
he wanted, well she could give that to him.  What else are yougood for anyways?
She squeezed her eyes against the prickling of tears and threw herself into the
kiss.  Sam moved them to the bed on the left side of the room and they fell,
tangled together, his body pressing down on hers, his large hands holding her
head, sweeping her hair away from her face.  He pushed his hips against hers
and she gasped.  Dear God, was there any part of him that wasn’t huge?
His mouth left her lips and sucked and nibbled down her throat and lower still
as he unbuttoned her shirt, revealing more skin to nip and taste.  He sat back
on his heels, pulling her into his lap as his lips pressed against her mouth
once more.  She rocked against him, feeling him through their pants again, her
own sex responding with a throb. He pulled her shirt off her arms and unclasped
her bra, sending both garments flying off to the side somewhere.  Delilah clung
to his broad shoulders and ran her hands up and down his arms as his mouth
resumed its exploration of her freshly bared breasts.  He wasn’t gentle as he
kneaded her and pulled at her nipples with his teeth and she gasped at the mix
of pleasure and pain.  She grabbed a handful of his long hair and pulled his
head back up from her breast with a sharp tug, returning his rough play,
pressing her mouth to his throat with a quick lick and suck.  She ran her nails
down his back, before trailing her mouth up towards his jaw, his five o’clock
shadow rough against her lips and making them tingle.  He turned his head and
seized her mouth forcefully, as he ran his hands all over her, kneading her
flesh and leaving hot trails in their wake that turned to goosebumps as his
hands moved on.
Delilah leaned back onto the bed, arching her back as Sam’s large hands
smoothed down the middle of her chest and flat stomach.  When he reached her
belt, she pushed her hips upwards and he lost no time pulling the stiff fabric
through the buckle and removing the last of her clothes, standing at the end of
the bed to pull her pants and undies down her legs.  She leaned up on her
elbows, one leg dangling over the edge of the mattress, her other foot propped
up while his eyes ran all over her exposed body, clearly enjoying the sight. 
Her whole body was tingling, her hard nipples reaching for him, it seemed. 
Delilah wanted more of his rough touch, she wanted his teeth scraping and
biting at her skin.  “You like it rough you little whore, you like feeling my
cock rip through your tight little cunt.  Stop crying!"
Delilah felt the memory tear through her, the sting of the slap on her face
fresh as if it had just happened but she was determined to ignore the intrusion
of her past, sitting up on the edge of the bed.  She grabbed Sam’s hips and
pulled him a step closer to her, his hair falling in front of his face as he
looked down at her.  She turned her attention back to the impressive bulge in
his pants.  She quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his charcoal trousers,
letting them drop to the floor as she stretched the black elastic band on his
dark grey boxer briefs, pulling it down to free his swollen member.  She pushed
the boxers down his impossibly long legs, bringing her face close to his pelvis
and laying soft kisses at the base of his cock, then wetting him with her
tongue as he bent his knees to get out of his clothes, pulling away from her
teasing mouth with a groan.  He leaned his hand down on the mattress to remove
his socks while she tried to imagine how he would feel pushing inside her. The
feel of Dean’s cock, thrusting into her while he moaned in her ear suddenly
came to her, and she shooed it away, guiltily.
Sam straightened up again, having freed himself of the last of his clothes, and
she wrapped her hands around his erection, a gap remaining between her thumb
and the tip of her fingers.  She stroked him, forcing herself back to the
moment.  He leaned down, putting his hands on either side of her and seized her
mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth to explore
her mouth.  His right hand left the mattress and smoothed up her thigh as she
squeezed and tugged at him.  When he reached her hip, he stroked down her panty
line with his finger.  Delilah could feel her body react to the touch as her
juices flowed and her sex throbbed.  He slipped a finger along her slit and
pushed past her lips and inside her, his head pulling back with a smile.
“You’re ready for me, aren’t you?” he whispered, “You want this so badly,” he
said before slamming his mouth back against hers and slipping a second finger
into her and pushing them deep inside.  She moaned and rocked her hips as he
hooked his long fingers and rubbed against her sensitive spot, sending hot,
fluttery ripples through her.  She gasped and moaned against his mouth, rocking
her hips against his hand.  His fingers made wet sucking sounds as he drove
them into her.  She was so ready for more.  She scooted backwards away from the
edge of the bed, to lay back against the pillows.  Sam crawled on after her,
his large frame hanging over her, his hair swaying in front of his focused
stare.  He lay on his side beside her and kissed her again, his teeth scraping
at her lips, his hand on her ribs just below her breast.  She pushed her tongue
past his lips and into his mouth to taste him but she drew back, missing the
taste of whiskey she had become accustomed to with his brother.
Delilah shook the imposter away again and re-focused on Sam as his hand
wandered down her side and squeezed her thigh before running his fingers up
through her wet folds again and pressing against her clit, slicking it up. She
gasped, his touch sending little shocks through her.  He slicked her lips too,
pushing inside her then wetting her in quick sweeps and thrusting back inside. 
It felt so good, and she started squeezing his fingers every time they pushed
in, moving her hips against his hand, his ministrations only making her yearn
for more.
“Sam,” she whispered his name against his lips and squeezed her thighs around
his hand.  When he pulled back to look at her, shaking the hair out of his face
again, a question in his eyes, she smiled and smoothed her hand down the length
of his body, sitting up to reach far enough to grab hold of his cock again, the
throbbing shaft impossibly large in her hand.  She rolled Sam onto his back and
threw her leg over his hips.  She saw herself and Sam fighting for gummy bears
in his bed back at the bunker, oh so long ago, and she wondered why it had
taken them so long to end up like this.
She lined up with him, staring into his eyes, the lighting making them almost
the exact same shade of green as his brother.  She tore her gaze away and
looked down at his stomach rolling with his quick, expectant breaths.  She
pressed his tip against her wet sex, excitement and a little exhilaration
rising in her as she looked down his chiseled chest and abs.  She slowly
started to press down on him in stages, bearing down and raising herself back
up, each time taking a little more of him in as his girth stretched her not
quite painfully.  He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, lying perfectly still
as she raised herself back up to the tip and sank back down, pushing him in
deeper still.  God, this felt-- “You're just a common whoring bitch, Delilah. 
Just look at you.  You think they love you?  They can’t.  There’s nothing to
love, because you’re nothing!”
Delilah sobbed and forced herself away from the memory.  She kept moving her
body automatically, hoping Sam hadn’t noticed her hesitation.  She pushed down
hard on his cock, feeling him butt against her cervix painfully, piercing
through the haze of pleasure, and she cried out softly, but she kept going,
moving faster, ignoring the pain cutting through her as she took all of him
inside.  “You like the pain, you little whore.” The fat jowls of their landlord
jiggling like sweaty Jell-O overher barely pubescent body as she cried and
tried to fight him off, the rank smell of tobacco and beer seeping from his
skin.
She forced herself to keep going, glancing up at Sam: his eyes squeezed shut,
his mouth open as he gasped and groaned with each of her movements, clearly
oblivious to her struggle with her demons.  His breathing was becoming more
ragged as he neared his climax and Delilah pushed herself, her own pleasure
completely disregarded, the pain ignored, as she increased her speed, pushing
down on him harder, faster, squeezing him, her only goal to let him find his
release.   His jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together until finally he
let out a low, guttural cry, his hands grabbing her thighs and digging into her
as she continued to fuck him through his orgasm.
She slowed down as he opened his eyes, his muscles relaxing as he tried to
catch his breath.  She slowed to a stop, keeping him inside a little longer
before she shifted over to the side, his quickly softening cock slipping out of
her and she felt the sharp, pulling pain of a tear even as she felt his warm
semen start to pool.  “Tell your father you can stay another month. But then I
want both your disgusting, leeching asses out of here.”
She sat beside Sam, her legs bent to the side as she stared at him absently,
lost in the long-ago memory.
“Delilah,” he said, sitting up and leaning his hand against the side of her
face.  The fist knocked her head sideways, Dean walking around her and out the
dingy washroom.  “Are you ok?” “Did I hurt you?” Dean choked out the question,
leaning on the sink back at the bunker.
She didn’t think she could talk without her voice shaking. What had she done? 
She raised her hand and slowly passed it through Sam’s soft brown hair, placing
a strand that was sticking out at an angle, desperately trying to suppress the
panic that was rising in her.   She stood up from the bed and walked into the
bathroom, closing the door behind her.  She leaned against the sink and looked
into the small, motel bathroom mirror.  The girl with the hollowed-out soul
looking back at her was so familiar.  This little girl had been beaten and
raped and made to feel like she was worthless.  The little girl who hid herself
away in her fairy tales, waiting for a prince to save her.  But she didn’t
deserve to be saved.  All these years and still, she knew, no one was going to
bother coming to her rescue… no one cared enough to notice that she needed
rescuing in the first place.  Tears ran down her face, hot and wet like the
semen down her leg.
Her father was right, Dean was right.  She was nothing, worthless.
                                       ~
Her stomach churned.  Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down,
painfully, as she spotted Dean jaywalking across the rain slicked, lamplit
street to join her and Sam.  They had found a common element between Dean’s
tossing of the apartments and the information she and Sam had gathered from the
two girls’ friends.  They should have figured it out sooner, all the posters
and advertisements around town were a dead give-away.  There was a travelling
antiques convention rolling through Champaign and as it turned out, where it
went, a string of assaults, murders and suicides followed.  The answer had been
right there all along… or so she thought, but nothing had come of their search
inside.  Dean was looking angry, his brow furrowed as he glared at her, and she
took an involuntary step back as he drew up to them.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he barked at her and she couldn’t help the
tremors in her body, the scarred psyche of the abused teen she had hidden away
so deeply for so long now running the show, making her forget the strong
independent woman she thought she had become.  The memory of Dean pushing her
to the ground and then striking her was running on repeat in her head while her
brain screamed at her to get as far away from him as possible, yet her body
could not move.
Sam turned towards her a bit, his face contorted in disgust and Delilah quaked
again, “I dunno.  She’s been like this since--" He trailed off, twitching his
eyebrows and quirking his lip suggestively.  Delilah backed away horrified as
another memory surfaced, an almost perfect mirror of the conversation: her
father and the assholes he played poker with talking about passing her around
like a piece of meat.  She was fifteen at the time and beaten well into
submission by then, forced to serve them beers while they ran their hands all
over her and her father stared ahead drunkenly as if she wasn’t there.
“Yeah?  ‘Bout time you fucked her.  She’s not a bad piece of ass.  Not worth
the trouble though, needy as fuck this one.”  Dean’s words cut into her and she
took another step back, wrapping her arms around her stomach tightly as it
heaved, flooding her mouth with bile again.
“Dude, I think I broke her,” Sam said, laughing.
Finally, her body kicked into motion and she took off running down the road,
tears streaming down her face, the cold air whipping her hair around her head,
nearly blinding her.  She ran straight through several intersections, not
caring about the honking cars, not caring if one of them hit her, in her
intense need to get away from the men she had thought were her friends, but
were turning into the monsters of her childhood.
She ran all the way to the motel, chased by her memories: her father beating
her and calling her a slut and a whore, yet forcing her to entertain his
buddies.  The parade of men in their forties and fifties using her and passing
her around, sometimes gang raping her.  The line of younger men, later on in
college, that she slept with, by then the only way she knew how to connect with
others, but with whom she was unable to form lasting attachments.  Their faces
and words swam up in her mind and mixed with Sam and Dean, the men she had
become bound to through friendship and love.  It was becoming increasingly
clear that she had made it all up in her own head.  Everything was adding up to
one truth, what she had been told time and again throughout her life: she was
worthless.
She unlocked the motel room door and slammed it shut behind her, slipping the
chain latch in place and leaning against the thick wood panel like it would
save her from the pictures and voices in her head.  Tears were streaming down
her face and she was sobbing violently.  She made her way to the bed closest to
the door, and sat down on the edge of it, staring at the bed beside it, the
sheets neatly tucked in like nothing had happened there earlier.
She sobbed again, remembering what Sam had just said, as he casually discussed
having sex with her with his brother, the whole thing nightmarish.  Her father
had been right all those years ago, she was nothing but a worthless slut.  A
body wired for sex without a brain or a soul.  An empty shell, with nothing in
it worthy of anybody’s love.
The tears stopped running down her cheeks as she fully absorbed everything and
a calmness came over her.  She knew what she had to do.  It was so clear now,
like the idea had suddenly emerged from the deepest part of her mind and
grabbed hold of every piece of her.  She looked down at her hands, noticing a
strange weight to them, and saw Dean’s gun resting there.  She ran her fingers
over the scroll detailing on the barrel and the smooth ivory grip and smiled. 
She was glad it would be his gun.  She released the clip and checked that it
was loaded then clicked it back into place, pulling back on the hammer.  She
looked down at it almost lovingly.  She was looking forward to meeting her
reaper, maybe he’d agree to toss her into oblivion.  Not like she deserved it
really, but her whole life had already been hellish enough, the thought of an
eternity more, just… It would be what you deserve you filthy murdering whore. 
Your mother would still be alive if it weren’t for you.
Suddenly, the door behind her burst open, startling her.  Sam came charging
into the room and stopped dead, staring at what she was holding in her hands. 
“Delilah, what are you waiting for?  Do it.”
“I know, Sam!  I’m sorry, I know."  She felt the hot tears roll down her cheeks
again, knowing for sure now, that no one was going to stop her.
“You’re cursed, Delilah!  Stop, stalling.  Get it over with.”
Delilah sobbed and raised the gun to her temple, the metal and ivory much
heavier than she thought it would be as her hand shook and she stretched her
index finger along the barrel, just over the trigger.
Sam suddenly grabbed her, pulled the gun out of her hand, slipped the hammer
back in place and clicked on the safety.  Delilah stared at him confused as he
tucked the gun in the back of his belt and he kneeled in front of her, holding
her shoulders tightly.
“Delilah, listen to me.  You’re cursed, worthless.  None of it is real.  No one
could possible love you enough to save you.”
“I know, Sam!” she screamed at him, her voice rough from the crying.  “Give me
the gun and I’ll finish it.  Why did you stop me?”
“Delilah!” Sam shook her and she grew terrified that he would hit her too.  No
more pain!  She’d had enough!  “Try to understand what I’m saying.  You’re not
worth saving.  You’re useless.”
Something pierced through the fog caused by the memories and dark thoughts
rolling around in her head.  There was something off about the sound of Sam’s
words.  You’re reaching, Delilah.  No one’s going to save you.  Why would they
want to?  She shook her head, trying to clear it.  Sam squeezed her shoulders
and she looked up at him, the light in the room, although it was dim before,
looked bright, over saturating everything and making the edges of the things in
the room blurry, but Sam was clear as he looked intensely into her eyes and
called her name again.  What was this?  He became blurry again.
“Just do it, I don’t have all day and I’m gonna have to clean up the mess you
make,” he said, his voice sounding strangely hollow.  “Focus, Delilah, fight
it,” he went on clear as a bell.
Cursed, you’re cursed, Delilah. She slammed her hands against the side of her
head, in confusion and frustration, the voices bouncing around loudly and
drowning out her own thoughts.  She felt Sam pull her into his arms and hold
her tightly.  “Just hold on.  Just a little longer.  Dean will make it right.”
She wanted so badly to believe him, but the voices were stronger, all the
people in her life, all of them parading through her head and yelling at her to
do it already, to kill herself.
“No,” she moaned, “Nothing can make it right, Sam.  You’re right. I’m broken.”
“Dean will fix it,” he repeated.
Delilah just couldn’t reconcile the idea, why would he even want to fix it? 
“No, even if he does, I’m better off dead.  We can never go back to the way
things were.  Some things just can’t be undone.”
Sam put his hands on her shoulders again and looked her in the eyes.  “Delilah,
whatever you think happened, it wasn’t real.  It didn’t mean anything. How
could it?  You’re no more important than a blow-up sex doll.”
Delilah closed her eyes, trying to focus only on the part of Sam that was
clear, ignoring the dreamlike, blurry parts, but it was hard, her brain and
soul believing so much more easily the things blurring in her head.  She tried
to make Sam understand.
“Dean won’t want me anymore.  Not after what we did.”  She gestured between the
two of them and then looked at the bed, feeling another sob well up inside her
as she realized just how badly she had screwed up.  She chose to ignore Sam’s
confused, pitying look, just wishing he would go away so she could get this
stupid, useless life over with.
Sam’s phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket hurriedly.  He tapped the
button and stood up as he stuck it to his ear.
“Did you find it?”  He paused, then looked back at Delilah.  “Naw man, won’t be
long now.  Just waiting for her to get it over with.”
Delilah squeezed her eyes shut and turned away, lying down on her side, hiding
her face in her hands, it wasn’t real, she told herself.
“Of course, it’s not real.  None of it was real.”
No!  Delilah let out a cry as she clearly heard Adriel’s high, bored voice. 
She squeezed her eyes more tightly, praying the illusion would go away… because
of course it was an illusion.  She had killed the angel herself when she had
escaped the cell they had been keeping her in while they questioned her about
Castiel.
“Escaped?  No, not escaped.  You’ve been here with me this whole time.”
Delilah opened her eyes and found herself manacled to a structure beam in a
dingy basement storage room, with red blood pooled and congealing around her. 
She screamed, unable to hold it back, the horror of once again being trapped
with the psychotic, sadistic angel truly terrifying.  The petite, spiky haired
girl with the ice blue eyes was sitting on the little table with the silver
tray of instruments.  She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers at
Delilah as she stared on in wide-eyed horror, fighting the wave of nausea. 
Delilah closed her eyes again tightly, hoping against hope the apparition would
be gone when she opened them again.
She couldn’t hear the angel and she began to think that maybe, just maybe…. She
slowly opened one eye, only to find herself nose-to-nose with her nightmare. 
She screamed again and struggled against her bindings as the angel cut her
slowly with an angel blade, a shallow, burning cut down her stomach and past
her belt.  Delilah looked around frantically for the tell-tale sign that this
was another illusion.  She was looking for that overly bright light, the dream-
like overexposure.
“Tsk, tsk, no, Delilah.  You’re not going to find that here.  This is the real
world little girl.  But I have enjoyed watching you create your own personal
Heaven… or Hell.  I’m still not sure.  The whole Mark of Cain thing was truly
inspired, where in the world did you get that idea?”
Delilah’s insides writhed.  This couldn’t be real, she told herself again, but
she was losing confidence.  Maybe she really had never left.
“You know what I find most fascinating about you?” Adriel continued in her
incongruously girlish voice, “You could have had, whatever you wanted.  I gave
you the tools, let you run the show, but you didn’t imagine yourself a world
where you were happy…. No, you crave pain.”  It’s what you deserve you little
slut.  “You seriously cannot imagine a world where you are not suffering. 
Because you know it’s what you get.  No blissful happiness for Delilah
McAllister.  Only pain, and torture and self-loathing.”
Delilah felt the tears roll warm paths down her cheeks.  It was true.  She
didn’t deserve happiness.  She had to pay. Pay for what had happened to her
mother because of her.  She had tried to bury all that away, but the pain of
her death, and the abuse that followed had been hounding her ever since.  She
could never escape from that, just like she could never escape from this room. 
No prince came to her rescue back then, and she would only die here, over and
over until Adriel grew bored with her.
Adriel straightened up and nodded, pulling away the blade, satisfied.  “See? 
That wasn’t so hard, was it?  But you got one thing wrong.  If being inside
your head showed me anything, it’s that you really don’t know where Castiel
is.  And so, you’re completely useless to us.  This time, when I kill you? 
It’ll be for good.  And I will so gladly hand over your soul to those bastard
demons in Hell, so they can continue to flay and sear you, for all eternity. 
Just desserts.”
Delilah hung her head, resigned to her fate, and waited for the final plunge of
the blade into her heart.  A moment passed, and then another without anything
happening and she wondered why the angel was stalling.  She didn’t dare open
her eyes.  But when nothing continued to happen, she cracked them open slowly.
The eyes that stared back weren’t cold or blue, they were warm and green and
wide with concern.  The floor tipped beneath her feet and she was seized with
an intense vertigo as the world adjusted itself and she found herself lying in
a motel bed instead of standing chained to a column in a bloody dungeon. 
Dean’s hands were on her face as she focused on him, the feel of his calloused
skin, the heat from his body lying alongside her.
“Lilah?  You with me?” he asked her, the ache in his voice pulling at her, even
as her brain fought against what her senses were telling it.  This was all a
dream, part of that torture Adriel had come up with.  She didn’t deserve to be
saved.
“Are you… real?” she asked him, even as she realized the futility of asking a
dream if it was real.
“Yes, Lilah,” he said emphatically as he wrapped his arms around her and held
her tightly against him.  “The curse is done.”
He felt so warm, so comforting, so familiar.  For a moment, he was too good to
be true, but then, the day started playing in reverse in her head, the true
events surfacing and dimming the overexposed picture of hopelessness the curse
had created for her.
Dean holding on to her as she fought against him, while Sam painted symbols on
a box, the mirror peeking out of Dean's oil stained, black and grey paisley
bandana, on the table beside him.
“Did you find it?” Sam asked his brother on the phone, “I don’t know how long
she can hold out.  Hurry man.”
“Focus, Delilah, fight it.  Dean just needs time to find the cursed object. 
Hold on.”
The motel door sprang open, Sam charging into the room, terror on his face as
his eyes trained on her gun in her hands, “Delilah wait!  Don’t do it.”
On the street, outside the convention centre where the antiques were displayed,
“What’s wrong, Lilah?” Dean had asked her.  “I dunno, she’s been kind of out of
it since we got out of there.  I’m worried,” Sam had said.  “You think maybe
she found the cursed object?”
She had been walking around the different antiques on display when she noticed
a Victorian looking hand mirror with a delicate silver filigree and roses
pattern on the handle and around the glass.  Just under the oval, the ancient
Greek word ἀλήθεια .  Truth.
They had gone back to the motel after visiting the girl in the hospital. 
“Maybe, what we're looking for is a cursed object,” Sam said, changing into a
plaid shirt.  “What does that do?” she asked him.  He then told her all about
the different cursed objects they had come across in the past few years: a
rabbit’s foot that made the owner impossibly lucky, until it was taken from
him, an ancient coin that granted your wishes but then made them turn bad,
ballet shoes that made a ballerina dance her own feet off, a kettle that made
you drink its boiling water, a gramophone that made you kill and an old nudie
magazine that she did not want to know did what.
And she had woken up that morning to Dean sitting on the edge of the bed,
rubbing his arm.  She had laid a hand on his shoulder gently.  “Are you okay?”
she had asked.  “Can’t sleep,” had come his answer.  She had pulled him back
under the covers and kissed him, drawing him away from the dark mood that
usually hounded him when the mark was acting up.  They had made-out quietly,
pressed together on the motel bed while Sam slept a few feet away, until Dean
finally tore himself away, saying he was going to go have a coffee.
She looked into Dean’s green eyes, lying on the cheap motel’s scratchy blanket,
and kissed him, relieved, in that moment, that he was still hers.  She would
worry about the things the mirror had shown her later, but for now, let her
have him, just like this, at least for a little while, even if she didn't
deserve it.
                                       ⭐
***** All Along the Watchtower *****
There must be some way out of this,
Said the Joker to the Thief,
There's too much confusion,
I can't get no relief.
 
Rain pattered gently on the bus window.  Dawn was breaking, cold and grey, as
Delilah looked absently at the barren, late March, Kansas fields lining the
highway, the hint of new-growth green barely visible, the grey sky looming and
forbidding.  It was strange to Delilah how she could remember both what had
really happened and how the mirror had twisted it into the nightmare that had
nearly pushed her to take her own life.  Even though she could tell the
difference between the real memories and the fake ones, she still remembered
them both as having actually happened, like a dream so vivid you mistake it for
a memory.  She wondered briefly if that's how it was with Sam and his year
spent body and soul separated.  Sam.  The weight of his body pressing down on
her, his mouth, hot and demanding against hers.  Delilah squeezed her eyes shut
and rubbed the heel of her palms into them tiredly.
"What's wrong, Delilah?  Where are you going?" Sam asked her as she walked away
from the motel room, leaving her suitcase behind with the Winchesters, her
messenger bag slung across her shoulders with the pretext of getting some
coffee.  Sam had caught on more quickly than his brother though and had come
after her.
She turned and looked at the tall man that she had, up till now, considered her
closest friend, even thought of like a brother, but the memory of them together
in bed had changed that.  When she looked at him, she could feel him on her
skin: his body, his hands, his mouth.  And she could also feel how her body had
reacted to him, how even now, she had to hold back, afraid to touch him.  She
closed her eyes and shuddered.
"I just need to be alone, Sam.  Please," she told him.
"What did the curse do to you?" he asked her, his voice laced with worry and
concern.  He pushed on when she didn't answer. "Was it like with the angels? 
Did it show you things from when you were a kid?"
Damn Sam and his fucking memory, Delilah thought.  Maybe she could tell him. 
He had understood before when she had told him about her twisted adolescence…
maybe he could understand this….
Delilah turned and looked at him and the memory of their having sex went
through her again, sending chills down her back, and a throb to her lower
regions.  She looked away.
"I'm sorry.  I can't talk to you about this.  I just need some space, okay?"
"Um, yeah," he said, sounding completely confused and a little hurt, "Whatever
you need.  Um, what do you want me to tell Dean?"
Tell him I don't deserve him, just like I don't deserve your kindness.  Delilah
cringed.  It had taken her years to stop thinking that way, and now, just like
that, it was back.  "Just tell him I'll see you guys back at the bunker."
She had made her way to the bus station, bought a ticket to Junction City,
after which she would have to hitch her way north to Lebanon.  She was nearly
at her bus stop now, having survived, intact, the ride through Kansas City,
where her very real abusive past had taken place.
That was part of why this whole situation with the cursed mirror was so
intense.  It hadn't invented anything, merely dredged up her most painful
memories and made them fresh, twining them with the present and pointing out
similarities that she had not noticed before.  Had they been there before?  She
wasn't sure of anything anymore.
The bus dropped her off and she decided to wait out the rain a bit by having
breakfast.  She ran through the downpour and into a nearby diner.  There
weren't too many patrons in the place on a Friday morning, the early bird rush
already over.  She sat down in a booth that gave her a view on the morning
traffic through Junction City and checked the time on her phone, only to find a
couple of voicemails waiting for her.  The first one was from Dean.
"Hey. Uh… yeah, hey.  So… Sam tells me you took off.  Needed space, or some
horseshit.  I coulda kicked his ass for letting you g… Look. Uh, I don't know
what happened, or what you saw, but I know it wasn't all rainbows and kittens. 
I just… wish… uh.  I just don't think it was a good idea, taking off on your
own.  So, look.  Just let me know when you get in.  It'd be nice to know you
didn't get kidnapped or killed, or whatever.  Um… yeah."
The message ended informing her that she had received the voicemail shortly
after she had gotten on the bus in Champaign.  The second message was from Sam.
"Hey!  So, I hope you're okay.  Look, we caught another hunt.  Some guy in
Chicago says his girlfriend was killed by a faceless monster with claws last
night.  The description in the report doesn't match anything we know, but
they've got the kid at one of the precincts.  We're gonna try to get there
before they send him home, see what we're dealing with.  Anyways, I'm guessing
we won't be back for a couple of days.  Call us if you need anything.  Let me
know when you get in.  Bye."
She didn't know what to think. Or what to do.  She decided to ignore it until
she got home.  Nearly eight hours later though, as she trudged into the bunker,
wet, cold and completely exhausted from her hitchhiking, she found that she
still didn't have any answers to the messed-up questions in her head, and she
still had no idea how she was supposed to tell Sam and Dean about what she had
seen and felt while trapped in the curse.  She dug her phone out of her pocket
reluctantly and typed two words in a message to Dean: Home.  Safe.
She headed for her room to grab her sleepwear and drop her bag and weapons
before heading to the shower room, already imagining the hot water leaving wet
trails down her body, warming up her cold skin like Sam's hands had.
She shook herself, feeling ashamed for the thought while reminding herself, yet
again, that it had not happened.  From her jean pocket, she heard the familiar
rhythm of her ringtone and pulled it out, checking the caller I.D.
"Of course, it's Sam," Delilah mumbled to herself as she accepted the call. 
"Hey," she said, "How's Chicago?" she quickly added to avoid talking about
anything else.  She didn't think it was a coincidence that he had called her
right when she had texted his brother.
After a short hesitation, Sam started talking.  "Weird.  Something strange is
definitely going on."
"Well, you're a small-town kid.  Pretty rural.  I'm sure a big city like
Chicago must be pretty overwhelming."
"Har, har," he said sarcastically.  "I'm glad you're feeling better.  I know
Dean was relieved to hear you got home safe."
"Yup."  Delilah sat on the end of her bed and looked around at her room
distractedly, trying not to focus too much on any one particular thing.  "So,
did you find out anything from the kid in custody?"
"Yeah, turns out last night, he and his girlfriend were outside this fancy
restaurant when this creature shows up out of nowhere and kills the girlfriend
and this other guy."
"Shit."
"I think she just got caught in the crosshairs.  It looks like this guy, Sal
Lassiter, was the real target.  I checked out his corpse, shapeshifter."
"What?  So, your shapeshifter takes on Sal Lassiter's I.D. and gets killed… Was
the shifter the target or this Lassiter?"
"It's kinda hard to kill a shapeshifter by accident, my money's on the shifter
being the target."
"So, we got a monster-killing monster?  What the hell?"
"Dunno.  From the kid's description, this thing sounds new."
"Or Freddy Krugger," came Dean's voice in the background.
Delilah smiled involuntarily and she suddenly felt a strong yearning to see
him.  Why did she leave him?  Are you so stupid that you actually believe I
care about you?  Confusion flooded her head, making it throb painfully. 
Delilah lay back on her mattress and closed her eyes, the phone still against
her ear.  "Ok, do you want me to look it up here?"
"If you feel up to it."
Delilah sighed, "I'm not sick Sam.  I can still do my job."
"Ok.  Just-- What?" Sam's voice became fainter suddenly, he obviously was
talking to someone else.  All she could hear was some indistinct mumbling, then
Sam came back. "Dean wants to talk to you.  Just a sec."
Delilah took a deep breath; suddenly afraid he was going to yell at her.  It
wasn't real, Dee.  Chill.
"Lilah--" he started, but she cut him off.
"I don't wanna fight," she said quickly, then more softly, begging, "Please,
Dean."
There was a pause and she could hear the crunching of gravel under his feet.
"Are you okay, baby?  You just took off without saying anything."
Delilah smiled at the softness of his tone. "No, I'm not okay.  But I will be. 
I just need time to get my head straight.  I can still help out though.  Tell
me about this monster you're hunting."
"Okay," he said grudgingly with a sigh.  "We're hunting a creature that has no
face and long claws.  Super-strength, and seems to go after shifters.  Or I
dunno, monsters in general maybe."
"Why do you say that?"
"We checked out the restaurant Sal Lassiter was at before he got ganked and the
place looked normal enough except we found this hidden club in the back."
"Hidden?  Like a speak-easy?"
"Like a monster V.I.P. room.  The place was a mess, whatever killed Lassiter
did a real number on that club too.  We killed a vamp there who was about to
chomp on that kid."
Delilah sat up surprised.  "You brought the kid with you?"
"What? No! You nuts? 'Course not.  We sent him home but he keeps popping up."
"It's annoying when they do that," Delilah said, smiling into the phone,
thinking about how they had bumped into each other on a hunt.
"Tell me about it.  We had to adopt the last one who kept showing up.  Now she
eats our food, and spends our money."
"And invades your bed.  Sounds awful."  Of course, you mention that, all you
ever think about is sex.  It's all you're good for.  Delilah winced at her
inner monologue.  She took a deep breath and rolled over onto her side, curling
her legs towards her chest.
"I really wish you hadn't run off, Lilah."  There was a pause, maybe he was
expecting her to comment or to explain herself, but she couldn't.  Not yet. 
Dean went back to talking about the case.  "Anyways, when Sam checked out this
Lassiter's corpse, he found out some other dude, Julian Duvall, dropped three
grand to see the body.  So now, we're staking out the place.  It's a fucking
castle.  Rich fucking assholes."
"I don't know if I'll find anything on this monster you're hunting, there's not
much to go on.  If you find out anything else--" A far-away scream followed by
a gunshot from Dean's end reached her ear.  "What was that?" she asked quickly.
"I gotta go, babe," he said hurriedly.
The call disconnected and she let her phone drop to the mattress, feeling the
adrenaline flood her system, the quietness of the bunker so incongruous,
especially knowing Sam and Dean were most likely in full action mode.  She also
knew there was no point in sitting by the phone worrying.  She might as well go
ahead and do what she had been planning to do before the call.
The shower was too hot, the water stinging her skin wherever it touched her and
turning it red, but she relished the pain, imagining it burning off the feel of
those planted memories and leaving her new and untouched, purified.  She only
wished it could do the same to her brain.
When she got back to her room, she checked her phone but there were no texts or
missed calls.  The exhaustion from what had happened in Champaign overwhelmed
her suddenly and she realized that she hadn't slept in nearly two days.  She
crawled under her blankets, plugging her phone by the bed and passed out.
                                       ~
She woke up suddenly to the sound of her ringtone.  She grabbed it and hit the
answer button without looking at the I.D.
"What?" she mumbled half into the phone and half into her pillow.
"Cas got a line on Metatron.  We're headed to him now," Sam's voice said
through the phone.
Delilah startled out of bed, her mind racing, "Where?" she asked, digging a
clean pair of jeans out of her dresser and slipping them on, jamming the phone
between her ear and shoulder.  If Castiel had found Metatron, then maybe he had
found a way back into Heaven too.
"I don't know.  We're headed to Omaha.  Cas is holed up in a warehouse on the
north side."
"Did you get an address?" she pushed, pulling the t-shirt she had slept in over
her head and getting a bra from another drawer, tying it around her ribs
quickly.  She grabbed a fresh t-shirt and nearly dropped her phone putting it
on.
"Are you going too?" Sam asked her as she started looking through her messenger
bag for her gun and angel blade.
"Yeah, I'll take the Dart and meet you there."
"I thought you needed space."
Delilah stopped, her brain crashing to a standstill, her hands freezing mid-
search.  She hadn't even thought about the reason she was at the bunker while
they were out hunting, her need to be alone with her thoughts completely
eclipsed by the new situation.  Metatron meant Gadreel and Heaven, which meant
also, that Kevin and all those poor souls trapped in the veil might have a
chance at getting to where they belonged.  This was so much more important than
the bullshit floating around in her head.
"Text me the address."
                                       ~
She pulled up the car to an empty parking lot on the side of a brown brick
building with boarded up windows.  The sky was the same grey it had been for
what felt like weeks, the air heavy with humidity making it feel much colder
than it was.  Delilah stepped out of the car, grabbing her phone and putting it
in her pocket.  She reached into the backseat and grabbed her jean jacket and
hoodie, putting them on over her dark purple T-shirt.  The boys weren't there
yet, the Impala nowhere in sight, but then again, they had a much longer ride
from Chicago than she did from Kansas.
She made her way past the chain-link fence gate and towards the only visible
door beside the loading bay docks.  She walked up the couple of steps and
pulled on the rusty looking handle.  To her surprise the door swung open with a
squeal of rusty hinges, granting her easy access to the inside of the
building.  She'd have to remind Castiel about the importance of locking doors
to secret lairs, but then she noticed the different symbols on the inside walls
and she figured he had warded himself to stay below Metatron's radar… Not that
angel warding was particularly effective when it came to the super-charged
angel… God, Delilah reminded herself.
Suddenly, the inner door at the end of the narrow hallway opened and two
strangers stepped through, standing stiffly, blocking her way.  She bent her
knees and reached for her angel blade, pulling it out and pointing it at the
two.  They looked ordinary enough, one was wearing a button-down, burgundy
cotton shirt under a dark red blazer and the other had a light cable knit
sweater.  They looked like miss-matched background extras from an urban scene.
Without a word, and quick as lightning, the two guards moved in on her,
disarmed her and held her hands behind her.  Angels, she guessed as she tried
to slide her wrists free of the sweater wearing asshole's hold but found it too
strong to break.
"Um, hey guys," Delilah said, unsure, "is Castiel around?"
"Take her to the commander," the red blazer wearing angel said in a dull
neutral voice.
"Yeah, seriously," Delilah tried again, barely holding her panic at bay…
fucking angels, "Sam sent me here to meet Castiel.  Sam Winchester?" Oh, Dee…
Shut up and keep your eyes open, obviously, something's going on.
The sweater wearing angel pushed her forward, towards the door at the end of
the hall and moved her into the next room.  Delilah had no idea how to
interpret what she was looking at.  The room was enormous, once the main
warehouse storage area, but clearly, whoever this "Commander" was had re-
appropriated it as his command centre.  One wall, from floor to ceiling, had
been converted into a detailed map of the United States, with little red and
yellow lights for some of the cities and red and green lines that looked like
roads criss-crossing across the grey-black paper that covered the wall.
The room was a hive of bustling activity as people moved around working on the
map, or talking on phones, or working behind computer screens and looking at
pin boards of photos and reports.  Delilah's scalp tingled and her skin crawled
with horror: they were all angels, she knew it in her gut.  Had she walked into
a trap?  She tried again to slide her wrists free, hoping her cooperation had
lulled her captor into a false sense of confidence, but his hold was firm as
ever and she could not pull free.  Not that she knew what she would have done
if she had managed to get away from him; she was surrounded by dozens of
ordinary looking people who each had the powers and abilities to end her in a
blink.
Still pushing her ahead of him, the angel walked up a few steps towards an
elevated, glassed-in room, clearly designed for a supervisor to keep an eye on
the goings-on, although at the moment, the blinds on this side of the glass
room were drawn, hiding whoever was inside.  Delilah felt saliva flood her
mouth as nervous nausea took her while the angel reached around her and knocked
on the door twice.  It swung open slowly and she looked up to find a pair of
very large, very blue and very familiar eyes staring right into hers.
"Cas!" she cried out in relief.
"Commander," the angel holding her said, addressing Castiel, "Benjamin and I
found her trying to sneak into the building."
"I was invited, you fucktard.  If I had been trying to sneak in, you wouldn't
have caught me."
"She was carrying this stolen blade," the angel continued, handing her angel
blade to Castiel.
"I earned that.  Cas, can you please tell your monkey to let me go?"
"Yes, of course, thank you Samael.  She is a friend, not a threat.  Uh…
dismissed"
"Yes, Commander," the angel holding her said as he released her wrists. 
Delilah quickly brought her hands in front of her and rubbed at where he had
held her tightly.  Samael turned around and walked back down the steps and into
the main room.  Delilah glanced around again, in awe, now that she wasn't
desperately looking for a way out.
"What is all this, Cas?" she asked him.
"Headquarters.  Come inside and I'll explain everything." Delilah stepped into
the angel's office and he closed the door behind her.  "It's good to see you
again, Delilah," he said as he pulled her into a hug.
"Ooookay," Delilah said moving away quickly, still uncomfortable around all
angels, even Castiel. "I didn't think we were on hugging terms."
Castiel gave her a wide smile, handing back her angel blade, "Sam taught me
it's a way to give comfort, and to put one at their ease."
"Of course, he did," she mumbled absently, looking around the fish tank-like
office, slipping the blade into her belt.
"Where are they?  I was expecting all of you."
"Yeah, I was at the bunker.  Sam and Dean were hunting in Chicago.  What is
going on?  Seriously!" Delilah gestured around the room wallpapered in more
pictures and maps, including the anthill beyond the glass in her question.
"Research.  Every angel here is dedicated to helping me locate and neutralize
Metatron."
"So, they're what?  You’re army?  You're leading a faction just like Malachi?
And Bartholomew?"
"No.  They wanted to start a war.  I want to find a diplomatic way to end all
this.  Angel-on-angel violence has to stop."
"Sure.  And having a bigger army will definitely discourage the other factions
from killing more angels."
"There are no other factions.  Malachi and Bartholomew are dead.  The angels
Gadreel didn’t recruit or kill are either here or in hiding among the humans."
Delilah couldn't say if she was relieved to find out Malachi had bit the dust,
or if she was disappointed that she hadn't been the one to impale him on her
blade herself.  That the factions had been eliminated though didn't surprise
her all that much.  With Metatron as powerful as he was, the only thing that
surprised her was that he continued to tolerate their existence.
"Alright," she said with a sigh, moving up to a map on the wall and looking at
the Enochian symbols written all over it… of course they would use Enochian. 
"So, what's next?  You told Sam you had a line on the big wig, so what you
got?"
Castiel moved over to the office door and held it open, gesturing for her to
step out of his office.  She walked past the tan trench coat clad angel and
back into the main room.  Together, they walked across the warehouse floor to
one of the doors set into the back wall.  Every angel they crossed on the way
stopped what they were doing and nodded to Castiel as they passed.  It was
almost creepy how these creatures, soldiers, had so quickly rallied behind the
blue-eyed Castiel.  One had to wonder about their quick allegiance.  A black-
haired and deep blue-eyed angel in blue jeans, cuffs rolled up to her ankles,
combat boots and a grey blazer over a shirt and a black sweater, walked up to
them suddenly, making Delilah fidget slightly.  She was pretty, even if she did
seem to have Castiel's propensity for intense, lingering stares.  Her watered
down modern punk style was very odd when paired with the angel attitude and
Delilah once again reminded herself that angels had hardly anything to do with
the outward appearance of their vessels.
"Commander," she said with a smile and a note of excitement in her voice.
"Hannah, this is Delilah McAllister.  She's a friend of the Winchesters."
The angel, Hannah, turned and looked at her, a complete lack of curiosity in
her eyes, like she couldn't be bothered to care about some human, friend or
no.  She turned back to Castiel.  "Sir, we have ten new angels who joined our
ranks today, so far.  We are currently debriefing them on the situation and
will be assigning roles to them as soon as they are ready."
"Thank you, Hannah."
Hannah nodded smiling, and glanced her unblinking eyes at Delilah again as she
turned around and walked away.
"She seems… pleasant, Cas."
"Hannah is a good soldier and a great leader to her division.  I'm lucky to
have her as my second."
Delilah shook her head, friggin' angels.  She and Castiel continued through the
door and down a series of cement block corridors until they reached a door with
a narrow horizontal window set into it.  Castiel nodded towards it and she
glanced in at the forty-something man with greying hair who was strapped to a
chair.  He had a grey shirt buttoned up to the collar, a grey cardigan over it,
and a pair of blue jeans.  He was busy looking around with a slightly vacant
look.  She noticed the window had some more Enochian symbols scribbled on it in
red paint and she wondered if it made the glass like a one-way mirror for
angels.
"What's with Dilbert in there?"
"He's one of Metatron's angels, from his inner circle," Castiel said, serious
as always.
"Him?" Delilah asked incredulously as she gave the tied-up angel a second
look.  He still didn't look like much though.
"I need to know what Metatron is planning, but so far, he's revealed nothing."
Delilah turned to look at Castiel, narrowing her eyes.  "And you want Dean to
what?  Beat it out of him?"
Castiel breathed out through his nose, his eyes straying to the side.  The
angel in the tan coat was looking out of his league, and Delilah felt bad for
him.  All he wanted was to atone for his part in the angels' fall from grace. 
Just like she had sought forgiveness for her part in her mother's death for so
many years.
"Sam and Dean have had success in these situations before," Castiel said.
Delilah turned away from the angel’s unsettling gaze and looked in at the
totally average looking vessel inside the locked room.  She saw again that dark
and terrifying look in Dean’s eyes as he tortured Gadreel for information on
Metatron, and as his fist connected with her head.  She shook herself, ignoring
the fresh wave of nausea that accompanied the memories and she turned back to
look at Castiel.
“For the record, I don’t think Dean should do this.”
The angel pursed his lips and stared back, “I wish there was another way. I
need to know what Metatron is planning.”
Delilah nodded, resigned and they returned to his office.  He showed her what
they had been able to find out about Metatron over the past few weeks.  It felt
good to dive into research.  It gave her brain something safe to think about. 
Basically, the angels had set up a worldwide search network that catalogued
various clues and evidence of Metatron's passage on Earth.  It was like what
Sam had running on his laptop, only on steroids and running on angel juice.  As
a result, there was a lot of information to sift through.  She ended up teamed
with an angel whose vessel looked like a sixteen-year-old with some intense
ADHD.  He had golden-brown eyes that were always moving, fine, almost delicate
features in a narrow, slightly underfed looking face under a messy mop of
chestnut brown hair.  He spoke a mile a minute and typed even faster.  He told
her that his vessel was a computer wiz kid and could crack and hack anything
ever made.  His name was Neithan, the angel preferring to be called by his
vessel's name rather than his angelic one.  She liked this angel, a lot.  He
seemed much less stuffy than his comrades-in-arms, if a little manic.
In the time they spent together, she discovered that unlike some angels, who
suppressed their vessels' personalities and skills, Neithan embraced his, in
fact the two of them had formed a sort of partnership and worked together as
two parts of a whole.  It was fascinating, and confusing, watching someone
converse with the voice in his head.
They worked together steadily all afternoon, Neithan showing her the inner
workings of the tracking software as well as which signs they were tracking for
Metatron.  He was also trying to come up with an algorithm to further classify
the vast amounts of information the current program was generating, most of
which was useless.  Delilah was able to give a researcher and hunter's
perspective on the whole thing, using a sample of information and showing the
kid-angel her thought process when deciding if it was important.
By the time a familiar gruff voice spoke from behind her, her eyes were getting
tired from focusing on the screen and her brain was exhausted from trying to
keep up with Neithan.  "Hey," Dean said, making her jump out of her chair.  She
turned around and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
Happiness flooded her system, making her heart feel like it would burst out of
her chest, and she slammed her mouth on his.  His hands were splayed on her
back in a second and he was returning the kiss fervently.  Delilah managed to
regain control of her emotions and the surge of excitement and delight ebbed a
little.  She pulled away from him slightly, smiling at him.  That was when she
noticed all the angels had stopped in their activities and were watching her
and Dean.  Castiel and Sam were watching them too, a big smile on the angel's
face, and she blushed deeply as she addressed Dean, who still had his hands on
her waist.  "Jesus, you'd think they never saw anyone kiss before."
Dean's lips flickered into a smile before he grabbed her hand and pulled her
towards Sam and Castiel.  The angel did not lose his goofy grin as they
approached.
"Good one," he said in his deep, gravelly tone.  "The pizza man couldn't have
done it better."
Sam and Dean straightened up uncomfortably.  Delilah frowned. "Who's the pizza
man?" she asked confused and Sam laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his
head, eyebrows halfway to his hairline.
"The pizza man--" started Castiel, seeing that no one was answering, but he was
interrupted by Dean walking up to him and turning him away from Delilah with a
series of 'whoa's, 'okay's and finishing up with 'moving on.'
"Why don't you just take us to the prisoner?" he added, as Castiel looked a
little perplexed.
The angel indicated they should follow him and Delilah grabbed Dean's warm,
large hand, making sure he stayed at the back of the pack with her.  In a
hushed tone, she asked him if Castiel had explained what he wanted them to do.
"Yeah, wants us to be his goons so he can find out what this angelturd knows
about Metatron," he told her, his voice devoid of emotion.
She stopped and tugged on his hand so he would look at her.  "You don't have to
do this if you don't want to, Dean.  Sam and I can interrogate him."
"Who says I don't want to do it?"
A shiver ran through her as Dean fixed his cold stare on her, the warmth that
had been in his face just moments before, completely gone.  She nearly backed
away, sensing the presence of the mark, her concerns and worries amplified by
her experience with the mirror.  He gently pulled his hand out of her grip and
continued to follow Sam and Castiel to the holding cell.  She forced herself to
catch up to them, not sure that she wanted to see Dean's torturing skills in
action again.  A slow wave of dread started taking over her system and she
trembled remembering, again, his cold, unfeeling stare in the curse induced
memories.
They were standing right outside the door, looking in at the angel strapped to
the chair inside.  Dean picked up an angel blade that was hanging on the wall
by the door.  She assumed it belonged to the captured angel, but she couldn't
figure out why they would have kept it by his cell; if he escaped, this would
also give him a weapon.  Delilah watched Dean step through the door, the cold
focused look on his face familiar and worrisome.  She felt the rise of panic in
her churning stomach.  She couldn't watch him do it again, she couldn't be the
one to keep him under control.  Not now, not with all these planted memories
flooding her system with fear.  Fear of him.  Sam made to follow his brother
but she grabbed his coat sleeve, holding him back.
"Sam," she said, keeping her voice low, feeling the constricting anxiety wrap
around her chest like metal bands.  He turned to look at her, jerking his head
to dislodge a loose lock of hair.  "Um… you remember when… uh."  Delilah
cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes.  "When… Gadreel, hit… me."  She glanced
up in time to see Sam pursing his lips.  "Well, it happened when Dean… was…
questioning him." Oh please, Sam… please understand.  He had guessed once that
Gadreel hadn’t been the one to bruise her eye, she was hoping he would follow
her thoughts.
He glanced back towards his brother who was already walking slow circles around
Ezra, Metatron's angel, who had foolishly been bragging about being chosen to
be one of his most elite.  Sam turned back towards her and laid his hands on
her shoulders.
"Don't worry, this one's not going to get out.  He's completely bound,
powerless.  You're safe."
Delilah felt the metal bands crush her lungs, Sam not getting her hint.  She
nodded to him anyways and he turned around and walked into the room with his
brother.  She followed him reluctantly.  Someone had to make sure Dean stayed
in check. Even if she didn't feel like she was the best person for the job, at
least she knew about his potential for uncontrollable, violent outbursts.  She
closed the door behind her, feeling like she was locking herself in with a wild
tiger, then moved to the side, standing in the corner behind Sam.
Dean was walking around the angel in the centre of the room, quietly taunting
him, asking him about Metatron's plans, his whereabouts, any information he
might have.  Sam was keeping his distance, giving his brother the space he
needed to do his thing.  Unlike with Gadreel, Sam was cool and calm, able to
keep his professional guise.  Delilah felt like a buzzing ball of nerves, her
stomach roiling, her emotions all over the place, fear and anxiety dominating
her every thought.  She tried to mimic Sam's cool exterior, and it must have
been working because neither brother spared her a second glance, even when Dean
was behind Ezra and facing her: his cold, dark eyes sliding right past where
she was standing.
"You're wasting your time.  I have nothing to say," said the angel, hardly
looking concerned that Dean Winchester was circling him like a stalking
panther.
"We disagree," he said with a low rumble.
"There's no use torturing me," the angel said, in his high, cheery, cavalier
tone.  "I am a trained commando.  It won't work."
Dean stopped in front of him, holding the blade in his hands, Delilah saw his
stance change, his posture becoming rigid, and she knew he was going to stab
him.
"Wow," Dean said, in a chilling voice.  Delilah must have made a noise because
she saw Sam turn his head towards her, frowning.  "Well, you just asked me to
dance."
Sam turned back towards his brother just as he spun the blade in his hand and
leaned in on the angel, grabbing his face in his left hand and driving the
blade towards his chest.
"Dean!  Dean!" he said quickly, stopping his brother mid-motion.
Dean turned around to look at him and she caught that calm, deadly look in his
eye, like when he had pushed the machete right through the vampire's neck.  Sam
gestured for Dean to come talk to him and Delilah wrapped her arms around her
middle, fighting against the memory of Dean's fist connecting with her head and
of her father's slurs.  She saw Sam looking her way again and she knew she
should just leave; clearly, she was interfering with his concentration, but now
that she was in the room, she couldn't seem to move.  She was stuck.
She stayed where she was, listening in on the brothers' whispered
conversation.  Dean was facing her and Sam, and the younger brother was looking
at him pointedly, speaking to him firmly but calmly.  "He won't be telling us
anything… dead."
Dean wasn't saying anything.  He frowned, looking slightly confused, like Sam's
words weren't making any sense to him.  Sam turned his head towards Ezra and
then back to Dean, looking like an idea had just come to him.
"Besides," he continued, a little louder than necessary, "you know, I'm… I'm
really starting to realize that he probably doesn't know anything."  Sam's
exaggerated tone made her frown a bit, wondering what he was up to.  "He was
probably just pretending at the bar."  Dean was looking confused as well. 
"Most likely, he's a nobody."  Dean glanced over at the angel.  "I mean, do the
math," Sam went on, "Ezra here is one of Metatron's elite posse?  Really?"
Oh! Clever Sam!  Delilah breathed a small sigh of relief as she caught on to
what Sam was doing and she saw the smirk of a smile on Dean's face as he
clearly caught on as well.  Sam chuckled lightly and pushed on.  "One of
Metatron's most trusted is, uh… is hanging out at bars, blabbing about the
boss?  Does that make any sense?" he taunted.
"Well," Dean said, losing the steely edge in his voice.  Had Sam managed to
pull him back from his killing impulse?  "Only if Metatron is purposefully
surrounding himself with losers."
Sam laughed as he went on, "Exactly! Right? What's this guy even doing here?" 
Delilah glanced towards the captive angel at the same time as Sam and saw that
he was starting to look annoyed.  The bands were slowly loosening around her
chest, but her system would take time to recover from the intense emotions, so
she just let the boys carry on with what they were doing, using their rapid
dialogue to keep herself distracted.
"He's a wannabe," added Dean, looking at Ezra too and shaking his head.  "I
mean, if he was a key player, he would be up in Heaven with Metatron where all
the action is."
"Exactly," agreed Sam.
"What if I'm a decoy?" Ezra threw out at them, looking smug.  Sam and Dean
turned towards him expectantly and he pushed on, "Or in deep cover."
Sam burst out laughing and she could just see the edge of a smile on Dean's
face, turned away towards the angel.  "Uh, it's pathetic," said Sam.
Dean hummed in agreement before adding, "Probably hasn't even been to Heaven…
not since the fall."
"Of course not!" replied Sam.
Ezra the angel scoffed, "Yes, I have."
"Buddy," Sam said, addressing him condescendingly, "the gates are sealed.  No
one can get in."
"Who said anything about gates?" he said, gloating.  "You don't need gates when
you have a private portal."
Dean turned back towards his brother, exchanging a knowing look with him.  He
glanced her way and she saw the glimmer of a twinkle of mischief in his eye. 
Delilah felt the relief again as her stomach unclenched.
Sam scoffed. "Right.  If there was a doorway on Earth, the angels would have
sensed it."
"Yeah," agreed Dean.  "You can't hide something like that."
"You can," insisted Ezra, "if it moves around from place to place.  If it's
wherever the boss wants it to be."
Delilah wondered how stupid this guy was, and how long Sam and Dean could keep
pulling information out of him using nothing but his pride.  Sam went on,
questions turning to taunts as Ezra started looking more and more upset.  "I
see.  I got it.  So, you heard a rumour about Metatron's 'secret portal,' and
you decided to run with it."
"It's not a rumour.  He showed me."
It was Dean's turn to scoff as he and Sam threw the dialogue ball back and
forth, faster and faster, keeping the angel off balance as long as possible so
he would keep spilling information, smiles on their faces to keep him angry. 
"I get it.  He's a fan."
"A fan.  Yeah."
"You're a fan!  Look, just 'cause you're hot for Metatron… or Bieber, or
Beckham… Just 'cause you know everything about them.  Doesn't mean that you
actually know them."
"Or that they even know you exist."
"Ooh, that's cold, Sammy."
"I'm just saying, man."
Outraged, Ezra spoke up again, "I was interviewed personally by Metatron for a
key post."
"Yeah?" asked Sam, "Oh wow!  Well, then… then maybe you can tell me why you
weren't at your key post, and you were hanging down here instead."
For a second, he looked like he was going to answer but then he looked away
from the Winchesters, awkward and confused.  Dean dove right in, with a
sympathetic cringe, "Mm, now that blows.  He got passed over."
Ezra got angry again.  "I was a finalist."
"Oh man," sighed Sam in mock sympathy. "To get so close and then get kicked
downstairs.  It sucks to be you."
"Hardly anybody was chosen," said the outraged angel, "and ground forces is
still a very important assignment.  It was an honour to have even been
considered for the squad."
"What squad?" asked Dean, maybe a little forcefully.  "There is no squad."
Ezra didn't seem to have noticed though, wrapped up in his bragging.  "Yeah,
says you.  It's a highly-guarded secret."
"Oh," exclaimed Sam.
"And what," asked Dean, starting to sound more obvious, "would you be doing…
exactly?"  Ezra hesitated, looking confused and Dean taunted him, stammering.
Sam chuckled.  "Wait a second," he said in disbelief.  "Just, please, uh…
clarify this for me.  You desperately wanted this job, but… didn't know what it
was?"
"Well, until you were chosen, the exact nature of the mission was kept a
secret.  And… hardly anyone was chosen." He trailed off, sounding less and less
sure of himself.  He gazed off to the side, looking at the ground perplexed.
Dean's taunting expression on his face became more serious again and he glanced
at Sam, giving him a silent look.  Sam headed for the door unhurriedly while
Dean gestured for her to follow him, looking at her closely for the first time
since walking into the interrogation room.  His brow furrowed, looking
concerned and she turned around quickly, heading out the door behind Sam, the
older Winchester bringing up the rear.  When they were all back out in the
hallway, Sam closed the door and locked it.
Castiel was nowhere in sight, probably pulled away by one of his followers on
some angel business or other.  The brothers started walking down the dark
hallway, heading back to the main room while they discussed what they had
discovered from Ezra. Delilah followed a few steps behind, trying to focus on
what they were saying, but finding it difficult, her thoughts still trapped by
the left-over fear that had been pumped into her system and was taking its time
dissipating.  Maybe she should have stayed home after all, she certainly wasn't
being much help.  She shook her head, her hair rippling around her shoulders as
she looked down at her black and red Docs, the handle of her silver knife just
jutting out of the inside of her left boot.
A pair of brown boots stepped into her field of vision and she stopped, almost
toe-to-toe with the large feet.  She looked up at Sam who was standing there,
in his green jacket, scanning her face with an intense look.  "Tell me what
happened with the curse," he said gently, but clearly determined to get an
answer.
Delilah looked around his larger-than-life body and saw that Dean had continued
on, the door to the hallway closed, giving Sam and Delilah some privacy. 
"Nothing, Sam.  I can handle it," she said lowering her eyes again.
Sam lifted her chin, tilting her head back so she was looking him in the eye. 
He had his thinking face on, but all Delilah could see was the memory of that
same face coming down towards hers, their lips connecting, his soft hair
brushing her skin--
Delilah shook him off and took a step back, crossing her arms tightly and
avoiding his stare.
"Delilah," he said softly, his voice filled with care and concern, "I want to
help.  Please."
Delilah could feel her heart beating in her throat, anxiety constricting her
airways.  She glanced up at Sam's determined face and knew that he wouldn't
quit until she told him something.
"It's like you said.  It dredged up some more of my memories.  No big deal.  I
just need time to process, and then I'll be good as new."
Sam frowned, clearly not convinced.  "No, I don't think that's everything. 
We've talked about what happened to you when you were a kid, this is
different.  What else did you see?  Did it show you something about Dean?"
Delilah squirmed and looked up at the pipes along the ceiling, feeling tears
start to prickle her eyes.  Just tell him, Dee… get it over with.  "It wasn't
anything I didn't already know, but it didn't just show me things, it's like it
created the worst day in Hell for me and made it feel more real than real.
 Like when you suddenly figure out a problem and everything falls into place. 
And… I can still remember it, as if it actually happened.  And it doesn't help
that I know it didn't really happen, because part of me still believes that
what it did, what it showed me, just…" It's what I deserve. She stopped her
frantic explanation, staring absently at the windowless, cement wall.
"Just what?" he coaxed her on, his voice soft and low as he took a step closer
and laid a hand on her shoulder.  She looked at his face; his eyebrows were
knitted in consternation as he tried to understand.  She felt the warm, wet
trail of a tear as it ran down her face and his other hand came up and brushed
it away.  The deep, undeniable yearning to kiss him rushed through her again,
even as she fought back, reminding herself again that nothing had ever happened
between them and she loved Dean.  But then again, her love for Dean was now
tinged with the edge of fear.  She pushed away his hand and wiped at the tears
that seemed to be coming more steadily.  Even though it was lifted, the curse
had managed to taint all the good things in her life, making it impossible to
go back to that previous happiness.  Her love for Dean was now overshadowed by
fear and her friendship with Sam, undermined by lust.
"The mirror just reminded me of what a complete fucking screw up I am.  I don't
deserve your kindness, Sam.  I don't deserve happiness.  I'm just a nobody."
"That's not true, Delilah," he said, gently.
"Oh God! Please, Sam.  Don't you see how much worse you're making this?  Stop
being so fucking nice to me!"
She pushed past him and walked out the door into the comparative brightness of
the main room.  She just saw Dean standing by a cork board looking at the
information there and she could feel more tears welling up.  She turned right
and headed out to the exit.  She needed to be alone, get her head screwed back
on right. Because until she did that, she was going to be more than useless,
she would be a problem, distracting the hunters away from their jobs because
they just couldn't help being so good and caring.
She climbed into the Blue Devil and quickly turned the key and drove off down
the road and into Omaha proper.  For a while, she just drove around the streets
aimlessly, the city offering her much in the way of distraction, allowing her
to focus on navigating the busy streets instead of on the feelings rampantly
running through her and playing with her head and body.  As everything finally
began to settle down, the sun setting behind the thick grey cloud cover, she
started to feel hungry.  She pulled the car into a parking spot on the side of
the road and got out.  Her phone started ringing and she dug it out of her
pocket to check the caller I.D.  It was Sam.
"The guy never fucking quits!" she mumbled to herself as she tossed her phone
onto the front seat of the car and closed the door.  She just needed a couple
more hours without the Winchesters in her head.  They'll understand.  She made
her way down the sidewalk, headed for the diner she had spotted down the road. 
The air was still damp, the cold seeping in through her sweater and jacket. 
There was an unpleasant wind tunnel caused by the alignment of the buildings
that froze her nape.  She drew her hood up trying to block some of it.  As she
walked past an alley between two buildings, a familiar, oily, deep and scratchy
voice made her stop in her tracks and sent a chill running down her spine that
had nothing to do with the cold wind.  "Hello, Lamb.  Strayed a little far from
your shepherds?"
                                       ⭐
***** King of the Damned *****
Delilah turned around, reaching for her gun, which was loaded with devil's trap
bullets, but before she could raise it towards the demon, Crowley had waved his
hand and it disappeared from her grip and into his.
"None of that.  Guns.  So garish," he said with a sneer of his lips.
Delilah looked daggers at him, "What do you want Crowley?"
"Me? Nothing.  I'm perfectly content with what I have."
"Pfft, since when?  You're a greedy, self-serving sack of shit."
"I suppose that's true.  I guess then it won't be completely surprising when I
do this."
Crowley raised his hand and snapped his fingers.  Delilah was completely
disoriented for half a second before everything returned to normal… except… she
was no longer standing on a sidewalk in Omaha.  She looked around at the lavish
décor of the spacious room: deep velvety reds and rich mahogany wood, a fire
burning in a large fireplace.  Crowley was sitting in a plush armchair like he
had been sitting there all afternoon, an amber drink in his hand and her gun on
the small table beside him.  There was another man she didn't know standing by
a closed door, hands crossed in front of him like he was some sort of secret
service agent, his black suit rich but generic… one of Crowley's minions no
doubt.  Delilah glanced out the open curtains at the black sky and glimmering
lights of a city already wrapped in night.  This couldn't be Omaha, it was
still sunset there.
"What the hell, you son of a bitch?  Where did you bring me?" she said angrily
as she took a step towards the demon.
"Where indeed?" said a smooth female voice from the left.  "What's this
Crowley?  You said you were bringing me Dean Winchester."
Delilah turned her head and the floor dropped out from under her as she
recognized the face whose picture she had been staring at for weeks as Sam's
computer searched for sightings of Josie Sands.  The redhead was looking like a
mix between a fifties pin-up and a biker chick: perfect roller bobbed hair,
meticulously manicured red nails that matched the shade of her lipstick, black
winged eyeliner, as well as second-skin-tight, dark blue jeans and a black
leather jacket.  Which meant she was looking at… "Abaddon." The name had
escaped her lips unbidden and the Knight of Hell turned her cold green eyes on
her and started walking towards her, sizing her up.  Delilah resisted the urge
to take a step back.
"I'm sorry, have we met?" she asked, a threatening undertone to her sweet
voice.
"Darling," Crowley said from his cushy spot, "I'm appalled!  I would think that
you of all people would recognize leverage when you see it."
Abaddon raised one of her eyebrows.  "I'm listening Crowley," she said as she
stopped, standing tall right in Delilah's space.  She raised her hand and
twirled a strand of Delilah's hair curiously.  She struggled to get her wildly
racing thoughts focused; she had to get out of there, but how?  How in the hell
was she supposed to outmaneuver both the King and a Knight of Hell?
"As you so sweetly pointed out," said Crowley, "the mark and the blade spells
doom for us both.  I can get them here no problem, but what will you do once
Dean arrives, all powered up with focused deadly intent?  Our little Lamb here
will be the perfect distraction.  Instead of trying to kill us, he'll be trying
to save… her."
"Crowley, you disgusting, two-faced asshole!" Delilah pushed through clenched
teeth.  She prayed, with her hunter's logic, that Dean wouldn't fall for the
trap, while at the same time, she hoped, with her terrified emotional head,
that he would come rescue her.  No one will come save you because you're
nothing, you mean nothing to these men.  They don't love you, how could they? 
You're not worth the trouble you bring them,whispered her father from her
damaged-little-girl memories.  She shook the dark thoughts away, now was not
the time to give in to that shit.
Abaddon turned towards Crowley, smiling, and Delilah seized her chance.  She
reached for her angel blade, which was still tucked into her belt, pulled it
out and stuck it right into Abaddon's stomach.  The knight took her time to
react, like Delilah was more an annoying housefly than a deadly scorpion.  The
demon flicked up her hand almost daintily, with an annoyed eye roll, and sent
her flying across the room.  She crashed onto a heavy oak conference table and
then skidded over the edge and crumpled onto the ground, feeling like she had
just been hit by a bus.  "Make the call," she heard Abaddon say like her head
was in a bubble.  She forced herself to stay conscious, sitting up and leaning
against the wall, fighting the dizziness.
Crowley pulled his phone out of the inside pocket of his black suit jacket,
smirking at her from the other room, and hit one of the buttons.  He put the
phone to his ear and waited.
"I told you I'd be in touch when I'd found Abaddon. Well… I'm in touch."
"De…!" Delilah started to yell, but with another flick of her wrist, Abaddon
crushed her throat from the other end of the long table and she struggled to
get enough air into her lungs to breathe.
"First things first," Crowley went on, watching her impassively as she
suffocated, "I'll give you the location of the First Blade.  You two fetch it,
I'll keep her in my sights.  Then we'll remove her from the payroll for good."
He shifted his gaze over to Abaddon and covered the mouth piece of the phone
with his hand.  "Um, not to be critical of your techniques, but our insurance
is turning blue."
Delilah's eyes were swimming in tears as she tried to draw in breaths that
would stop her lungs from collapsing.  Abaddon released her and she coughed and
gasped, pulling in much needed oxygen.
Crowley stood up from his spot and walked away into another part of the suite,
giving Dean instructions on where to get the First Blade.  Abaddon walked over
to where she was lying at the base of the wall. She crouched down and reached
her hand towards her.  Delilah tried to pull away but the wall blocked her. 
The demon ran one of her long red nails down the side of her face with a
smile.  "Oh, the fun we will have, passing the long hours before your hero
arrives."
Great, thought Delilah, more torture.  "Bring it on, bitch," she said, her
voice scratchy, "it’s not my first rodeo."
Abaddon laughed, sending chills down Delilah's spine.  The demon stood up and
started walking away, but before Delilah could breathe a sigh of relief, she
felt an excruciating pain in her chest as she was pulled forward, like someone
had hooked her ribcage and was reeling her in like a fish.  She cried out in
pain as she was pulled through the air and slammed back into the armchair
previously occupied by Crowley.  Though nothing was visible, Delilah found
herself immobilized as though she had been tied down.
Abaddon moved towards her slowly, like she had all the time in the world to do
whatever she wanted, which she pretty much did.  When she reached her, she bent
down, leaning on the armrests, bringing her face right up to Delilah's, looking
at her like she was going to eat her… or kiss her.
"Now, let's see what you've got in that head of yours.  What yummy deets can
you give me on those cute boys?"
Delilah watched in dread as she opened her red painted lips and tendrils of
dark grey smoke snaked out, heading right for her.  Suddenly though, Abaddon
closed her mouth again looking annoyed, the smoke crawling back inside as she
rolled her eyes.
"Urgh! Hunters and your protective sigils.  Where are you hiding yours, so I
can rip it to shreds?"
Delilah gathered what little saliva she had in her dry mouth and spit right in
the demon bitch's face. "You can rot in Hell," she said, wishing she had Dean's
witty responses, but her brain was too busy trying not to panic, remembering
what Crowley had told her about Abaddon possessing Cain's wife.
The red-headed demon straightened up again and glared at her icily as she wiped
the spittle from her cheek.  She folded her arms casually in front of her and
her eyes wandered down over her body.  Delilah's hair felt like it was standing
on end as she watched, unsure what to expect.  Then, she heard the fabric tear
on her shirt and she glanced down to see her t-shirt torn open at the neck to
reveal the bare base of her throat.  Another tearing sound and the sleeves of
her sweater and jacket were ripped off, her arms laid bare.
Was she searching for the tattoo?  What would she do when she found it? 
Everywhere Abaddon looked, a slash appeared in her clothes: over her heart,
across her middle, over her left hip up to her pelvis.  Every new tear, Abaddon
was looking increasingly angry.  This one had a temper.  Maybe if she got her
angry enough, she'd give up looking for the inked sigil keeping her safe.
Delilah smiled and chuckled, her voice still sounding hoarse from her throat
being crushed, "Who would've thought a Knight of Hell was into peep shows?"
Abaddon flicked up her wrist and Delilah felt a hard hit across her mouth and
jaw.  She could taste blood in her mouth.  Bingo, she thought.  "Seriously,
Abby, least you can do is buy a girl a drink first."
Fury crossed Abaddon's features and the next cut down her right leg went
through her jeans and into her skin making her wince in pain.  Delilah glanced
down at the blood and fabric: it looked like she had been clawed by an animal. 
She looked back up at the demon, hiding her pain as best she could.  "Kinky,"
she said and another flick of the wrist knocked into her head and sent her and
the chair flying to the side.  Delilah lay sprawled on the ground, the spell
binding her lifted, allowing her to move again.  She looked up and saw that the
table beside the chair had gone flying too, shards of ceramic from the lamp
littered the ground, and just ahead of her she also saw her gun.
She kicked off with her feet and pushed herself forward reaching for the cold
steel with the iron devil traps inside.  But as she moved, she noticed the door
through which Crowley had disappeared earlier was open again and his black
shoes and trousers were planted where her gun had been a second before.
"Didn't I take this away already?" he asked her, mockingly.  "You deserve a
time out."
Delilah rolled onto her back with a disappointed sigh, staring up at Crowley
holding her gun, again, from her spot on the floor.  She smiled, knowing she
could never win against these two and resigned herself to her fate.  "Can't
blame a girl for trying."
Abaddon cocked her head and narrowed her eyes and suddenly she was holding the
gun and looking at the bullet clip.  A murderous look came over her features
and she was looking more bloodthirsty and savage than before.  Delilah was
suddenly tossed up through the air, twisting and turning, and ended up pinned
painfully to the ceiling.  It felt like Abaddon was slowly planting spikes
through every major pain centre in her body while also crushing her against the
hard ceiling.  Cold and heat ran through her system; her blood was set on fire
while the air in her lungs had turned to ice water.  She couldn't breathe,
couldn't think, the pain becoming a part of who she was.  Pain was all she was.
Then, it stopped, and she came crashing to the ground again, the quick breath
she was able to take pushed out of her as she landed on her stomach.
"Leverage is only good if it's alive, pet," Crowley's deep, accented voice
reminded the other demon as Delilah curled on her side, trying to recover from
the inflicted pain, just barely registering that Crowley had stopped Abaddon
from killing her, again.
"No harm in playing… pet," responded Abaddon.
Just then, from another door, a man came barreling into the room.  He was
wearing some strangely dated clothes: knee high boots with white stockings,
knee length black pants with a floppy white chemise and a black vest on top. 
He looked straight out of a renaissance fair.
"What is going on in here?" he asked, a thick Scottish accent making his
whining deep and husky.
"Gavin, darling," said Abaddon with a smile, "We were just talking about you. 
Weren't we Crowley?"
Delilah frowned, her brain muddling back to its functions.  They had been
talking about leverage, was Gavin leverage too?  Against Crowley?  Who on God's
green Earth could that bastard possibly care about?  She sat up gingerly, the
glass and ceramic from the broken lamp crunching and tinkling as she moved. 
She wiped a couple of powdered shards from her palms.
"Who's she?" Gavin said, drawing her attention back to him as he looked around,
waiving his arms dramatically.  "What happened here? This place is a mess!"
Delilah just saw Crowley raise his hand and she expected the demon to do
something nasty to the man asking so many questions, but to her surprise, the
snap of his fingers found her sitting beside the Scot on the two-seater divan,
the hotel suite back in perfect elegant condition, some Mozart playing softly
on the surround sound.  She glanced down and saw that her torn clothing had
been transformed into a black silk and chiffon cocktail dress with a plunging
neckline and a slightly flared skirt down to her knees.  The fabric somehow
glided on her skin like oil, making her feel naked.  Her leg was no longer torn
and bleeding, which was an improvement, but her feet were now strapped to a
pair of dainty black stilettos.  Bibbidi bobbidi boo, she thought wide-eyed. 
"What the fuck, Crowley?" she said out loud, Gavin turning to look at her,
startled.
"Everyone enjoys a little haute couture, Lamb… You're welcome."
Delilah shook her head, bewildered, and she felt her hair bouncing in a strange
way.  She reached up and pulled at a perfectly curled lock.  Good God, he made
her up like a friggin' doll.  She shuddered to think what he'd done to her make
up.
"Now," Crowley continued, "we have a bit of a wait, while Moose and Squirrel
fumble their way here, so why don't we just relax, and sit like sophisticated
beings."
Crowley's phone started to ring and he sighed, pursing his lips before reaching
into his pocket and pulling it out.  He glanced at the screen and looked up at
Delilah, snapping his fingers before turning away from the growing collection
of people sitting and standing around the room.
"Sam," he said, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" Delilah opened her mouth and
called out to Sam on the phone, but no sound came out.  She clutched her bare
throat, her eyes wide with realization: she was as mute as the Little Mermaid. 
She sat back against the padded backrest of the elegant divan and crossed her
arms with an irritated huff.  "What are you implying?" Crowley went on.  "Here
I am, putting my sophisticated and handsome self on the line for you, and you
accuse me of stealing your paramour.  This blaming me every time you lose track
of one of your flock is getting tiresome.  Are we not on the same team here? 
Where's the trust?" He paused listening to whatever Sam was saying on the other
end.  The man beside her, Gavin, was still staring at her and she started
feeling annoyed, and uncomfortable.  She stood up and tried to walk away, a
little wobbly as the high, needle thin stilettos sank into the thick carpet,
but she didn't get far as Abaddon stepped into her line of sight and sat her
down again with an invisible push.  "I'll keep my eyes open for the little lost
lamb, just get the blade." Crowley hung up the phone and looked around at the
odd assortment of people and demons collected around the room.  "Those two, so
easily distracted," he said to them.  He walked towards the sitting area and
sat down in his armchair from before, picking up his magically restored amber
drink.  "It would seem, your absence has been noted.  That didn't take very
long at all."
Abaddon smirked, no doubt taking this as proof that Delilah would serve her
purpose well.  Finally, Gavin seemed to have gotten bored with staring at her
and she felt him shift as he turned away.  She glanced to the side to see him
pick up a newspaper and shake it open, settling in to read with his ankle up on
his knee.  The name of the newspaper caught her attention and her stomach
lurched; Cleveland.  They were in fucking Cleveland.  Even if the boys hauled
ass, with the detour for the First Blade, wherever that was, there was no way
they could get to her tonight.  Which meant Abaddon would have plenty more
opportunities to mess with her.
She sat back, suddenly feeling exhausted, her body unable to sustain the high
alert mode faced with an entire night of waiting.  Crowley was speaking to
Abaddon again, but she couldn't focus on what they were saying, it was mostly
sounding like mutual baiting anyways.  She was trapped in her misery as the
realization dawned that by leaving the angels' compound behind, she had opened
herself to being taken.  This was her fault.  By trying to get distance from
the madness brought on by that fucking cursed mirror, she had walked right into
Crowley's waiting arms and now she was going to be the reason that Dean
wouldn't be able to do his job.  She wasn't worth that, she knew, but she also
didn't know how to get him a message to warn him about Crowley, or even to just
get away so that she wouldn't be here when the Winchesters arrived.
Time passed with her thoughts tumbling from one thing to the next, thinking
about Dean, and how angry he would be, and thinking about Sam and his worry,
but also trying to find a way out of her predicament, her planning interrupted
and undermined by the voice in her head reminding her of what a failure she
was, no matter how much she tried to suppress it.
Thankfully, Abaddon seemed content to no longer inflict pain on her, and the
demon kept her distance, never leaving the room but also not joining the group
in the sitting area.  She was lurking by the windows and looking out at the
city of Cleveland lost in her own contemplations.  Crowley and Gavin
occasionally exchanged a few words, and Delilah was able to infer that the man
sitting beside her was none other than the King of Hell's son… freshly time
travelled from 18th century Scotland.  Nearly a year ago, another lifetime it
seemed, Delilah would have been fascinated by him, asking the man a thousand
and one questions about his time and his past, but that kind of enthusiasm
seemed to have evaporated along with the computer wielding Delilah who didn't
know that vampires, werewolves, demons and angels really existed.  And it was
before she knew Sam and Dean.  Her main preoccupation now was how to get away
or how to reach the Winchesters, and she couldn't think of how Gavin could help
her with that.
An hour or so more passed with nothing happening, Delilah had come to terms
with the surreal experience of sitting around with a time traveller and demons
coming and going.  All in a day's work really.  An escape plan failed to form,
though, with her thoughts so sluggish.  There were too many variables, too many
demons to contend with, not even counting Crowley and Abaddon.  Without her
blade and her gun, she might as well poke at them for all the good it would do
her.  Her brain dredged up Dean's praise of her hunter's skills after they got
back from Jody's and she couldn't help the self-deprecating comments running
through her head: kidnapped again.  At the mercy of creatures that can kill her
with a single sideways glance… again.  Some hunter she was.
Crowley's phone rang again drawing her out of her dark thoughts.  Gavin looked
up, curious for a moment, but went back to his paper with a resigned smile.
"Hello?" Crowley answered in a sing-song voice.
This time, it was Dean and he was yelling into the phone so loudly she could
hear him clearly from where she was sitting.  She knew there was no point in
trying to talk, since Crowley had yet to lift the spell keeping her mute.
"Damn it, Crowley!  The grave is guarded!" she heard the older Winchester say. 
Delilah could hear some faint background noises too coming from the phone's ear
piece, but she couldn't tell what was going on.
"That's absurd," said Crowley, his tone his usual sarcasm, but his face looking
serious.
"A Hellhound!" yelled Dean, making her take a steadying breath to relieve her
sudden anxiety for their safety.
"No, no, no.  She was collected." Dean's reply was indistinct to Delilah, but
Crowley went on sounding forlorn, "Time was, no one would dare disobey the
king."
"I'm gonna put you on speaker," Dean's voice yelled through the phone, and
suddenly the noises in the background became somewhat clearer; a metallic
slamming noise followed by a couple of grunts.
"Juliet?" Crowley said, in a louder but gentler tone.  "It's Papa.  Stand
down."  The noises on the other end of the line died down to nothing and after
a pause Crowley added a lilting, "You're welcome," that set Delilah's teeth on
edge… and it wasn't even aimed at her.
Crowley put his phone back in his pocket and reached for the half of the paper
Gavin had already finished so he could read as well.
Delilah shook her head and picked at the soft fabric of her dress, feeling the
leftover stress just bubbling away in her stomach.  She looked around again at
the lavish décor of the room and then the coffee table before turning her eyes
on the gently crackling fire in the fireplace.  She caught the heel of one of
her shoes in the rug at her feet and she bent down, exasperated, to remove the
useless things.  Better barefoot in broken glass than these ridiculous excuses
for shoe wear.  She drew her legs under her and covered them with the skirt of
her dress. She fidgeted with a coaster on the little table beside her and let
out a loud sigh, pretty much the only sound she could make.
Crowley folded his newspaper and looked at her quizzically.  "What's wrong,
love?  Feeling bored?" Delilah narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms. 
The demon tilted his head to the side and snapped his fingers again.  Oh, what
wouldn't she give to break off those annoying digits.  She did not answer him,
even though she suspected he had lifted the spell.  "Come now, don't pout. 
It's unbecoming."
Delilah rolled her eyes and glanced over at the man sitting beside her.  He
looked to be around her age, give or take a few centuries.  Well, if Crowley
wanted her to talk, she would.  Just not to him.
"So, Gavin," she said, sweetly, "how do you like 2014?"
The dark-haired Scot put down his paper and turned to look at her, "Oh, it's
alright I suppose.  Not quite as exciting as where I'm from though."
She raised her eyebrows skeptically.  "Really now?"
"Aye.  A world of discoveries and opportunities.  I myself was getting ready to
embark on an adventure of me own."  He spoke passionately, drawing Delilah into
his story despite herself.
"What kind of adventure?" she asked him, genuinely curious.
"The most exciting kind."  He sat up and leaned forward, his arms on his knees
and his brown eyes on hers.  They were sparkling with excitement, his
enthusiasm impossible to ignore.  "A voyage to the colonies.  My ship, the
Star, is ready to set sail as we speak.  As soon as I'm returned to my home,
we'll pull out into the vast ocean and start afresh in a new land."
Crowley huffed skeptically drawing both Gavin and Delilah's attention.  Gavin's
enthusiasm disappeared from his face.  He was looking angry.
"What is it, Father?  You don't think I can do it, do ye?  Don't believe that
your useless son can ever amount to anything?  I'll show you!  When I get back-
-"
"You're not going back," said Crowley sounding half exasperated and half bored.
Gavin stood up from the couch suddenly, looming over the still sitting
Crowley.  "Don't be absurd, I have to go back.  My crew needs me."
"They'll just pick someone else to be captain, it's not like they cared that
much about skills.  It's a trading vessel, not the bloody navy."
"What are you saying, Father?  That I'm not a good captain?"
Crowley mumbled something under his breath and Gavin suddenly stalked off
towards the door that led back to his room in the suite.  Crowley disappeared
from the couch and reappeared just behind Gavin as the boy held the door, ready
to close it in the King of Hell's face.
"Gavin, why go back there when you can live now, in the future!"
"What are you talking about?  Of course, I'm going back.  I'm going to board my
ship and sail to the colonies. Start a fresh life."
"It's not a good idea," Crowley said, emphatically.
"I'm going to the colonies.  I'm working my way across.  I've given my word!"
"Gavin," Crowley said gently though it sounded like he was holding himself
back.  "Listen to your father.  I know what's--" Gavin let out an exasperated
growl and slammed the door in Crowley's face.  The demon dropped his hand to
his side and finished dejectedly, "best for you."
He turned around to face the room.  Delilah shook her head and pursed her lips
disappointedly at him.  She couldn't help the shiver that ran her through… she
was poking a bear and she knew it but part of her could only see the sad,
pathetic creature they'd had chained in the dungeon for weeks.
He narrowed his eyes at her, "Happy now?"
"Fucking ecstatic," she answered, infusing as much sarcasm into her tone as
possible while crossing her arms, "But that… that was all you."
He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could make a comment his phone was
ringing again.  He reached into his pocket and gazed at the ceiling as he
answered.  "Squirrel.  I hope you were nice to your father."  Crowley paused as
he listened to Dean's reply taking a step towards the sitting area where she
was.  "You do?  Well you need to get it here at once.  Cleveland, Humboldt
Hotel.  Penthouse of course.  When you get here, I'll take you to Abaddon." He
slowly turned so he was facing the area behind Delilah and to the right.  She
turned her head and saw Abaddon, casually leaning back against a small
decorative dresser by the windows.  "I'll draw her out," continued Crowley,
glaring at Abaddon, "and then you can skewer the ignorant hag." Delilah raised
her eyebrows in disbelief, talk about poking bears.  He covered the mouth piece
on his phone and whispered to the angry looking demon, "Just selling it."  He
turned his attention back to the floor as he listened to the Winchester on the
line, then added, "Oh and Dean, you need to get a move on.  It's a good day's
drive from Poughkeepsie."
Delilah's brain reacted to the odd phrase.  She couldn't help it.  Poughkeepsie
was one of Dean's many code words.  When they had started hunting together it
was one of the lessons, along with hand signals, lore and how to kill things. 
If there was something stuck to their shoe, it meant they were being followed. 
Should they say funky town, it meant they had a gun to their heads.  And if
anybody said Poughkeepsie, you had to drop everything and run.  It's not like
they could have gotten from Omaha, Nebraska to Poughkeepsie, New York in barely
a couple of hours… even Dean didn't drive that fast.  But then, if Crowley
really did know the code word, it meant he was giving Dean a heads up.  What
game was he playing?
"Yeah, like I said," continued the demon, locking eyes with her, "You need to
leave Poughkeepsie right away.  Seems you were right about your lost lamb."
He suddenly pulled the phone away from his ear with a wince and hit the end
button on the screen.  As he took the few steps back towards his chair, the
wheels in Delilah's head were turning.  If Crowley really was helping Dean get
rid of Abaddon, then this whole thing was a double-cross.  Why in the hell did
Crowley bother picking her up then?  He didn't want the Winchesters distracted
when they got there, he wanted them to kill Abaddon so he could regain his
throne.
"Nice," said Abaddon's smooth, sarcastic voice from her spot by the windows,
Crowley was standing in front of his chair looking very smug.  Abaddon went on,
"But here's the thing… you've been plotting with those boys for some time now.
When they get here, it'll be you, the Winchesters, the First Blade, and little,
old me in one place. Now, I don't mind stiff odds, but… let's be reasonable.”
The gunshot startled Delilah and she hunkered down on the sofa, reflexively,
covering her head with her arms.
"Aah!" choked out Crowley, "You lost your mind?"
Delilah glanced at him and saw that he had fallen into the armchair and was
clutching his chest, which seemed to be bleeding from a slightly smoking hole
in his suit.
"Little trick our Winchesters learned from their granddaddy when I followed him
to this time.  Devil's trap carved in the bullet.  You're not seriously
damaged, just powerless."
Delilah understood that Abaddon had shot Crowley using her gun, therefore
incapacitating him.  He was looking at her with a semi-crazed look in his
eyes.  Trapped again, that look was saying.  Delilah didn't feel particularly
confident in her odds at this point either, and when Abaddon stepped around the
sofa and looked down at where she was crouching, her Smith and Wesson held
loosely in her manicured hand, the purely evil smile that spread on her face
made her shudder even more.  The demon chuckled softly, looking pleased with
herself and then turned around and walked out of Delilah's line of sight.  She
glanced at Crowley who was sitting clutching his chest, still panting from the
shock or the pain and she almost felt sorry for him.  Almost.  She was more
concerned though that without him being able to use his powers, there was no
one to protect her from Abaddon's whims.
She sat up again, carefully pulling the skirt back down to her knees, making
sure her tattoo remained well hidden.  She looked over the back of the sofa,
but the demon had gone back to staring out the window.  Abaddon had been around
practically as long as Cain; being thousands of years old must come with some
form of patience, even for a hot-headed knight like her.
Delilah leaned back against the low arm of the sofa, drawing her knees up to
her chest, and tucked the skirt tightly against her legs.  Damn useless things,
skirts, she grumbled in her head.  Holding herself around her knees, she leaned
her head to the side, against the padded back of the couch, and settled in to
wait out the long night, her mind completely out of escape plans, her body and
soul well and truly trapped with the damned.
It was hard to tell when the hotel room faded and the dream began; nothing
seeming out of place at first.  She found herself looking around the lavishly
decorated hotel room, an uneasy feeling the only indicator that something was
amiss.  The demons had all disappeared: no Crowley on the chair, no Abaddon by
the windows, and no guards by the doors.  Delilah uncurled from her spot on the
sofa and put her bare foot down on the plush carpet with a surprisingly wet,
squish.  She looked down only to find that her foot was resting on the blood-
soaked shirt covering the lifeless form of Crowley's body.  She startled,
pulling back, but her eyes had already found the other bodies, too many to
count, all lying on the ground lifeless and bloody, barely enough space between
them to see the floor.  Some she recognized, like Abaddon and Crowley, but most
were faceless, generic meat suits, her instincts alone telling her that they
had previously held demons.
Very careful not to accidentally step on any bodies again, Delilah stood up
from the couch and moved, one hop at a time, towards the main door of the
penthouse suite of the Humboldt Hotel.  When she finally reached it, her neck
began to prickle as she stretched her hand towards the handle.  Someone was in
the room with her: a malevolent presence.  She turned around slowly, very aware
that she had no weapon to defend against whoever she would find there.  The
room was empty though, only the bodies and the prickling telling her something
was wrong.  She turned again and pulled open the double doors.
She stepped through into the hallway; rich mahogany giving way to black, white
and grey tiles so achingly familiar she almost wanted to cry with relief.  She
walked up two steps and found herself in the warmly lit library of the Men of
Letters' bunker: home.  She walked to the centre table, her attention drawn to
a book that was laying open there.  She looked down at its pages, turning it
slightly, and remained impassive as she stared down at herself.  She was
looking at a photo album.  Only, who in their right minds would keep these
kinds of photographs was beyond her.  Each photo was neatly labeled with the
date and a short description.  "1998 - forced to masturbate while Donald
watched, rubbing himself."
There were pictures of every time she'd been raped or abused: the red-faced
men's twisted expressions of violence, sex and alcohol abuse prominent in all
of them, her freshly developing body exposed to the viewer, and each labeled in
a curly, delicate handwriting she had always associated to her mother.  Delilah
grabbed the album and flipped the pages back to the beginning, finding photos
of the car accident that had taken her mother from her, the mangled body
hanging limply in the crushed driver's seat, the little girl curled in the
footwell on the passenger's side.  She closed the book and pushed it away,
feeling only passive numbness from the odd stroll down memory lane.  Something
in the air stirred and she felt once again that strange prickling in her neck
and the sense of danger.  She looked around but she was well and truly alone.
She stepped away from the table and opened one of the blue-green glass panelled
doors at the back of the library, finding herself standing beside a neatly made
bed.  She blinked, only slightly confused by the odd deviation in the bunker's
layout, accepting it like she had accepted the existence of those photos.  She
looked around to get her bearings and right away recognized the litter of file
boxes on the floor and the flat screen TV.  She turned around and found herself
face-to-chest with Sam.  She slowly looked up and stretched herself against him
as his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.  She sighed and held
on behind his neck, standing on her toes.  He was so warm, and gentle, and she
held onto him, feeling like she was being absorbed into his body.
Suddenly, that threat in the air was back and she stumbled as the tall man
disappeared, replaced by a sense of urgency that made her blood pump through
her so hard, she thought her heart would pound right through her ribs.  She
looked around, seeking the source of the threat, but found only the cold,
plaster and tile walls of the main hallway again.  She started walking, looking
all around her in sharp jerky movements, hoping to catch whatever it was that
was lurking at the edge of her consciousness.  She started walking faster and
looked around as the air grew thick with her fear.  She turned a corner and
though the walls were still the familiar bunker walls, she found herself in an
unknown hallway.  She couldn't recognize anything around her, the familiar
colours and textures completely rearranged with nothing akin to her home.  She
started running, the hostile presence following her as she looked for her way
back and found only more hallways with no doors anywhere: an endless tunnel of
looping and twisting concrete.  And that presence keeping pace with her, making
her heart slam against her chest.  The weight of the building and earth above
her felt like it was crashing down, trapping her in this vault which she now
knew was going to be her tomb.
She knew this dream.
Delilah came to a sudden stop, the weight pressing down on her and the fear
soaking her skin and she knew that when she turned around, she would find him
there.  She closed her eyes tightly against the terror and oppressive weight
and something warm and wet started to pool around her still bare feet.  She
opened her eyes to find the hallway flooded with red blood flowing around her. 
Bodies appeared here and there, like souls travelling along the River Styx:
Crowley and Abaddon and the generic demons somehow here with her in the bunker,
and she knew, now, who had slain them.  She turned around, a thread connecting
her to the figure standing at the other end of the hallway.  Her heart was
pounding as she stared at the familiar, backlit shape she could not mistake for
anyone else.  She could see the bony, crooked-toothed smile of the First Blade
held in his right hand, the mark on his arm glowing through his shirt sleeve. 
She took a step back and found herself pressed against a wall that had not been
there before, effectively trapping her with the killer at the other end.  Dean
strode towards her purposefully, his features becoming clear in the light, fury
and deadly intent twisting them scarily.  Delilah pressed herself into the
cold, unyielding wall, her heart pounding as he approached.  She looked away
and squeezed her eyes shut as she anticipated the plunge of the bone into her
gut.
A delicate veil descended on her, caressing her skin like the lightest of
silks, wrapping her body in calm and peace, slowing her racing heart.  He was
going to kill her, it was finally going to be over, she thought with relief. 
She was ready to give in… the one, last thing she wanted, what she needed, was
to feel his lips pressed against hers one last time.  She took a step towards
where she could feel he had stopped, not caring that she was walking right into
the held blade and she stretched her neck out towards him, barely opening her
eyes a tiny slit so she could see his green irises looking down at her.  She
stopped a breath away from his lips and waited, like that first time in the
motel room, months, years, centuries ago, when she had been afraid of his
rejection.  She waited and it felt like forever stretched to eternity before
his moistened lips pressed against hers, his beard shadow scratchy against her
sensitive skin.  He deepened the kiss, his mouth opening, his head tilting at
an angle and the tip of his tongue darted inside her mouth leaving behind the
taste of whiskey as familiar as the feel of him.  She took her final step
forward, sensing the blade between their bodies, and she closed the gap between
them.  He kept kissing her fervently, filling her mind, body and soul with the
song of her heart even knowing her Dean had killed her.  Soon she would be at
peace.
It wasn't until she felt the thick, warm liquid running down her hand, that she
knew something wasn't right.  She opened her eyes, to find Dean staring back at
her, a slight smile curling the corners of his lips, but failing to reach his
eyes, which were looking sad and tired.  His face was pale, the warm light of
his green eyes slowly dulling as she looked on, confused.  He raised his right
hand to her face and caressed her gently and she understood. With fear
clutching her heart again she glanced down at where their bodies pressed
together and found the First Blade in her hand, the hide-wrapped handle held
tightly in her fingers as the rest of the blade was sunk deeply not in her… but
Dean.  "No," she whispered, choking back a sob as Dean's body fell lifelessly
to the ground like a rag doll.  She dropped the hunk of jawbone and threw
herself down on him, shaking his shoulders and calling his name at the top of
her lungs, though no sound came out.  She watched as the light went out behind
his eyes, the green leeching out to nearly clear. She kissed his cold, unmoving
lips and slapped his face, screaming her soundless agony at him to come back
and then collapsed on his chest as tears and choked sobs ripped through her
entire being.
She gasped back to consciousness, sitting straight up on the sofa, putting her
foot down on the thick area rug.  She startled at the softness, pulling her
foot back up, for a second thinking the cool fabric was wet and her dream had
become real.  She was relieved to find the carpet was as it had been since she
stepped foot in this Hell occupied room, but she could not slow her racing
heart even as she lay her forehead against her arms curled around the top of
her bent knees.
"That was quite the show you put on, Lamb," came Crowley's deeply unsettling
voice to her left.
She turned her head to look at him, keeping it resting on her knees, her
stupidly curled hair partially obscuring her view of the Armani-clad demon,
unsure if she wanted to know what he was talking about.  He seemed to still be
stuck in the same position since he'd been shot: slouched in the chair, his
bottom half hanging off the edge and his neck bent at an odd angle… she was
getting a crick in hers just thinking about it.  He was also still clutching
his chest, though the bleeding had stopped.
"Quite the mix of erotica and horror, the waves of pain and agony and lust just
pouring out of you… Were you dreaming of me?"
Delilah glared her contempt for the twisted, sadistic demon who was smiling at
her suggestively, a twinkle in his eye that was chilling and disconcerting. 
She dropped her knees to the side, tucking the dress around her modestly,
stupid fucking thing, and slouched forward in her preferred cross-legged
sitting position.  "Yeah, actually.  I danced on your carcass and swam in your
blood."
The demon cocked his eyebrows at her looking like she had suggested a quirky
sex play, as opposed to the gory image she had tried to conjure with her
exaggeration of his presence in her dream. "You're sending chills down my
spine.  What fun you and I could have.  Once your soul has been twisted and
darkened by a stint in my dungeon of course."
Delilah didn't respond, keeping her dark thoughts about her just desserts to
herself.  She looked around the room and noticed the lightening sky through the
open curtains and her head was instantly filled with conflicting emotion; part
of her frustrated and scared that she still couldn't contact Sam or Dean to
warn them of the trap, yet at the same time relieved that time had shuffled
forward, bringing the arrival of her heroes much closer.  After that nightmare,
she was almost desperate to see Dean, just to completely erase the memory of
watching the life fade from his eyes.  She kept looking around the room and
realized that other than herself and the obnoxious Crowley, there was no one. 
She stood up from the sofa, looking around again to confirm that the red-head
wasn't somehow hiding when Crowley spoke up again.
"Seems the pretender to my throne was called away by the vile betrayers who owe
their cushy positions to me."
"She's gone?  Where's the guard?"
"With my powers stripped, I believe they figure you're not much of a threat,
and neither is the useless excuse for progeny in the next room." Delilah rushed
over to the demon, hope filling her as she dove into his pockets searching for
his phone.  Crowley smiled a toothy grin at her, his eyes full of devilment
again, "A little more to the left, darling."
"Shut up, where's your phone?"
"Abaddon may not have you high on her list of creatures that pose a danger to
her, but she's not stupid."
Delilah straightened up and started searching the room for something, anything
that would get her out of there.  She could not see the room phone anywhere;
the demon having thought to remove it as well when she took Crowley's. She
rushed over to the windows and had a quick look at the balcony, but they were
on the top floor, and none of the lower floors seemed to have balconies in
their windows, so even if she wanted to Spider-man her way down to another
floor, there was just no way.  She walked back into the room and opened every
drawer she found in every dresser and end table, but she couldn't find her
weapons either.  Delilah was growing increasingly frustrated, no way had
Abaddon thought about all this and then left the room completely unguarded, she
knew she wouldn't get far without a weapon.
Then, in the small sideboard by the large wooden conference table in the other
part of the suite, she found a silver letter opener.  She couldn't fault the
knight for having overlooked it, after all, silver did fuckall to demons and
what could she possibly achieve with a letter opener?  She grabbed it and
rushed back to the sitting area where she had left Crowley.  She dropped to her
knees in front of him, getting another sexually suggestive comment, which she
ignored, before she jammed the narrow silver blade into the bullet hole in his
chest.  The demon let out a surprised cry, "Watch it!  You're going to damage
the suit!"
"Shut up!  There's already a fucking hole in your suit," Delilah said,
concentrating on trying to scoop the bullet out of the soft insides of
Crowley's chest.  "You're the reason I'm stuck here in the first place, you
motherfucker.  So, I'm going to dig out this goddamn bullet and you're going to
snap us out of here, got it?  We can rendezvous with Sam and Dean and then come
back to kill the bitch."
"Brilliant.  Because you seriously think that after we get out of here, Abaddon
will wait around for Dean to come kill her?"
The sound of the handle on the main door turning reached Delilah's ears and she
quickly tucked the letter opener into his left hand by his leg, hiding it from
whoever was coming in.  She didn't have time to straighten up that she was
thrown across the room and against the wall between the windows and the
fireplace.  She crumpled to the floor as the demon took slow casual steps
towards her, her black biker boots stopping barely a foot away from Delilah's
head.
"Now there, seems I caught you red-handed," Abaddon said coyly, looking down at
the blood on Delilah's hands.
"Sue me," Delilah spit at her, sitting up to lean back against the wall.
The demon crouched down, looking at Delilah's face with a trace of curiosity. 
"So much spunk.  Where do you keep finding the guts to stand up to me?  You're
no more than a little bug."  She raised her hand in the air between them.  "Do
you know what I do to annoying, little bugs like you?”  Delilah kept glaring at
Abaddon, unable to hold back the dread of anticipated pain, but not wanting to
give the demon the pleasure of knowing she was scared.  "I crush them," Abaddon
whispered, closing her fingers in a tight fist and smiling her bright white
smile framed by crimson lips.
At first the pressure was mild, like she had twisted herself into her blankets
while sleeping, but the longer the demon held her fist closed, the stronger was
the pressure on Delilah's whole body as it was crushed.  She ground her teeth
together to stop from screaming as the pressure continued to increase, but when
she felt one of her ribs crack in her chest, she cried out from the pain.  It
was quickly followed by another rib and suddenly her left arm felt like it had
popped out of its socket.  The pain was too much and she screamed and sobbed as
her insides were pressed together like so much putty.
Then, Abaddon opened her hand and Delilah was released, causing her dislocated
shoulder to throb dully, while her broken ribs radiated a sharp pain and her
stomach, guts and lungs felt like they were moving back into place.  Delilah
gasped and sobbed, trying to swallow down the pain as best she could.
"I was Cain's favourite; did you know that?" Abaddon asked her sweetly as she
walked her index and middle finger up her bare leg, each touch of the delicate
digits like a nail driven through her bone.  "And do you know why he picked me
to be his second?"
"Let me guess," Delilah gasped out obstinately through her gritted teeth, "You
kept tugging on his sleeve like the spoiled brat you are until he gave in,
right?"
Abaddon smiled and let out an amused huff.  "I do enjoy your spunk," she said
again as she lay her palm on Delilah's thigh.  "It was because he had never met
anyone who truly enjoyed inflicting pain like I do."
There was a moment of confusion in Delilah's head before she felt the growing
pressure on her thighbone.  She groaned through her clenched teeth as her leg
turned to ice and she heard the slow wood splintering sound of the bone as it
twisted.  She opened her mouth and screamed as Abaddon broke her leg, the
crushed bone now feeling like it was surrounded by molten lava.
Abaddon chuckled and let go, the damage done and the pain continuing to
radiate, shooting to her toes and to her tail bone then up her spine, taking
her breath away and leaving her sobbing from the pain.  The demon walked away
and Delilah could feel the hot tears rolling down her cheeks as her hands
hovered over her damaged leg.  Her stomach heaved from a sudden dizzy spell and
she was glad she hadn't eaten anything in a while, certain she could not have
held back the vomiting.
There was a knock at the door and the guard from before stuck his head inside
the room.  "My queen," he said, patiently waiting for Abaddon to turn towards
him, "the Winchesters were spotted driving past one of our checkpoints.  They
should be here soon."
"Excellent," she said with a smile, turning to look around at Crowley and then
at Delilah.  "Show time, children."
Abaddon raised her hand towards Delilah and she felt herself grabbed by
invisible ropes and dragged up into the air.  She was slammed into the wall
above the now cold fireplace and she could feel the fire in her chest and leg
as the demon positioned her on the wall like a centre piece of an art exhibit:
one bare foot on top of the other and her arms stretched out on either side,
her left arm popping again as her shoulder rolled outside its socket.  She
barely registered the familiar shape of the cross her body was forming before
invisible nails were driven through her feet and hands.  She screamed again,
and then sobbed as the ropes disappeared, and the entire weight of her body
pulled on her impaled hands.  She tried to push up with her feet, but her
broken leg wouldn't respond and the feel of the nail rubbing between her bones
was excruciating.  There was no way to alleviate it, every tiny movement she
made caused her more pain than before, the sensations piling on top of each
other without relief.  She couldn't think and it was taking all that she had
not to black out.  She had to stay awake.  She had to warn Dean.
All notion of time left her, there was nothing but pain, and so it felt like
both an eternity and bare seconds before the hotel room door quietly swung open
on its well-oiled hinges and Dean crept silently through holding the First
Blade in front of him in his right hand.  She forced herself to lift her head,
even that minor movement causing pain, and the dark, murderous stare of the man
possessed by the fury of the Mark of Cain landed on her.  The look in his eyes
was chilling as he radiated homicidal rage, his eyes sweeping the room
methodically for a target.
"Hello, Dean," Crowley said, from his trapped position in the chair below her. 
"Love the crazy bloodlust in your eyes."  Dean kept his eyes on the demon, a
deep scowl on his face as he raised the First Blade and tapped it against his
own chest, letting Crowley know he noticed the bullet hole.  "Let's not waste
time," the demon continued.  "I'll take you to Abaddon.  It's not far."
A movement caught Delilah's attention in the room to her left behind Crowley. 
The demon that had been guarding them was hiding behind a china cabinet, ready
to jump on the hunter as he stalked forward.  "Three o'clock!" she managed to
choke out and Dean moved instantly, more focused than she'd ever seen him as he
thrust the blade into the demon's stomach, pushing him back into the glass
cabinet and causing him to crackle with golden electricity as he fizzed out of
existence and his vessel dropped to the ground.  Dean was suddenly thrown
against the wall beside her and pinned to it.
"No," Delilah groaned as Abaddon stepped out from the conference room
nonchalantly.
"A boy and his blade," she said, "and still no match for the new Queen."
She smiled and raised her hand, crushing Dean against the wall from across the
room.  Delilah couldn't help feeling discouraged, the shred of hope that she
had begun to feel crushed, and she dropped her head dejectedly.  She looked
towards the door, remembering Sam couldn't be far, but he was nowhere in sight.
Abaddon chuckled, revelling in her imminent victory, Delilah's woozy head only
making out some of what she was saying as she taunted her prey.  She did notice
though, the strained confusion on the demon's face as she raised her hand
towards Dean again.  Delilah turned her head and watched, to her dismay, as the
hunter somehow resisted Abaddon's power, pulling away from the wall and taking
a step towards her.  The demon hit him again with a dose of her magic, but he
barely flinched as he took another step as though he was battling both
hurricane grade winds and wet cement around his feet.  The room was thrown into
chaos as winds buffeted everything: lamps, chairs, tables and paintings shook
all over the room, yet the knight was unable to hold back Dean's slow advance. 
Finally, Abaddon gave another knock of her power and Delilah was released,
falling to the floor in front of the fireplace; the spell that had been holding
her crucified abandoned in favour of diverting the power towards Dean.
Delilah writhed on the floor from the pain and she lost track of what was
happening around her in the room.  She knew only one thing, she had to help
Dean.  She managed to pull herself to her feet with her good arm, swaying on
her unbroken leg, just in time to see Dean once again crushed against the wall,
the First Blade on the ground and out of reach.  She hobbled towards him,
pushing through the pain, thinking that if she could just make it to where the
blade had fallen, she could get it back to him.  As she watched though, it
wobbled and flew back into his hand and he broke Abaddon's hold again.
The demon was looking panicked now, the wind swirling uncontrollably all around
the room and just as the door opened again, this time Sam pushing through,
Abaddon turned her clawed hand towards Delilah and she felt the demon rip
through the skin on her stomach.  She looked down in shock and watched the
blood seeping out of the gash and down her body.  She tasted the metallic
coppery liquid in her mouth as she fell to her knees besides Crowley's chair,
unable to hold herself up as the life drained out of her.  She was choking on
her own blood and everything was swimming around her as if she were drowning.
She could hear screaming in the room as she collapsed onto her side, her body
going numb as long brown hair and hazel eyes rushed towards her.
She couldn't make sense of anything, barely aware of being moved around as a
high insistent pitch scrambled her brain and the light became too bright around
the edges.  The brown hair around Sam's face was gently swaying back and forth
as he turned his head this way and that and she felt a dull pressure on her
stomach.
"Dean!" he yelled, looking over his shoulder, and then again, "I'm losing her,
Dean!"
"Move," came the unsettlingly accented voice of Crowley.  Sam raised the knife
he was holding towards him and the demon stopped, drawing back his blood-
stained hands.  "Do you want me to help or do you want her to die?"
Sam's face was pinched and stressed with worry.  Delilah gurgled his name
through the blood trickling out of her mouth and he looked down at her looking
completely terrified and uncertain.  He put the knife down and Crowley waved
his hand over her once.  Warmth rolled over her like a wave and wrapped her in
a comforting embrace as her body tingled like an orgasm was overtaking her in
crashing waves.  Then, just like that, it was gone and the brain fog brought on
by the pain that had been dampening her thoughts lifted.
She sat up quickly, feeling better than new and she saw Dean out of the corner
of her eye move up from between the armchairs behind where Crowley was
standing, the First Blade in his hands, the rage in his eyes beyond anything
she had ever seen.  His face, coat and hands were covered in blood.  She jumped
to her feet and rushed to intercept him before he could plunge the blade into
the last demon in the room.
"Dean!  Stop!" she yelled, grabbing hold of his shoulders and pushing against
him with everything she had.
He turned his eyes on her and for a second she thought he was going to push her
out of the way, but something changed in his face and the rage vanished,
replaced by distress and revulsion as he looked down at his bloody right hand
holding the blade.  He opened his fingers and let the bone fall to the ground
with a dull thud as he heaved and panted, his breathing laboured.
She raised her hands to his bloody face gently, and turned his head towards
her.  His eyes locked onto hers, panic and horror swirling in the clear
irises.  She could feel him shaking as he collapsed to his knees dragging her
down with him.  He buried his blood streaked face in her neck and pulled her
against him, holding on tightly as she cradled him against her, one arm around
his broad shoulders and her other hand holding his head.
Her eyes were drawn to the nightmare behind him: the dead bodies of the demons
Dean had slain, blood pooling around them and seeping into the hardwood floors
– Abaddon mutilated nearly beyond recognition.  Her horror gave way to a surge
of relief so strong, it leaked out of her eyes and down her cheeks.
He was alive.  Abaddon was dead and he was alive.
                                       ⭐
***** Fear of the Dark *****
Chapter Notes
     Sometimes the monsters are out there, and sometimes they hide in the
     people we love the most.
Slowly, Dean seemed to recover and he raised his head from where he had buried
his face in her neck.  Delilah shifted her gaze to look at him, the blood now
smeared across his forehead and cheek as he frowned, looking at her shoulder. 
She glanced down and saw that it had its own bloody smears, Dean having
unwittingly wiped some of Abaddon's blood onto her.  He raised his left hand to
his face, understanding flashing in his eyes, and wiped at some of the tacky
red liquid, looking at his stained fingertips and then his bloody right hand.
Delilah glanced around quickly, looking for something to help clean him up. 
She noticed, but didn't really care, that Crowley was standing by the
fireplace, watching them cautiously as Sam picked up the First Blade from where
it had fallen to the ground.  He wrapped the bloody bone in a piece of brown
suede and held onto it in his hand.
She turned back to Dean, who was now looking at his ruined jacket with a frown
and she grabbed the only clean piece of fabric she could find: the hem of her
detested dress.  She tore off a wide strip of the silky material, Crowley
making a noise like a hurt animal, which she ignored.  She cleaned the blood
off Dean's face gently and then gave him the rag to wipe his hand.  By then, he
had regained some of his senses and was frowning down at her body.
"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked her, making her smile despite the
circumstances.
It was Crowley who answered, "A perfectly ruined Dior dress worth more than
that phallus on wheels you insist on driving everywhere."
Dean sprang to his feet and in three long strides he had grabbed Crowley by his
coat lapels and slammed him back into the stone mantel behind him.
"Tell me again why you're not dead!" Dean growled into his face.
"Dean," Delilah said, catching up to him and laying her hand on his shoulder,
"he protected me from Abaddon.  He saved me just now."
Crowley's eyes went round like silver dollars as he looked between Dean and
Delilah, trying to look endearing and failing.
"Yeah?" Dean's eyes never left the demon's face as he spoke, "How did Abaddon
even know about you?"
Delilah didn't have a quick answer for him that wasn't an outright lie, though
she suddenly understood Crowley's motivation for bringing her here in the first
place, and for protecting her: she was his insurance, not Abaddon's.  Dean
shrugged her off and tightened his hold on Crowley's cherished black suit, his
look murderous again.  The only thing saving the demon was Dean's lack of an
appropriate weapon.  He raised his still bloodied right fist and slammed it
into Crowley's face, making blood drip from his mouth.
"Dean! That's enough," Sam intervened, pulling his brother away while Crowley
shrugged his suit jacket back in place.
"Thank you, Moose."
Sam pointed his demon knife at Crowley threateningly.  "Don't push it,
Crowley," he said.
"Oh, come on!" The demon exclaimed looking outraged as he stepped away from the
wall.  "Do I get no credit for warning you this was a trap?"  Sam's perplexed
frown told her that he had no idea what he was talking about.  Crowley pressed
on, "'Poughkeepsie' ring a bell?" Sam turned his confused look on his brother
who turned around from looking at the mess on the floor.  Crowley glanced back
and forth between the brothers, watching the expression on Sam's face turn to
realization and then anger.  The demon chuckled, delighted, "I sense drama!"
If Dean hadn't told Sam about Crowley's message, it explained why he had
arrived so much later in the fight.  Dean must have figured one hostage was
enough and sent his brother in the wrong direction.
Dean turned away without a comment and moved beyond the bodies on the floor,
heading for the door to the suite.  Delilah put her hand on Sam's arm
comfortingly, her heart breaking at the look of betrayal on his face.  The
startled yell coming from the room Dean had just entered made her jump and she
suddenly remembered about Gavin.  She ran into the room to find the Scot being
dragged towards her by Dean who was holding onto the back of his black vest.
"Let me go!" Gavin begged and Delilah rushed to his side.
"Not a demon!" she told Dean, quickly.  "Just another hostage."
Dean looked annoyed and let go of Gavin's shirt, dropping him on all fours
right at the doorway.  He started yelling again and backing away in horror and
Delilah looked down to realize he was staring right at the mutilated corpses.
"Oh, for bloody sakes!" Crowley muttered and with a snap of his fingers the
corpses disappeared.
Sam turned on his heel, looking around the penthouse suite, alarmed.  "Where
did you send them?"
"Oh… here and there." Crowley gestured nonchalantly and Sam's shoulders fell as
he ground his teeth, glaring at him.
Knowing Crowley, the bodies would be materializing somewhere that will wreak
havoc and disruption.  One step forward, ten steps back with this douchebag,
Delilah thought to herself.  Gavin was still looking shocked and she felt pity
for the poor overwhelmed man.  She crouched beside him and helped him to his
feet again, turning him around and walking back into the bedroom.  She sat him
down on the edge of the bed, where he tucked his hand under his arm and stuck
the nails from his other hand into his mouth, his eyes still glued on the, now,
pristine floor where Abaddon had been laid out.  Delilah sighed, exasperated
with him and she walked into the bathroom, the tiles cold under her bare feet,
and poured him a glass of water from the tap.  She also grabbed the white hand
towel from beside the sink and used it to wipe away the blood still smeared on
her neck.  She didn't spare much more than a glance for the ridiculous looking
curls in the mirror, but she was relieved the worst Crowley had done to her
face was a dark smoky eye and a cherry red lipstick, which was now smeared.
She handed Gavin the glass, but he wouldn't take it, so, with an eye roll, she
walked back out to join the Winchesters.  She handed Dean the towel, and poured
some of the water on it so he could finish cleaning up.  He gave her a quick
smile and turned back to look at Crowley, wiping his hands and face.
"I just still can't get over the fact that Crowley has a son," he said.  "How's
he doing by the way?" he asked her.
Crowley must have given them the basic story of how Gavin had come to be there.
She looked back at the man who hadn't moved from where he was sitting on the
bed and shook her head. "He's pretty out of it right now."
Dean turned to address Crowley, "You get that he's got to go back, right?  To
his own time?"
Crowley lowered his voice, glancing at his son quickly, then back to each
Winchester in turn.  "If the lad goes back, his destiny is to board a ship
bound for America.  That ship went down in a storm.  All hands were lost." 
Delilah frowned, looking at Crowley incredulously.  Did he actually care?  She
looked at Sam quickly who looked just as perplexed as her.  Only Dean seemed
unaffected.  The demon went on: "He had one chance in this world to change his
life.  You want that to all end in tragedy?"
Dean raised his eyebrows, tossing the now soiled towel onto the little table. 
"Well, I don't know what to tell you.  Them's the rules.  He goes back."
Delilah turned and looked at Gavin again, the man who had travelled to the
future just to, now, have to go back to his own time to die.  She'd be lying if
she said she didn't give a shit.  She looked at Dean, but his face was set,
nothing she, or anybody else, could say would change his mind at this point. 
She walked back into the room and sat down beside Gavin on the bed, patting his
shoulder in an attempt to console him but he didn't acknowledge her at all.
Sam's voice just barely drifted into the room from where he was standing in
front of the divan, confirming that Gavin would have heard the rest of the
conversation too.  "The lore all says the same thing: you change any one thing
in the past, the ripple effect impacts everything that follows."
Crowley was sounding angry as he paced in the small sitting area.  "Please.  No
one bends the rules like you two bend the rules.  He's one misfit kid!" he
pleaded.  "He impacts no one."
"You don't bend that rule, okay?" Sam said.  "You don't."  He looked up at
Gavin and Delilah sitting on the white duvet in the other room, and she held
his gaze.  She knew he was right, of course he was right, she had heard their
stories of their travels back in time; this kind of thing was risky and could
have untold consequences.  But it didn't change that she didn't like it.  It
felt like they were marching him to the gallows.  Sam spoke again.  "We'll take
him back to the bunker, figure out the spell.  That's the way it's gotta be."
Crowley was looking angry as he looked at each of the brothers and then towards
her and Gavin.  He turned back to Sam.  "Can I at least say goodbye?"
Dean shrugged and looked towards her, too, with pursed lips and an annoyed
shake of his head.  Crowley headed right for where she was sitting with his
son, but turned around at the doorway to address the Winchesters again.  "I'll
cheer the day when the last trace of humanity leaves me." He paused, then added
with a disgusted shudder, "Feelings!"
Sam looked like he almost felt bad for the demon as he turned around and walked
into the room with her and Gavin.
"You're doing the right thing, Crowley," she told him.
"Oh, please, Lamb.  Your naïveté is disgustingly endearing."
She frowned, but before she knew it, Crowley had slammed the bedroom doors shut
and pushed her away from Gavin with a spell that landed her on her ass on the
floor.  She heard Sam and Dean's yells of outrage as they threw themselves at
the magically sealed doors.  Crowley put one hand on Gavin's shoulder and
raised his other hand in the air, thumb and fingers poised to snap.
"Crowley, don’t," Delilah warned, but with a smirk and a snap the King of Hell
and his son had disappeared.
The doors opened again and Sam and Dean rushed inside.  Sam spotted her on the
floor right away and reached down a hand to help her up while Dean turned
around frustrated.  "Damn it, Crowley!" he yelled roughly at the room devoid of
demons.
They did a quick sweep of the penthouse suite and managed to locate Delilah's
weapons that Abaddon had stashed.  Dean tucked them into his own coat and belt
since her dress didn't really allow for any concealment.  More frustrating was
the loss of her FBI badge that had disappeared into thin air along with her
torn jeans and shirts, not to mention the key to her car.  Sam assured her he'd
make her another badge when they got back.  Thankfully, the bunker key was in
her bag, safely in the trunk of the Dart.
They snuck out of the hotel, managing not to draw anyone's attention, which,
between her torn dress and bare feet and Dean's bloody coat, was a friggin'
miracle.  Dean slid in behind the Impala's wheel, Sam sitting shotgun and
Delilah threw herself into the back seat curling onto the black leather and
rubbing her cheek against it happily.  Dean pulled away from the curb and
hightailed it out of Cleveland, zooming down the highway westbound.  Bound for
home.
The sun followed them at first, over-taking them as they crossed into Illinois
and setting in Baby's windshield somewhere in Iowa, cloud cover moving in
hiding the budding stars.  They drove on as a light rain started, night
wrapping the gleaming black lines of the Impala and throwing the insides into
deep shadow.
Delilah's relief at being back in the car - something part of her had been
convinced would not happen again - began to dissipate as she became aware of
the heavy atmosphere.  Not a word was exchanged between the brothers in the
front seat, and though at first, Dean's music coming out of the speakers
covered the lack of conversation, Delilah began to realize that this was more
than just Sam and Dean being quiet, Sam was angry.
Familiar notes came on the radio and Dean made a sound of approval as he turned
the volume knob to flood the car with the tune.  Sam reached over with a huff
and switched off the stereo entirely.
"Dude!" Dean reacted, instantly, "You don't turn off Zeppelin, man.  What's
your problem?"
"My problem, Dean?!" Sam answered, heatedly.  "You lied to me!"
Dean didn't even try to deny it, his tone neutral as he said, "So what?  You
just gonna sit there and pout like a little girl all the way home?"
Delilah frowned, looking at his eyes in the rearview mirror.  He was looking
cool, unaffected, like he couldn't care less what his brother did. Sam just
kept glaring at him, his frustration coming out in huffy breaths.  Dean glanced
at his brother and then back out the windshield, pursing his lips. He spoke
calmly, his voice low.  "I didn't tell you about the warning because I knew
exactly what you would do.  You would make sure that you were right alongside
me going into that room."
Delilah could see Sam's deep scowl as he glared at his brother.  He was
agitated as he spoke. "You mean, like we always do?  Because we're actually
partners in this, and we watch each other's backs?"
"I don't expect you to understand," Dean said without emotion.
"God!  I'm getting really fucking tired of hearing that!  I'm not a child,
Dean.  So, try me."
Delilah couldn't help but feel partly guilty for his frustration… after all,
hadn't she claimed Sam couldn't understand on more than one occasion?  She
resolved to tell him everything about the curse first chance she got,
awkwardness be damned.
The expression on Dean's face as he turned to look at his brother was pure
annoyance before he looked back out at the road.  Delilah thought he wasn't
going to answer but then his eyes connected with hers in the rearview and he
was looking thoughtful, like he was trying to figure out where to start.  After
another moment, he spoke quietly.  "First time I touched that blade, I knew."
He glanced at her again quickly and she held her breath.  He had only managed
to tell her a little about the blade and those feelings he had been struggling
with before frustration made him burst out angrily.  Something was different
with him now though… he was calm, and collected.  He looked like he was in
perfect control as he went on.  "I knew that I wouldn't be stopped.  I knew I
would take down Abaddon… and anything else if I had to.  And it wasn't a hero
thing, you know?" he glanced at his brother again, "It wasn't.  It was just
calm."  Delilah frowned, that didn't seem right to her.  Calm is not what she
would've used to describe his reaction to the blade, thinking of the bursts of
anger and the pent-up energy.  But then, she saw, in her pain muddled memories,
the look of absolute focus on his face as he walked into the hotel suite and
she had to admit the lack of emotional reaction when his eyes found her pinned
to the wall had chilled her.  "I knew," he said again, "And I had to go it
alone, Sammy."
Up till then, Sam had been attentive, listening to his brother with a concerned
look on his face, but now he scoffed, his irritation back in a flash as he
interpreted his brother's words.  "Oh. Of course," he said testily, "so it was
just another time where you had to protect me."
Anger crept into Dean's tone, "Abaddon could have nabbed you and she could've
bargained her way out."
"You mean, like she did with Delilah?" he said, furiously.
She shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Sam's profile.
"Exactly," said Dean, going back to his more neutral tone.  "We couldn't afford
to screw this up."
"Yeah, here's the thing Dean, you didn't exactly flinch when Abaddon nearly
killed her."
"Sam.  Don't," Delilah pleaded from the back seat as she glanced at Dean's
darkening eyes focused on the road.  She didn't want to hear this.
"No!" he said, turning in the passenger seat so he could look at both her and
his brother.  "I saw you, Dean!  You didn't give a shit what happened to her. 
All you cared about was killing Abaddon!"
Delilah hugged her middle and looked out the side window avoiding both sets of
eyes and meeting her own reflected stare instead.  She squeezed her eyes shut. 
Dean was silent, not responding to Sam's attack.  Delilah felt something wet on
her cheek and she raised her hand to find that she was crying.  She wiped the
offending tears away quickly before the boys saw them and blew their
significance out of proportion.  She didn't even know herself why she was
crying.  She dropped her hands in her lap and turned her head away from the
window, the inside of the car veiled by her hair.  She caught Sam looking at
her with a pained look: his lips pinched and his eyebrows knitted high on his
forehead.  He looked away taking a deep breath.
When he spoke again, his tone had changed.  He was calmer, his voice softer as
he addressed Dean: "Look… I'm glad it worked out, okay?  I am.  And I'm glad
the blade gives you strength, or calm, or whatever… but Dean, I gotta say, I
think it's starting to do something else, too."
"Yeah? Like what?" Dean asked, sounding completely uninterested.
"I don't know. Like something to you." Dean turned his head slightly but kept
looking at the road.  Sam turned in the seat again to face his brother's
profile, glancing at her quickly.  "I'm thinking," he continued, "until we know
for sure that we're gonna kill off Crowley, why don't we store the blade
somewhere distant?  Lock it up somewhere safe?  Okay?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.  Delilah watched him frowning in the rearview. 
His face didn't change at all as he gave his cold one-word answer: "No."  Sam
kept staring at him, half-expectant and half-unnerved, clearly waiting for an
explanation or a reason for his answer.  When none came and Dean continued to
stare straight ahead, Sam sat back against the seat and turned his head away,
concealing his consternation from Delilah.
Silence fell inside the moving car, each passenger lost in their thoughts. 
Delilah was trying to sort through what had happened.  One thing seemed
certain, this cold, unbending Dean they were sharing the ride with was far from
the warm, caring and yes hot-headed and impulsive man she knew.  And it was
disquieting to see the strange dark emptiness in his eyes every time the
headlights from cars going in the opposite direction lit up his reflection.
A half hour later, Dean pulled up the Impala beside where she had parked the
Dart before Crowley had spirited her away to Cleveland.  The car was barely
stopped that Sam pushed the door open and climbed out.  She scrambled out of
the back seat and onto the pavement as he slammed the passenger door shut and
walked over to the blue car.  "Sam," she called out to him, but he didn't even
turn around.  He just raised his hand behind him, his body language clearly
telling her he wanted to be on his own.
Delilah took a deep breath and grabbed the handle on the front passenger side
of the Impala, half-expecting it to be locked, but it wasn't.  The door creaked
open and she dropped down in the seat Sam had just vacated.
She looked over at Dean as he shifted the car into drive and pulled away from
the curb, leaving his brother to figure out how to get the car home without the
key.  She sat back against the car seat, bringing her bare feet up and tucking
them under her, trying her best to warm up her cold legs under the feather
light fabric.  Her arms were starting to get cold too and she rubbed them with
her hands.
Dean moved a lever on the dash and increased the heat pouring out of the vents,
the incongruous Legos starting up their rattling.  She glanced over at him as
he put his hand back on the steering wheel, keeping his focus straight ahead. 
Delilah turned to look ahead too and swallowed hard as she tried to come up
with what to say to him.
"I'm sorry, Dean," she finally said, worrying the torn and fraying hem of her
dress.  "It's my fault Crowley was able to get to me in the first place."
"Yeah, about that," he said, "you mind telling me what the hell's going on with
you lately?  That's twice you just leave."
Delilah looked down at her lap again, unsure what to tell him.  "I just needed
sp--"
"Space," he interrupted her, "Yeah, you keep saying that."
Delilah's heart was pounding in her chest.  She knew she had decided to tell
Sam what had happened, but telling Dean felt like a whole other level of
difficulty, especially the way he was acting now.  She searched for what to
say, how could she explain to him what the mirror had done?  As she opened her
mouth to say something, Dean cut her off again, "From now on, you're staying at
the bunker."
What was she supposed to say to that?  She closed her mouth again without a
word.  Part of her agreed with him; between the vampires draining her, the
mirror getting her to put a gun to her own head and Abaddon tearing her open,
she couldn't say she'd been doing too good a job stamping her hunter's card
lately.
She cleared the emotion from her throat. "About what you told Sam--"
"What about it?" he asked her.
"Was any of it true?"  She turned to look at him and he glanced at her, his
eyes locking on hers momentarily and she saw there that cold, neutral look he'd
had since killing Abaddon but also a flash of something else, a hint of implied
violence she had only ever seen in the hunter's face in the heat of battle.  He
looked back out at the road, leaving her question unanswered, Delilah now
feeling that maybe she didn't want to know the answer after all.
                                       ~
Dean pulled up the black Impala to the barrier on the road below the ancient
power plant looming ominously in the dark nighttime woods.  Delilah climbed out
of the car, the ground freezing her already cold bare feet, the cool night air
causing goosebumps to appear on her skin and she hugged her arms around herself
as she started walking towards the door set in the bricked-up drainage tunnel. 
She heard the trunk slam shut and Dean's long strides crunched on the broken
asphalt as he caught up to her quickly, carrying his and his brother's bags in
his hands.  They walked down the metal steps to the door, and Delilah fervently
hoped Sam had already gotten there and powered down the lock.  She was relieved
to find the door opening when she pulled on it and she quickly stepped inside
and walked down the metal stairs to the inner door followed closely by Dean. 
She opened that door too to find the comforting familiarity of the mezzanine
with its iron railings, blue-green glass wall and the plush red leather
armchairs angled towards the pewter and wood chessboard set up on the little
table.  All the lights were dim due to the late hour, only some of the wall
sconces adding a warm yellow glow to the room and the light coming from the map
of the world on the table below.
Dean started down the stairs and she followed him, already feeling better being
home, even if she was still cold.  She spotted her own bags on the table below,
obviously left there by Sam after he powered down the locks.  Cold metal gave
way to smooth slate as she walked up to the table looking around without seeing
him.  He had probably gone to bed.  Although she remembered her promise to tell
him everything, she didn't think now was the best time for it.  It could wait
until morning. 
She unzipped her bag and pulled out some of the things she had packed.  She
wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and go to bed, but part of her
knew that as soon as she let her guard down, the events of the last couple of
days would swarm in and swirl and she wouldn't be able to sleep anyhow.
She had brought a couple of the reference books with her to meet with Castiel
and she decided to return them to their places in the library, the routine
action a welcome distraction from the issues waiting around the corners in her
mind.  She walked up the three steps into the dimly lit room, the wooden planks
warm and smooth under her feet, the smell of old leather-bound paper, bricks
and wood pleasantly familiar as she slipped the books into the waiting gaps on
the shelves.
She looked absently at the swords on display next to her, Dean's declaration
that she'd be staying at the bunker from now on nudging for her attention
annoyingly.  As much as she understood his point, it still chafed at her
independence.  She rubbed at her face absently, and a chill went through her
again.  She looked down at herself, bare feet and torn dress, and decided that
if nothing else, she could at least get out of the stupid thing and put on
something more comfortable.  She sighed, sensing her anxieties moving in on her
steadily.
She turned around and startled finding Dean standing right behind her. 
"Shit, Dean!" she said, clutching at her chest where her heart was beating a
mile a minute.  "You surprised me."
She hadn't heard him follow her into the library.  Had he been standing there
the whole time?  He had removed his blood-stained coat and was leaning against
the column just staring at her with that focused look in his eyes.  Her heart
gave an anxious thump as he took a step closer, tilting his head to the side,
looking down at her, his expression hungry, feral in the dim lighting.  Her
heart thumped again and she swallowed nervously as he reached for her, grabbing
hold of her waist with one hand, the other slipping under her hair and around
the back of her neck.  His lips came down on hers demandingly and Delilah found
herself pushing back against his chest.  "Dean," she said against his lips and
pushed on him again.  He pulled back a bit.  "It's been a crazy few days.  This
isn't really the best time."
He didn't say anything, his mouth coming down on hers again as he pulled her
body against his.  She pushed on him again trying to break the contact but he
held her tightly, swinging her around suddenly, pressing her back against the
column.  She grabbed his shirt at the shoulders, bunching it in her fists as
she tried again to pull him back, saying his name against his unyielding lips,
his tongue in her mouth making it sound like an indistinct moan.  He pushed his
hips against hers and she could feel him growing hard through the stiff fabric
of his jeans, her lower regions sending a tentative throb through her like her
body was asking her mind for permission to play.  His hand moved up from her
waist, the heat of his palm going right through the thin fabric of her dress as
he squeezed her breast a little harder than necessary.  When he finally
released her mouth to kiss a wet line down her neck, she spoke up: "Maybe, we
could take this somewhere else?" she compromised, her brain unable to forget
that his brother was somewhere in the bunker, and that sound carried
surprisingly well.
He pulled her up against him again, grinding into her and pulling her breast
out of her dress to suck on her hardening nipple, drawing a gasp out of her as
she clung to his shoulders.  Dean suddenly pulled her away from the column, one
hand behind her neck again, and moved her towards the middle of the room,
turning her around as he bent her over the heavy oak table, pushing her down on
it from behind.  He wedged his knee between hers as he lifted her dress running
his hand up her thigh, over the swell of her ass and around the front to her
hip bone.  He pulled her back against him roughly and the feel of his jeans
against her bare thighs sent a shock through her system, turning her on despite
her reservations.
He let go of the back of her neck and brought his other hand down to her hip,
hooking his fingers around the edge of her panties and dragging them down to
her knees.  His hand was back pressing her down on the table and she heard the
sound of his buckle and zipper as he dropped his jeans.  She felt him rub
against her tight opening seconds before he drove his cock into her hard,
making the table scrape against the floor.  She gasped, unable to deny her
body's reaction to him and how good he felt inside her.  He grunted, pulling
back and pushing in again just as hard, making her legs press against the table
edge painfully, but sending ripples of pleasure through her at the same time
and she barely suppressed a moan. He grabbed her hips again, pulling her away
from the table edge and held her steady as he fucked her, driving into her
hard, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in her ears.
Delilah closed her eyes tightly, her hands curled into fists, her face pressed
against the polished wood of the table, part of her trying to tell her that
what he was doing was wrong, but her body responding to his rough touch like it
always did.  He slowed down his pace as he leaned forward, his arm wrapping
around her shoulders and drawing her back against his chest as his other hand
slipped inside her dress and squeezed her breast.  He drew back his arm and his
hand pressed against her throat firmly as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot
below her ear.  Something pierced through the pleasure fog and she reached up
and pulled his hand away from her neck, uncomfortable with that particular
kink.  He turned her around roughly, slamming his mouth against hers and
sitting her down against the edge of the table. He lifted her skirt again,
pushing it up to her waist, and raised one of her legs, leaning it against his
side.  He was making that grunting moan in his throat that drove her wild as he
kissed her and when he pulled away to drag her underwear off completely he was
breathing heavily.  She brought her hands to his chest and held on to his shirt
tightly in her fists as he brought her other leg up, the hard line of his cock
pushing against her throbbing pussy.
He pushed her down with a hand against her chest and then dragged her hips
towards him so she was partly hanging off the table, the edge digging into her
uncomfortably as he pushed inside her again, pulling another moan from deep in
her throat.  He closed his eyes, his head drawn back and his mouth open as he
drove into her faster.  He looked back down at her and the savageness she saw
there startled her out of her arousal again.  He ran his hand up her silk
covered stomach and suddenly he grabbed the delicate black fabric and tore it
right down the middle, laying her completely bare.  She gasped, the sound of
ripping silk filling her ears as she felt the tear right through into her
stomach.  Her anxiety returned full blast as the sound dredged up too many
disturbing experiences to be sensual.  She turned her head away as he slowed
his rhythm and bent over her taking her breast in his mouth and teasing her
nipple with his tongue while he fondled the other one, her mood continuing to
dampen as she remembered where they were and who could walk in on them at any
time.  He straightened up again and seized her hips, hammering into her hard,
oblivious to her growing discomfort.  By the time he pulled out and pumped
himself, Delilah was feeling numb, looking on impassively as his sperm spurted
out of his cock and onto her bare stomach and chest, unaffected by his guttural
groan as he emptied himself and caught his breath.
He took a step back and she sat up quickly, putting her feet back on the ground
as he pulled his boxers and jeans back into place.  She grabbed the ruined
dress hanging off her shoulders like a robe and wiped herself off, then held
the edges together to hide her nakedness, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the
large open room.
Dean leaned in, putting his hand on her thigh, the touch causing an involuntary
twitch, and aimed to kiss her lips, but she turned her head away and he kissed
her cheek instead.  He didn't seem to care though, his eyes indifferent as he
walked out of the library without a word, grabbing his bag from the world table
before moving away down the kitchen corridor and out of sight, leaving her
alone to ponder; confused and more than a little shaken by what had just
happened.
Delilah straightened up from the table, looking back at it as though afraid it
would betray what it had been made a part of, but it was just a table.  No more
than a prop used to satisfy a need… much like she had been.  She frowned and
turned towards the back of the library making her way out through the back door
and to the shower room in quick strides.
A half hour later found her showered and dressed and spying on Dean from her
chair on the mezzanine.  She had settled there with her tablet trying to
distract herself when the lights in the room had turned on full power and he
had walked into the library, fresh clothes on his back, and dropped his green
duffle onto the first table.  She watched through the stone entryway as he
moved in and out of sight around the room putting away some of the books and
weapons he had in there.  He pulled out the brown suede cloth she knew was
wrapped around the First Blade and she watched with a shudder as he unwrapped
it and fondled it almost lovingly before carrying it over to the sink in the
war room to clean off the dried blood.  The old bone cleaned, he returned it to
the library and came back out again with his now empty bag walking off down the
kitchen hallway again.  It was barely a minute later that he strolled right
back into the room, clearly restless.  He set up his laptop on the world table,
sitting down in one of the chairs, and tapped his fingers on the arm while he
waited for it to boot up.
Delilah sat back in her chair, not wanting him to catch her watching, worried
about the tension she could almost feel emanating from him even from her
perch.  She listened to him clicking away, the sound of the keys getting louder
as he tapped on them harder, a sure sign of growing frustration with the older
Winchester.  When she heard the lid slam shut she couldn't help peeking around
the chair back and through the iron railing at him.  He ran his hand through
his short hair and rubbed his face with a huff then stood up again and dug his
phone out of his pocket.  He paced up and down the room from one hallway to the
other, the phone pressed to his ear as he waited for whoever he was calling to
pick up.
"Cas," he said, finally, "Where are you with the Metatron situation?"  He
paused, listening, but then sighed, annoyed. "Yeah, man.  I dealt with it.  The
ginger bitch is gone.  Now tell me what you got." Another pause. "Missouri? 
Alright, we'll meet you down there." He tapped his phone screen again and
turned sharply, disappearing down the storage rooms' hallway.
Delilah sat back again, the bunker quietly whirring away like a sleeping beast
and she heard the distant sound of loud rock music playing.  What the hell is
he doing now?  The music stopped and the bunker was quiet again.  She got up
from her chair and leaned against the railing considering going down to find
out, her concern about Dean's behaviour only growing, when Sam shuffled out of
the left-hand hallway yawning widely and running his hands through his
dishevelled hair.  He spotted her right away and rubbed his eye tiredly.
"Hey.  Did the asshole wake you up too?" he asked her, his voice all sleep
rusty.  She shook her head and he nodded, another yawn shaking through him. 
"Coffee," he said as he shuffled to the other hallway and disappeared down the
steps towards the kitchen.  Dean strolled back into the room, his blue corduroy
jacket on his back, and she pulled away from the railing, unnecessarily as it
turned out, since he hardly noticed she was there.  He dropped his green duffle
onto the first table in the library again, like some strange reverse déjà-vu as
he collected weapons and books from around the room to pack them back into it.
Sam walked back in, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, making a beeline for
his brother.  He sat down on the end of the table, his foot up on a chair while
Dean stood at the other end, mostly out of sight, and briefed him on his call
to Castiel.  When Sam asked for more details on what was happening in Missouri
though, Dean claimed Castiel hadn't wanted to talk about it over the phone. 
Delilah frowned.  It was Dean who hadn't asked any questions.  Why would he lie
about something so insignificant?  Sam's change in tone drew her back to the
conversation.
"Do you think we need the First Blade?" Delilah glanced down through the bars
to see Dean picking up the brown suede wrapped blade.  She couldn't see his
face, but he paused, his hand in midair.  "Why don't we just… leave that here?"
Sam suggested.
Dean's voice was cold as he answered, "We talked about this.  And we decided--"
"No," interrupted Sam, "in all fairness, we didn't decide… you did."
"Okay, I decided," Dean reacted angrily, "that a hockey stick that can kill
anything?  Might come in handy.  So sue me!"
"How many times have we been around this block?" asked Sam, exasperated. "Magic
that powerful comes at a price, and right now, we don't know what that price
is."
"I'm fine," said Dean, his voice low and rough.  "I'm fan-freakin'-tastic!"
Was he really? Delilah wondered.  Did he really think that?
"And I'm glad, honestly," continued Sam.  "I-I'm not saying we burry the
thing.  I'm saying we just save it for when we really need it.  Crowley. 
Metatron.  The big boss fights.  You don't have to have it with you all the
time, right?  I mean, just leave it," finished Sam with a plea.
She wished she could see Dean's face.  She watched, forgetting to breathe, as
he put the cloth and blade back down on the table, grabbed his duffle bag and
walked out of the library.  He glanced up at her and she swallowed the lump in
her throat at the lack of emotion in his eyes.  Something wasn't right, she
could feel it like a knot in her gut.  He made his way up the stairs and walked
right out the door without a backward glance.  She sat down in her chair again,
lost in her thoughts.  It wasn't much later that the sound of Sam's booted feet
on the metal stairs snapped her out of it.  He walked over to where she was
sitting, carrying his own duffle, freshly re-packed for the new trip.
"You're not coming?"
Delilah shook her head.  "No.  I'll only get in the way."
He frowned, looking perplexed.  "What do you mean?"
She sighed, thinking about what Dean had told her in the car, "I dunno, Sam. 
It just feels like lately I'm doing more harm than good.  I mean with the
vampires and then getting cursed in Illinois.  Getting snatched by Crowley. 
And Abaddon…" she trailed off, remembering the feel of the demon's spell as it
tore through her, nearly finishing her.  She rubbed her healed stomach
absently.
"Hey," Sam said gently, drawing her attention back to him, "Come here."
He gestured to her with his outstretched hand and she stood up, letting him
fold her into a bear hug.  He petted her braided hair gently and she put her
arms around his waist, her face pressed against the steady beating of his
heart.
"Listen to me.  We all have our bad runs, okay?  I mean, I didn't exactly win
with the vampires either.  But we're alive and the bad guys are gone and in the
end, that's what counts."  Delilah felt a tear roll down her cheek at his
comforting words.  He pulled back and crouched down a little holding her
shoulders and she wiped at her wet cheeks.  God, she was getting tired of
crying, it felt like it was all she'd been doing for days now.  "Take the time
you need, but don't for a second think that you are not a damn good hunter,
okay?  'Cause you are." She nodded and he pulled her into his arms again
quickly then released her.
"Thanks, Sam," she said.
He gave her a lopsided smile.  "Anytime."  He turned around and started walking
towards the door.  He looked back at her, his hand on the handle.  "I'll try to
get a new key done for the Dart," he said. "If you need a ride, you can take
the Charger.  It's not as pretty, and it sticks in third gear, but it'll get
you around if you need it."
Delilah huffed with a smile thinking of the old car sitting in a corner of the
garage in bad need of a fresh coat of paint.  Sam turned again, opening the
door and disappeared up the steps at a jog to join his brother.  Delilah looked
around the still and quiet bunker.  It always felt so different when she was
alone there; no distant shuffling feet, no quiet mumbles.  It felt like she was
locked away in a museum after closing time.
She sighed, glancing down again at the table in the library, and the suede
cloth sitting there concealing the First Blade, and her thoughts turned to Dean
once more and his unsettling behaviour.  She made her way down the stairs and
headed to her room.  She thought back to when Dean first returned to the
bunker, the Mark of Cain freshly minted on his arm, and his heavy drinking at
the time.  She had assumed the drinking was due to his dark mood brought on by
his fight with Sam, especially since it did taper off eventually.  But then,
they had found the First Blade and Dean had killed Magnus and again he drowned
himself in his bottle of whiskey, and his restlessness started… And his moments
of rage, like when he had tortured Gadreel, taking out some of that
uncontrollable violence on her, too.  She remembered the look in his eyes that
morning she had joined him in the shower and she realized with a shudder that
he'd had that same feral, predatory look as he'd had just now when he fucked
her in the library.  Did I hurt you? he had asked her in a near panic, then. 
He hadn't been as concerned this time around though, the wild look melting back
into that cold indifference, that calm he had told Sam about in the car after
killing Abaddon.  That darkness.
Sam talked about the price of magic and not knowing what the blade was costing
Dean… Delilah realized though, now, turning the lights off and crawling into
her bed, that maybe… the price he was paying, was his ability to care… his
humanity.
                                       ⭐
***** Riders on the Storm *****
Riders on the storm,
Riders on the storm,
Into this house we’re born,
Into this world we’re thrown.
 
Delilah awoke with a start, fading dreams of rivers of blood and suffocating
darkness drifting from her mind as she reached for her phone on her bedside
table.  Six a.m.
Well, she thought with a sigh, dropping back against her pillows and staring at
the ceiling, that's four more hours than expected.  She threw off the blankets
and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the weariness from her eyes as she
switched on the bedside lamp.  Her eyes fell on the gun beside her phone and
she blinked, confused for a minute about how it got there, and then she glanced
at her dresser to see her angel blade in its usual place.  Dean must have put
them there when they got home…
Her mind drifted to her memories of the night before and she was surprised to
find an ember of anger smouldering quietly in her gut.
Did the asshole wake you up too?
She poked at it tentatively as she stood up, unbraiding her hair and walking
over to the mirror over the sink, and found its flame catching.
I'm losing her, Dean!
She looked in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, sifting through the
highlights of the past few days.
Our little Lamb here will be the perfect distraction.  Instead of trying to
kill us, he'll be trying to save… her.
I saw you, Dean!  You didn't give a shit what happened to her.
Delilah spit into the sink, fuming.
From now on, you're staying at the bunker.
What else are you good for anyways?
God, she was tired of this victim shit.  She saw her gun reflected in the
mirror.
Don't, for a second, think that you are not a damn good hunter, okay?  'Cause
you are.
Where do you keep finding the guts to stand up to me?
"Fuck it."
                                       ~
Delilah stepped out of the Charger and grabbed her messenger bag from the
passenger seat, slinging it across her shoulders as she looked at the brick
warehouse in front of her.  She took a deep steadying breath.  She was about to
bullshit her way into a building full of angels, what the hell was she
thinking?  "I can do this."  She grabbed the handle on the rusty door and tried
not to cringe when the hinges squealed loudly.  She was accosted almost
immediately by two angels.  One of them she did not recognize, but the red
blazer wearing angel had been on guard duty last time she had been around:
Benjamin.  She gave him a wide smile and walked straight ahead like she
belonged there, regardless of their glaring.
"Hey guys!  What's up?" she threw at them cheerfully.  Benjamin stepped in
front of her to intercept her, though, and she stood back, blinking at him
curiously.  "Ben," she said, getting a frown, "Seriously.  We've been through
this before." She laid her hand on her chest and widened her eyes for
emphasis.  "Me.  Friend.  Look Castiel sent me ahead while he's investigating
that thing in Missouri.  No biggie."
"I didn't receive clearance for you," he said, the slight shift in his posture
looking unsure.  Bingo.
"How's that my problem?  Just call him if you don't believe me."
"It's not my place to contact the commander."
"Fine.  Where's Hannah then?  I'm sure she can clear this up?" The two angels
exchanged a glance and Delilah looked back and forth between them, doubt
starting to make her anxious.  Come on, Dee… badass hunter.  She pulled her
cell phone out of her pocket and checked the time. "Can we maybe speed this up
a bit?  Only, I have a job to do and you guys are holding me up here."
"Leave your weapon," Benjamin said, nodding at the gun on her hip.  She was
glad she had stashed her blade in her messenger bag.
"Since when do you guys care about guns?" she asked, emphasizing her annoyance
as she unclipped her holster, pulled out her pistol, and released the magazine
to show him the devil trap bullets she had inside.  She stuck the bullets in
her bag's front pocket but handed him the now empty gun.  As he reached for it,
she pulled back, "I'm gonna want this back."
He didn't answer anything, just took her Smith and Wesson and turned around to
open the door into the compound.  Delilah breathed a quick sigh, which she
covered up with an annoyed look.  Phase one complete.
The main warehouse floor was much the same as it had been on her last visit,
the lights on the dark grey wall, the angels moving purposefully task-to-task
with an inhuman focus.  Delilah suppressed her reflexive shudder, at least this
time they weren't restraining her.  She looked around the squirming anthill
headquarters and quickly found both angels she was looking for.  Neithan was
hard at work typing and clicking away at his computer screens, his golden-brown
eyes running back and forth faster than possible for a human making Delilah
slightly nauseous.  Hannah, dressed in her same modern, business casual, punk
clothes, straightened up from where she had been leaning down over some
documents when she saw her and made a beeline for her and Benjamin.  Delilah
swallowed around the lump in her throat, now wasn't the time to lose her cool.
"Benjamin," she greeted the angel with her unwavering blue eyes as he handed
her Delilah's gun.
"We caught her trying to enter the building once again."
Delilah crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, "Her has a name.  And, again, she
was invited."
Hannah raised her hand, silencing Delilah who closed her mouth and glared. 
"Thank you, Benjamin," she dismissed the angel who nodded and turned around to
resume his post at the door.  She turned to look at Delilah, handing her back
her gun, "How can we help you, Delilah?  I assume you're looking for the
Winchesters, but they're not here."
Delilah took a deep breath, slipping the empty gun back into her hip holster,
releasing some of the tension her attempted con had produced.  She hadn't
fooled Hannah, but it seemed, at least, that she wasn't being dismissed… or
restrained… yet.
"I came to be useful,” she said, dropping her bravado, “I was thinking I could
continue my work with Neithan while I wait for Sam and Dean to return with
Castiel."
If the angel was surprised by her words, she didn't let on as she stared
intently at Delilah, her eyes unwavering as she assessed the potential for
danger.  "Very well," she said after a moment, side-stepping to let Delilah
walk over to Neithan's station.
Delilah shook herself as she took her relieved steps towards him, her stomach
loosening and her muscles uncoiling.  She hadn't realized how tense she had
gotten.  She walked around the desk where Neithan's three screens were set up
and she pulled up a chair as she unslung her messenger bag to put it on the
floor.
"Delilah!" the angel exclaimed, uncharacteristically excited. "Fist bump," he
said, holding out his extended fist towards her, an expectant look in his
golden eyes.  Delilah chuckled, unable to hold back the smile at the quirky
angel/human symbiote.  She reached out and bumped her knuckles against his and
he smiled endearingly with his sixteen-year-old lopsided grin.  "Neithan told
me I should try that next time I see you," he said looking right at her, then
his eyes lost focus a little as he continued, "But you did." There was a pause,
then he added, "I am not a 'dork'."
Delilah laughed, "Sorry kid, you kinda are, but it's cute."
A red blush creeped up the angel's neck and he turned around sharply to face
his computer screens again while Delilah sighed. If only all angels were that
in-sync with their vessels, it'd be a lot less unnerving to work with them.
Delilah reassembled her gun and slid it back into her holster musing briefly
about how quickly she had become accustomed to it… she had become accustomed to
a lot of things since meeting the Winchesters.
She turned her attention back to the kid who was back to furiously clicking
away at his computer.  If she had been nauseous just looking at the angel's
eyes running over the screens before, now that she could see what he was
looking at, it was ten times worse: the angel opening and closing search window
after search window, and loading and re-loading pages as he scanned the
information quickly, typing some of it into his search algorithm on an
alternate screen.  When Delilah asked him to explain what he was working on, he
told her his focus had shifted to searching for energy surges on a particular
wave length as per the commander's specifications.  His jargon was a little
confusing to follow, but from what she could piece together, they had him
searching for the portal to Heaven that Ezra had mentioned when Sam and Dean
had interrogated him.  She wondered if anyone had managed to get more out of
him since she was last there a couple days ago.  When she asked Neithan though,
the suddenly nervous angel told her that Metatron’s angel had been killed by
person unknown and that he wasn’t supposed to talk about it.
 Who could have killed Ezra?  He was being kept in a secured room in the bowels
of the warehouse, guards, wards, the whole nine yards.  The only humans, as far
as she knew, who were granted access to him were her, Sam and Dean, and the
boys wouldn't have killed him.  So that leaves another angel.  She glanced
around at the busy mass of angels around the room.  Castiel would not have
given the kill order, and these stiffs followed orders to a T… so that left… a
traitor?
Delilah swallowed hard, looking at each angel in turn wondering… who?
                                       ~
Delilah finished the last bite of her PB and J sandwich.  She hadn't wanted to
risk leaving the angel compound to get herself some food, and it’s not like you
just have a pizza delivered to a secret lair, so she asked Hannah if there was
anything edible in the place and the angel came back with some bread, a small
tub of peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly… because it just so happened that
Castiel had that in his office.  Delilah got over her shock and confusion,
deciding to accept the strangeness of an angel keeping comfort food – angels
not needing to eat to sustain their vessels – and prepared herself a sandwich. 
It would tide her over until she could go out herself, maybe once Castiel had
returned and could officially vouch for her, teach her the super secret hand
shake and what not.
She rubbed the back of her aching neck, stretching it carefully trying to
loosen her stiff muscles and rolling her shoulders.  She glanced over at
Neithan who was focused as ever, bent over his keyboards and she shook her head
again, amazed.  Regardless of her knowledge of how vessels work, it still
looked like he should be a pile of tense muscles with eyes closing on their
own… like her.  Four hours of sleep was not enough for this kind of sustained
focus.  She rubbed her tired eyes, longing dreamily of a cup of coffee, and
that was when she heard Hannah exclaim, "Commander!" from somewhere behind her.
Delilah started and turned around to see Castiel walking through the door
holding a banker's box in his hands.  He was closely followed by Dean and then
Sam who were still in their FBI suits.  Delilah felt the anger she had woken up
with uncurl like a waking cat as she glared at the older Winchester whose face
was set in an annoyed scowl.
She watched as Hannah walked up to Castiel with a smile on her face, the
uncharacteristic expression disappearing as she turned her attention to the
Winchesters.  Benjamin, who was no longer on guard duty, suddenly walked up to
Castiel and took the box away, Sam looking startled and unsure like someone had
taken away his computer.  She found that she couldn't hear what was being said,
so taking a deep breath she stood up from her chair and made her way over to
the huddled group.  Dean's startled glance turned into a full on angry scowl as
he registered her presence, and she forced herself to continue, stopping only
when she was beside them, Sam's welcoming smile bolstering her confidence.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?" asked Dean angrily, Sam
turning to look at him, surprised.
"I'm working, Dean," she said, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. 
Where do you keep finding the guts to stand up to me?  Badass hunter, she
reminded herself again.
"I thought I told you to stay at the bunker," he said, lowering his voice to a
threatening growl.
Sam's confusion turned into teeth grinding as he glared at his brother. 
Delilah locked stares with Dean, holding back the shiver down her spine at the
cold fury in his green irises.  "Yeah?  Well, I decided you can go fuck
yourself on that one."
Dean's hand shot out quick as lightning and grabbed her wrist painfully. 
Delilah's heart rate spiked, fear shooting her up with adrenaline. "You wanna
run that by me again?" he asked.
Delilah felt herself almost vibrating as her anger overturned her fear - Who
the hell does he think he is?  She twisted her arm out of his grip and stepped
closer, getting in his face as she fumed.  Her tone was as cold as his as she
whispered vehemently, "You are not my father."
Dean flinched, some semblance of pain flickering momentarily in his eyes before
Sam jumped in, pushing on his brother's chest to separate them, "Whoa! Cool off
Dean!" he said, hardly masking the intense confusion in his eyes.
Dean turned his head towards his brother and shook him off, brushing his suit
jacket back in place, "I am cool," he mumbled.
He turned around and walked away, stalking off to another part of the
warehouse, leaving Sam and Delilah with a very confused looking Castiel and an
indifferent Hannah.  Sam turned to look at Delilah.  She was breathing heavily,
trying to slow her crazy pulse and calm down, the mix of anger and fear taking
its time to subside.  He was looking more and more concerned as he looked at
her.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes wide, his forehead creased.
"I'm fine, Sam.  Your brother just needed an attitude adjustment." Sam looked
like he wanted to pursue the issue, but she silenced him with a look, trying to
make him understand that now was not the time to talk about it.  "So, what
happened down in Missouri?"
"We're not sure," he answered, not losing his perplexed look, but respecting
her silent request to change the subject.  "It looks like there was an angel
hit.  Seems Metatron is looking for open warfare.  Mostly they were human
casualties though."
Delilah took a breath, thinking about the traitor angel in their midst.  She
looked around carefully then lowered her voice so only the three could hear,
"Could this be related to Ezra's murder?"
Hannah looked annoyed as she stared right at her, "How do you know about that?"
Delilah didn't want to get poor Neithan in trouble, so she just gave the angel
her best give me a break withering stare as though it was ridiculous for her to
think that Delilah would NOT have found that out.
Castiel jumped in, "We don't know if the two events are related.  We have no
idea who attacked the Colonel Scoop's."
"An ice cream parlour?  Seriously?" she asked, Sam's grim face the only
confirmation she needed.
Just then, Dean strolled back to them, his face looking blank.  Sam stepped
closer to her protectively and she felt grateful even as she wondered if he
realized he was doing it.
"Commander," Hannah said, drawing Castiel's attention away from the older
Winchester, "Josiah wasn't at roll call this morning.  No one's seen him since
Ezra was murdered."
"Do you think Josiah could be the killer in Missouri?" asked Sam.
"And the one who killed Ezra?  Did he have access to him?" added Delilah.
"Well, who else?" asked Hannah coldly.  Sam glanced beside him at a vacant desk
and put his laptop bag down on it, clearly gearing up to get into hunt mode. 
He flipped open his computer and turned it on.  There was no one standing
between her and Dean now and she could feel the tension coming off him.  She
looked away as Hannah went on, "We searched the grounds, but he's vanished."
"Not without wings," said Dean, his arrogance making Hannah react, the angel
looking irritated with his attitude.  "He's an angel, but he's still got to
travel like he's a human, which means walk, drive… means he's gonna leave a
trail."
Delilah glanced at him – God he was being condescending.  He walked over to Sam
who had his computer on and ready to search.  She stayed on this side of the
desk, turning around to look at him work and catching Dean's dark stare as he
watched her.
"What was his vessel's name?" asked Sam.
"Sean Flynn from Omaha," answered Castiel.
Sam's fingers flew over the keyboard, typing in the information.  Seconds
later, he turned the computer around to show them a picture of a driver's
licence.
"Is this the guy?"
"Yeah, that's him," confirmed Castiel.
"Alright," mumbled Sam as he turned the computer back around and typed a few
keys, "Looks like someone just used his credit card at a Gas-n-Sip in
Colorado."
"And that's how we do things in the pros," commented Dean with a cocky grin for
Hannah.
Quietly, Benjamin called out to Castiel, getting everyone's attention and
cutting off any reaction to Dean's brag.  Delilah turned to look at the angel
and was instantly shocked at the very human expression of distress on his
face.  Her hair stood on end; whatever he had to say was serious.  Delilah
moved up to Benjamin's side where he was set up at a computer.  Castiel and
Hannah stood on his other side and Sam came to stand directly behind her so he
could see over her head.  She didn't care to know where Dean had decided to
perch for this particular show.  Benjamin seemed to have plugged a damaged cell
phone to his computer, displaying the image up on the main screen: an Asian kid
looking like he was getting ready to do something silly for YouTube likes.
"This phone's memory chip has a video time-stamped just before the explosion,"
Benjamin informed them.
Delilah watched the screen as the kid in the video suddenly turned to look to
the right, clearly startled by something.  Whoever had been holding the phone
turned as well, pointing the camera towards the distraction.  It caught a young
girl sitting in a booth and yelling "no" as a bearded man tore open a tan
raincoat to reveal bleeding lines cut deeply into his chest.  He was holding an
angel blade in his hand and he yelled out, "I do this for Castiel!" as he
turned the blade and stabbed himself right in the middle of the etchings.  She
stared, stunned, as she heard the girl scream again and the angel in the coat
exploded in a bright blaze of blue-white light and then the camera went dead.
There was stunned silence all around her as Delilah's stomach turned.  What in
fucking Christ was that?  The suicide bomber's words echoed in her head: “I do
this for Castiel…” Castiel! The one who couldn't torture a hostage because he
wanted to end angel violence…. did he order the hit?  Did he have those humans
murdered?
She turned to look at the angel.  His blue eyes were in complete dismay, chaos
and confusion clear to see as Dean, who was standing beside him, spoke up: 
"What the hell was that?" he growled accusingly at him.
"I don't know," answered the distressed Castiel.  "I didn't--" His voice gained
power as he continued, "I would never ask an angel to sacrifice himself to kill
innocents.  I'm gonna be sick," he added softly.
Delilah frowned, his distress looked so genuine, Castiel always showing more
emotion than any other angel she had interacted with, maybe leftovers of when
he had lost his Grace.
"Cas," said Sam, his voice calm, even if his eyes showed the confusion he was
feeling, "Why would an angel blow up a Colonel Scoop's in your name?"
"That's not what he was doing," chimed in Hannah suddenly. She instructed
Benjamin to roll back the video and pointed to the girl who had screamed. "That
was an angel… Esther." Hannah straightened up again, turning around to look at
them, "She's one of Metatron's."
"So, this was some kind of hit?" Sam asked, directing the question at Castiel,
who was still looking shocked.
"I don't know," answered the angel.
"Stop saying you don't know!"  Dean's anger-laced tone snapped her eyes to his
face.  His eyes were cold, hard, like his mind was already made up about
Castiel's guilt, not sparing him an inch of doubt.
Castiel stared at him intently, beseeching his friend to believe him, "You
can't think I would allow something like this."
"Cas, I know you try to be a good guy, okay?  I do.  You try.  But what you got
here, this is a-a fucking cult."
Castiel glanced around alarmed.  "Dean," he said, trying to stop his words. 
Delilah had no idea what was happening, but suddenly Sam and Castiel were both
on edge, and looking around.  Delilah glanced at Hannah who had a confused
frown on her face and then she noticed that all the angels had stopped working
and were turning their attention on the raving Winchester.
"The last time you had this kind of juice," went on Dean, oblivious to the stir
he was causing, "you did kill humans and angels--"
"Dean," she tried to interrupt him, to stop him saying something in front of
Castiel's followers, but he just kept going.
"And you did nothing but lie to me and Sam about it the whole fucking time!" he
finished, full out yelling.  Castiel's eyes were wide in disbelief as he and
Dean had a staring match of celestial proportions.
"Can we, uh--" chimed in Sam coolly, looking as taken aback by Dean's behaviour
as the angel, "Can we take this somewhere else, guys?"
Dean fumed quietly a little longer, refusing to drop his eyes from Castiel.  It
took Sam physically turning his shoulders away towards the office, for him to
get moving, shaking his brother off for a second time.  Sam pursed his lips and
led the way up the stairs into the glassed-in room, followed by Dean and
Castiel.  Delilah hesitated, unsure how her presence would affect them, but
then she decided that she had too many questions to risk not getting answers by
staying behind.  She walked in behind the trench-coated angel and Sam closed
the door behind her.
"Will you stow the baggage, Dean?" he said angrily at his brother the minute
the door was closed.  "Look, we've got a case.  So, let's work it."
"Are you guys going to fill me in here?  What was all that out there?" asked
Delilah, to the three backs in front of her.
Dean turned around and took a step towards her, fuming mad, but she was angry
herself, and not ready to take his shit, so she glared right back as he spoke
to her like a child, "You stay out of this.  You're not even supposed to be
here, remember? So just sit the hell down and stay out of the way."
Delilah stepped up to him again, uncrossing her arms and leaning in, ready to
go toe-to-toe with him if she had to.  "I am NOT a useless little girl, and I
will NOT be treated like one by the likes of you, you fucking sonofabitch!"
"Guys!" yelled Sam, getting them to turn towards him, "Look, I don't know what
the hell is going on with you two, but this shit can wait.  We have a rogue
angel on our hands."
Delilah moved away from Dean and went to stand between Sam and Castiel,
crossing her arms again, but calming herself down more quickly than before. 
Dean would just have to deal with the fact that she was sticking around.
"Did you know the angel in the video?" she asked Castiel, the wheels in her
head turning full speed, fed by the adrenaline.
"Yes," he answered, "his name was Oren.  He was a new recruit.  He worked in
community outreach."
Delilah frowned, but it was Dean who pushed on before she could ask her next
question, "And what does that mean?" he asked, sounding calm again, if still
skeptical.
"Some of my troops are stationed at a local hospital," explained Castiel. 
"They help where they can.  Minor miracles… nothing that would draw attention."
"So," jumped in Sam, "what was he doing in that video, with the stabbing?"
"The Enochian runes that were carved in his chest… I-I think that they were
meant to, um… focus energy."  He looked up at each of them with his large blue
eyes, and Delilah found herself believing in his honesty.  She didn't know what
he had done in the past that made Dean react so angrily, but the Castiel that
she knew, the angel standing in front of her, who had warded her when he had
met her simply because he had wanted to protect someone he thought his friend
cared about… that angel, would not have done this.  He continued his
explanation, "When he stabbed himself, it unleashed all that power."
"So, what about the girl?" asked Sam, "What happened to her?  She wasn't bagged
like the other victims."
"If she was the target, if that blast was focused on her, then more likely than
not, she… she was atomized."
Delilah raised her eyebrows… holy shit!  Her reaction was mirrored in both Sam
and Dean's faces as well.  She shook her head, at a loss for what to say as she
considered the potential for destruction these runes had.
"So," Castiel spoke again, "What do we do now?"
"Well, you don't do Jack," started Dean.  Castiel narrowed his eyes into a
frown as he went on, "Me and Sam will head to the hospital, see if we can't
find somebody who knew this… walking nuke."  He still sounded on edge, like the
whole thing was annoying to him somehow, like his anger was just waiting below
the surface.  What had happened to him when he killed Abaddon?  Because,
clearly, this new attitude of his was related to that event.  Was it holding
the first blade again that had pushed him over the edge into full time dick? As
opposed to before when he would only get moments of rage?
"Hold on," said Castiel, pleadingly, "These are my people.  I can help."
"Well that's sort of the problem," said Dean, "I mean, the Manson girls aren't
gonna give us a straight answer with Charlie in the room, so… just… hang back."
"So, I should just sit here?" he retorted, incredulous.
"Pretty much."
"No," he said firmly.  If Castiel's answer surprised Dean, he didn't let on,
but Delilah could not hide her surprise at the angel's tone, and neither could
Sam, whose eyebrows rose up his forehead as he watched the exchange.  "If you
don't want my help, then I will follow Josiah's trail to Colorado," he said,
determined.  Dean didn't respond, just stared at him, so Castiel continued, "I
have to do something, Dean."
Dean shook his head and pursed his lips, his eyes drifting over her and Sam
looking for what? Support?  He was being an asshole, she wasn't going to tell
him he was right.  Besides, who knew what this Josiah was up to running off
like that to Colorado.  Someone should follow him.  Dean turned back to
Castiel, "Alright, fine," he said, "But Sam's coming with you."
"What?" Sam reacted, staring at his brother incredulously.
"Because you don't trust me?" asked Castiel, sounding betrayed.
"To help," came Dean's reply, although the mildly sarcastic tone made her think
that Castiel had it right.  "Now, I'm gonna get out of this monkey suit and get
to work."
Dean walked over to the office door and yanked it open, leaving Sam looking
completely dumbfounded, like he could not recognize his brother.  "What was
that?" he asked, not directing his question to anyone in particular.
Delilah crossed her arms again and looked away, trying to put her thoughts
together.  Time to come clean with Sam, she realized.  Her gaze fell on Castiel
who still had his scowl.  She looked at him, waiting to see if he would leave
them be.  When it was clear that he wasn't going to leave without a cue she
remembered her angel issues from earlier.
"Um, Cas.  Before you go.  D'you think you could arrange for me to have an all
access pass with your grunts out there?" He frowned at her, looking confused,
"I'd be nice to not have to go through the Spanish Inquisition every time I
need to go out and do human stuff… like eat."
"Oh!  Yes.  I'll inform Hannah."
"Thanks."
She watched him leave through the door, leaving her alone with Sam.  He watched
the door close, then sat back against the desk, stretching his long legs in
front of him.
"So, do I get to hear the story this time? Or won't I understand again?"
She looked up at his face and was surprised to see the fury there.  He had been
so careful to conceal it while his brother had been in the room, she hadn't
realized just how upset Sam had gotten.  She sighed, trying to alleviate some
of her stress.  This wasn't going to be easy.
"I'm sorry, Sam." He huffed and looked away angrily, but she continued, "I'm
sorry I didn't tell you right away, and now I'm not really sure where to
start."
He turned to look at her, his face pinched.  He took a deep breath, his eyes
losing some of the anger and warming into the eyes of her best friend.  "Just,
start with the mirror," he said gently.
She took another deep breath and then she told him… everything.  She told him
how the mirror had planted memories in her head that had been so vivid she
couldn't distinguish them from the true events.  How it had weaved her fears
and doubts into reality and then how those feelings had lingered afterwards,
confusing her and making her feel like she was losing her mind.  She told him,
blushing, how the mirror had thrown them together in bed, mixing the fantasy
with her past sexual abuse.  She told him about how it brought to life her fear
of Dean becoming abusive, like her father had been.  She tried to describe the
feeling of utter hopelessness that had slowly taken root and planted that final
solution in her head.
By the time she was done, Sam was looking both awkward and upset and having a
hard time looking at her.  It squeezed her heart painfully to think that maybe
telling him about his part in the mirror's fantasy would change their
friendship, but she knew now, that not telling him had already started to
poison it… at least this way, there was honesty.
"I'm sorry that I couldn’t tell you before, I was just so scared to lose you. 
You're my best friend.  And my brother."
"I knew--" his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat, looking down at
his hands, his hair falling in his face, "I knew it had to have been bad, for…
for you to--" He raised his head again, looking at the ceiling.  "To try to…
kill yourself.  But Delilah." He paused, his mouth working like he wanted to
say something, but couldn't think what.  He looked at her, his eyes filling
with a deep sadness.  "I'm sorry," he said.
"Oh, Sam," Delilah sighed.  She walked over to him and leaned beside him on the
desk, putting her head on his shoulder.  "You have nothing to apologize for."
She felt a tear run down her cheek quietly and she wiped it away as Sam raised
his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding her tight and kissing her
hair.  He held her quietly for a moment.
"Is that why you and Dean are at each other's throats?" he asked her.
Delilah straightened up away from him, and he dropped his arm again.  "No. 
That's something else.  He's been acting… different since Abaddon."
"Tell me about it.  That shit with the First Blade?  Making him… calm or
whatever?"
"Calm is not how I would describe it," she said, thinking back to the savage
look in his eyes as he tore off her dress the night before.  "In any event, I
can handle Dean.  After the shit he pulled last night, he won't catch me off
guard again."
"What did he do last night?" he asked, sounding tense.
Delilah huffed dismissively, "It's not important.  I don't want you to worry
about it, okay?  We've all got enough on our plates."
"Delilah," he said firmly, making her look at him.  His eyes bore into hers
like he could compel her to speak.  "Did he hit you?"
"No, Sam.  He did not hit me.  Okay?" His jaw was working again as he ground
his teeth, clearly not convinced that everything was fine.  She shook her head
at his obstinacy.  "You should get your stuff ready for your trip to Colorado. 
Don't worry about Dean, I'll make sure he stays in check.”
He stood up from the desk, his jaw still clenched, and pulled her into another
of his bear hugs before letting her go with an order to call him if anything
happened.  Then, he opened the door and walked out of the office.  Delilah
watched him leave through the open blinds, feeling relieved now that she had
told him.  She saw Dean walk over to him, changed back into his jeans and grey
plaid shirt, his corduroy coat thrown on top, clearly ready to head out to the
hospital to go talk to the angels there.  She hurried out of the office to go
grab her own jacket and messenger bag before she was left behind.  She drew up
to the brothers as Dean handed Sam his duffle bag.  Sam took it from him and
before she knew what was happening, he had drawn back his arm and punched his
brother right on the jaw.  Dean's head snapped to the side as he brought his
hand up, stunned.  Sam glanced over at her as she drew up to them, quietly
scolding the younger brother with her eyes, and he shook his hand out before
walking out through the door.
                                       ⭐
***** When the Levee Breaks *****
If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break.
If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break.
When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay.
Delilah watched the angel sitting behind the table across from Dean Winchester
through the warded window.  The sable-haired and brown-eyed man in the blue
nurse's scrubs had been undergoing Dean's questioning for over an hour now, but
the hunter had been at it since the night before.
After another semi-explosive argument standing by the Impala in the parking
lot, Delilah had managed to climb into the passenger seat claiming that she was
going to stick to him like a fly on a donkey's ass and that he'd just have to
deal with it.
They had arrived at the hospital and Dean had spoken to the first of the
angels, getting a printed list of all the angels that worked on staff, their
shifts and their logs.  She had trailed behind him, keeping out of the way but
making sure he never left her sight.  He had set up an interview schedule,
summoning the angels back to the compound on Castiel's orders but lacing it
with a threat should they choose to not show up.
Back at the compound she had assisted a few of the interviews, mostly sitting,
or standing nearby while she observed, her eyes continually drawn back to Dean,
filling her head with buzzing questions.  Throughout the night, he had
interviewed non-stop, repeating the same set of questions to each angel in turn
and listening to their answers, a neutral look on his face that she couldn't
decide meant he was angry, annoyed or just figuring things out.  He was cold
and focused, and never seemed to tire or need a break.
The more the interviews had gone, the more worried she had grown… when had Dean
developed super-human stamina?  As far as she knew she had had four more hours
of sleep than he had and she was having a hard time staying alert, even with
the coffee she had bought for the old warehouse's coffee maker.
Around 4 a.m., she had finally given in and found an old sofa in one of the
back offices of the warehouse where she had turned off the lights and curled up
for a power nap.  When she had woken again mid-morning, feeling refreshed, even
with the chink in her neck, it was to find out that Dean was still in the
interrogation room.  She had gone out to get food for the day and returned to
her quiet observations, growing even more worried about him.
She hadn't forgiven him for what he had done at the bunker, but her anger at
the whole situation had been eclipsed entirely by her concern.  Something was
most definitely wrong and although it did not excuse his actions, she found
herself once again laying the blame on the Mark of Cain.  It was all related,
she knew it in her gut.  She found herself hating the thing that had taken the
man she loved away from her… because that was what it had done.  This man,
interviewing angel after angel, was not her Dean Winchester.  And that
realization terrified her.
Sam had texted her while she slept, letting her know that he and Castiel were
headed out to Pray, Montana, where supposedly Josiah was going according to the
Gas-n-Sip attendant.  She had texted him back to be careful when she had woken
up, but she hadn't received any further texts from him, and that had been eight
hours ago.
Delilah stepped away from the door as the angel, clearly dismissed by Dean,
stood up and took his leave.  She opened the door to let him out, then entered
the room where Dean was sitting, waiting for the next interrogation.  He didn't
raise his head when she moved into his line of sight, holding out a mug of
steaming black coffee.  He glanced up as she sat back against the table edge,
facing him, sliding the coffee directly in front of him.  He made a noise in
his throat, like he had smelled something bad, and pushed the cup away. 
Delilah frowned.  "When's the last time you ate?" she asked him.
"I dunno.  Not hungry," he answered, dully.
"You're making yourself sick.  Maybe you should take a break."
"Don't need one."
She couldn't deny that he looked fine, no trace of exhaustion in his body
language or voice, even his hair was still perfectly styled: this was not a
tired Dean.  He was staring straight ahead, as though he was already facing the
next angel.
Delilah felt her heart squeeze, what could she do?  Her Dean was locked away
somewhere in there, trapped by the effects of the mark.  She didn't want to
admit it to herself, but she wanted his comfort more than anything else.  It
had been a bitch of a week and she needed him to tell her everything would be
alright.
She stretched her hand out towards him slowly, careful not to startle him, and
laid it tentatively on his cheek, his two-day stubble just starting to be soft
again.  She held her breath as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch
slightly.  She cupped his jaw, passing her thumb along his lower lip, the feel
of the movement so familiar.  He parted his lips, breathing out softly, then
opened his eyes to look right at her.  She could have cried seeing the warmth
in the green, her relief nearly overwhelming her as she kept her eyes on him,
not wanting to break eye contact should the darkness find its way back.
A soft knock at the door broke the moment and she pulled away her hand quickly
and stood up from the table as one of the angels from the compound showed a
woman with long dark hair and dark brown eyes wearing a white lab coat into the
room.  Delilah tried to steady her pulse, her heart in her throat, as she faced
the dark walls.  She turned around again, watching as the woman sat down in the
chair across the table from Dean and he leaned forward on his elbows.  That
dangerous look was back in his eyes, the warmth snuffed out by the dark once
more.
Delilah watched as Dean ran through his questions, the angel, Flagstaff, acting
increasingly belligerent and insolent, keeping her answers as short as
possible.  Delilah shook her head from her spot by the wall.  They were
fuelling each other’s irritation, acting like real children.  This wasn’t going
to get them anywhere.  Delilah was contemplating removing Dean from the room
and finishing the interview herself, maybe find a way to get her to talk
without all the animosity when the angel suddenly started to laugh and a shiver
ran through Delilah’s body at Dean’s look.
“Something funny?” he asked, his tone threatening.
“Not funny ‘ha ha’ but you… thinking you help people.  It’s amusing,” she said,
oblivious to his anger.  “I help people,” she added vehemently, “A clogged
artery here, a tumour there.  I do good in this world.  You… you believe every
problem can be solved with a gun.  You play the hero, but underneath the hype,
you’re a killer with oceans of blood on his hands.” Dean was practically
shaking with fury, but Flagstaff pushed on, oblivious to the imminent
explosion, “I hate men like you.”
Delilah rushed towards Dean, dodging as the table went flying sideways and he
lunged at the angel, knocking her backwards in her chair.  When Delilah reached
them, he was crouching over the terrified angel, holding her down and pointing
an angel blade at her throat.
“Honey,” he growled, “there ain’t no other men like me.”
“Dean!” Delilah yelled at him, but the hunter ignored her as the angel begged
for her life.
“Oren!” he yelled.  “Friends?”
“Constantine…” stammered the terrified angel, all traces of her previous
obstinacy gone under a direct threat.  Delilah stood by, hoping to be able to
stop Dean if he looked like he was going to go too far.  “And Tessa.”
“Tessa?” The look in his eyes changed from fury to confusion. “The reaper,
Tessa?”
The reaper… his reaper.  The one he had told her about that night Kevin’s ghost
had appeared at the bunker.  She looked at Dean, who was still crouching over
Flagstaff holding the angel blade, but he was looking off to the side,
confusion on his face as he tried to make sense of what she had just revealed. 
Delilah took a step towards him and put one hand on his elbow carefully while
she reached for the angel blade with the other, keeping her eyes on his face as
she disarmed him.  He let her take the blade and stood up, walking out of the
room abruptly without an explanation.  Delilah sighed out her frustration and
then turned to help the angel up from the ground.  She refused her help,
pushing herself out of the chair and standing up, brushing dust from her lab
coat and pants, the angry look back in place on her face.
“Your boyfriend’s a psycho,” she spat at Delilah.
What was she supposed to answer to that one?  She walked over to the warded
door and held it open for the angel, letting her go without a word.  Delilah
tucked the angel blade in her belt and headed down the twisting hallways in
search of Dean.  She found him in the main room, yelling at Hannah who was
standing with her arms crossed over her chest and a cold stare, barely
humouring the hunter’s openly hostile demands.  Delilah walked up to him and
put her hand on his shoulder which he brushed off with barely a glance. 
Delilah’s anger got the better of her and she stepped in front of him and
pushed against his chest to get his attention.  The wild, furious eyes that met
hers were filled with unspoken threat and her stomach dropped and heart rate
increased automatically, but she stood her ground, refusing to be cowed by him.
“Dean!  Take a breather,” she said forcefully, not giving him a choice.  He was
breathing heavily and glaring at her, but she insisted, with another nudge to
his shoulder, “Go.”
With a grind of his teeth he turned around and walked out towards the
building’s exit, the angels giving him a wide berth as he stalked by.  Delilah
turned back to face Hannah, who seemed to be waiting patiently to express her
concern.  “Is it safe to have him here?” she asked Delilah, point blank.
“I’ve got him.  Listen,” she added, needing to find out where the two angels
Flagstaff had identified were so she and Dean could ask them their questions. 
Regardless of how Dean had gotten the angel to talk, it was their first solid
lead since the start of the interrogations and she wasn’t going to let it
slip.  “Where can I find Constantine and Tessa?  Do they work at the hospital
too?”
“Tessa does.  Constantine works at the homeless shelter,” she answered.
“Do you know when their next shifts are?”
“Tessa should be at the hospital now.  Her shift started half an hour ago.”
“Thank you, Hannah.”  The angel did not look too sure and Delilah guessed her
discomfort was related to Dean’s behaviour.  Nothing she could do about that. 
Delilah turned away, heading towards the exit so she and Dean could go get
Tessa.  She was sure he was going to want to question her next, considering
their history.
“Delilah,” Hannah called out to her, and she turned around. “I will not have
him behaving like a brute.  The Commander may have a blind spot when it comes
to Dean Winchester, but my first priority is to make sure we are safe… from all
threats.”
“I understand,” Delilah answered with pursed lips, feeling like she was caught
between a rock and a hard place, threats coming from all sides… from people she
was trying to help.  She was getting a headache just thinking about where her
own priorities were.  If it came down to it, would she protect Castiel’s
angels?  Or would she protect Dean?  Everything was so fucked up.
She pushed open the door and walked down the entrance hallway and out into the
dark delivery bay.  She glanced over at the parking lot and was relieved to
find the Impala still parked beside the Charger.  Dean was waiting, leaning his
arms on the black car’s roof and staring at nothing in particular.  She drew up
to him and told him where they could find Tessa and they climbed into the car,
headed for the hospital.
They quickly discovered that Tessa was not, in fact, at the hospital.  The
angel in charge told them that she had reported in at the beginning of her
shift, but she hadn’t been seen since, which led Dean to highjack the computer
at the nurses’ station to find out that an ambulance was missing.  Barely five
minutes later, they were back in the car, following the red dot on Dean’s phone
all the way to a high school out in Northridge.  Delilah looked out the window
at the banners announcing the high school production of “Jesus Christ
Superstar” going on inside and then at the white ambulance parked at the other
end of the lot.  Rain was falling steadily from the night sky, the drops
beading on the Impala’s windshield.  What the hell is she doing here? wondered
Delilah as she pushed open the passenger door following Dean towards where the
ambulance was parked.  He suddenly pressed back against a pillar and signalled
to Delilah to hang back.  She turned to face the school, pretending she was
headed inside for the play, and started walking up the steps.  It’s not like
Tessa knew who she was anyhow.
“Howdy Tessa,” Dean called out as a pretty woman with long mahogany brown hair
and large brown eyes walked by where he was leaning against the beam, she had
been headed directly for the stairs where Delilah was pretending to wait for
someone.  She stopped and swung around to look at him, and Delilah kept her
eyes on the reaper’s back.  Dean revealed himself and took a few slow steps
towards Tessa as he explained how he had found her.
“We need to talk,” finished Dean.
“Can’t,” answered Tessa, “Sorta got a date.”
She turned and Dean grabbed her shoulder turning her around forcefully. 
Delilah rushed towards them, remembering her promise to Hannah and Sam about
keeping Dean in check when he suddenly pushed the reaper back against the
cement parapet by the entrance, cuffing her as her arm came up to defend
herself.
“Dean?” Delilah called out to him as he got right into Tessa’s face.  Without
turning to look at her, he grabbed the reaper’s coat lapel and pulled it aside,
showing Delilah the red cuts on her shoulder.  Oh my God! thought Delilah as
she realized that Tessa had been about to nuke the school play.
“Where’s the other one?” Dean barked at Tessa, “Where’s Constantine?”  The
reaper just stared back, refusing to say a word.  Without letting go or looking
away, he cuffed Tessa’s other wrist and held out his right hand towards
Delilah.  “Give me the blade, Lilah.”
“Dean, if you kill her, she won’t talk and you’ll be puffed out of existence,”
she tried to remind him, thinking about the angel in the video from the Colonel
Scoop’s.
“The blade!!” he yelled, making her flinch and she pulled the angel blade from
her belt and handed it to him.  What else was she supposed to do?
Delilah held her breath as he pointed the blade at the reaper’s chest, but
instead of plunging it in, or even threatening to, he cut up a few extra lines
into her shoulder, white light pouring out of her as she screamed, corrupting
the runes and diffusing the bomb.  Delilah looked around quickly, and then
ushered Dean and Tessa back to the waiting Impala, worried someone would come
investigate the screaming.
They drove back to Castiel’s headquarters, Delilah behind the wheel while Dean
kept eye and blade on Tessa.  They pulled up to the building and Dean climbed
out of the car, pulling the reaper out with him.  Delilah stepped out too,
feeling tired.  This whole interrogation thing was not her strength and the
stress was wearing her down.  She glanced at Dean as he guided Tessa towards
the building.  He, on the other hand, looked so much in his element it was
scary, and how was he still standing?  No sleep, no food, no coffee even… his
rage seemed to be the only thing fuelling him and his energy was far from
tapering off.  She fell in step with him as he reached for the door to go
inside the old warehouse.  They walked into the main room of the headquarters,
Delilah bringing up the rear, and she looked up to see Hannah talking with
Flagstaff and Benjamin in a small huddle.  Hannah’s blue eyes met hers and she
was looking angry, then confused as her gaze landed on the cuffed reaper.
“Tessa?” she called out, as Dean guided her right up to the small group of
angels in the centre of the room.
Delilah stopped just a little away from the group, standing beside Neithan,
whose eyes were flitting back and forth between her and Dean, looking scared. 
She let Dean debrief Hannah, keeping an ear open for any changes in his tone
while she spoke with the kid-angel.  “Neithan, what’s wrong?”  He turned his
head away and focused on his computer screens, but he wasn’t fooling her.  She
walked around the desk and pulled up her chair beside him.  “What’s up with
you?  You okay?” she whispered.
Neithan glanced up at Dean standing in front of his desk and then quickly
looked back down at his keyboards.  “Did he really pull a blade on Flagstaff?”
he asked, his voice so soft she was sure no one else heard him.
He was looking so scared; super-powered angel, able to drop her, Dean, pretty
much anybody with a single touch, and he was scared.  She found herself trying
to comfort him, repeating, once again, those words that she was having less and
less confidence in.  “Don’t worry, he’s not gonna hurt anybody.  I can keep him
in check.”
Neithan nodded imperceptibly and met her eyes quickly before bending back down
over his screens and getting back to work.  Delilah stood up again to find that
Dean, the angel boogeyman, had moved off towards the hallway to the
interrogation room followed by Hannah, Benjamin and Flagstaff.  She glanced
down at Neithan quickly and he looked at her, worried, before she hurried to
catch up to Dean.  She went through the door and turned a corner, coming up on
him and pulling up abruptly as she saw him holding the angel blade in his hands
facing the three angels, no sign of Tessa.  “We need to know if there are other
bombers out there,” Dean said calmly to the group and Delilah took a steadying
breath before she carefully moved past the angels and went to stand by Dean’s
side, showing her support.  Hannah glanced at her briefly then spoke to Dean.
“No.  I won’t allow you to torture one of ours.”  Dean glared at her, anger
mixed with disbelief on his face.  “I know what Tessa was planning.  It’s
horrible, but… there’s only one person who can… punish her.”
“Let me guess,” answered Dean, rolling his eyes, “Yea big, trench coat,
sensible shoes?”
Delilah glared at Dean.  Now was not the time to be mocking Castiel.  He may be
his friend, but to these angels, he was their leader.
“You have to understand,” Hannah responded, keeping her unblinking eyes on
Dean, “that Castiel is the only thing holding us together.  A month ago, half
the angels in this place were trying to kill the other half.”  Delilah was
distracted as she noticed another angel coming down the hallway behind Benjamin
and Flagstaff.  She turned to find still more angels coming down the other end
and she couldn’t help but feel trapped as Hannah continued, “Castiel has given
us a purpose.  But more than that, he has given us a way to live in peace.  We
have rules.  Order.  If I let you take matters into your own hands, what’s to
stop one of them from doing the same?”
Dean turned around, noticing the gathering angels too, and his eyes met
Delilah’s as he turned back.  His expression was unreadable.  Was he getting
ready for a fight?  Was he passively listening?  Was he agreeing with the
angel?  Delilah had no idea and that unpredictability made her even more
nervous.
“You can talk to her,” Hannah went on, looking at both her and Dean, “You
should talk to her.  But leave the blade outside.”
The blue-eyed angel held her hand out towards Dean and he sized her up.  “Are
you asking or telling?” he asked smoothly, a smug little smile on his face,
like he was daring them to take the blade from him.
“We’re not asking,” answered Benjamin.
There was a tense moment while Dean looked at the gathered angels, the blade in
his hand, just a breath away from violence.  When his eyes connected with hers
again, she was begging him silently to comply.  He turned back to face Hannah,
flipped the blade in his hand and gave it to her handle first.  She took it
from him and he pushed the door open calmly, walking into the room.  Delilah
breathed a sigh of relief and took a step to follow him, but Hannah stopped
her.
“You too, Delilah.”
Without question, mostly because she was tired of these stupid games, Delilah
took her gun out of her holster and handed it to her.  Her angel blade, she
still had in her bag, which she had left in the room where she had slept. 
Satisfied, Hannah let her follow Dean into the room with Tessa, drawing up the
rear herself after handing the confiscated weapons to Benjamin, and closing the
door behind her.  Dean had straightened out the table, the broken coffee mug
scattered on the floor, the coffee long dried up and staining the cement, and
was sitting across from Tessa, their hands resting on the table top as they
stared at each other.
“Well, let’s start with an easy one,” said Dean after a moment, “Who are you
working for?”
“Castiel,” answered Tessa, matching the hunter stare-for-stare.
“Liar!” reacted Hannah, outraged, from by the door.
Delilah turned and frowned at her but stayed where she was, standing on Dean’s
right side with her arms crossed on her chest.  She turned back to face Tessa
when she started laughing humourlessly, staring at Hannah smugly.
“People like you, they never understand.  Sacrifices have to be made,” she
finished, seriously.
“So, you go after one of the bad guys,” said Dean quietly, “and if a few humans
get microwaved, no big deal, right?”
“In the grand scheme, they don’t matter.”
“Oh, Tessa, you are so wrong,” he responded with a disbelieving shake of his
head.
There was something strange about the way Tessa was talking.  It was almost
like she was in a trance.  Maybe she was always like that, she didn’t know her,
this was the first time she met her, but there was something just a little off
about her tone, her intonation.  When she spoke about Castiel, it was like she
was exulted, and then that smugness and air of superiority when addressing
Hannah… the one who was supposedly in charge while Castiel was gone…
“When Castiel came to me and told me what I had to do, he said I was chosen. 
Because I was strong.  Others…” she said turning her eyes to Hannah again with
a scoff, “They couldn’t handle this.  They’re too weak.”
Hannah suddenly charged at Tessa and Delilah startled out of her contemplations
as Dean blocked the angel’s attack with his arm and stood.  He forced her out
of the room and closed the door behind them, leaving Delilah alone with Tessa. 
She turned back to look at the reaper, who had slouched back into her chair and
was looking bored.
“I don’t understand.  Why would Castiel be ordering hits on Metatron’s angels?”
Tessa stared at her like she was an ignorant child.  “This is a war… You can’t
expect everyone to make it out alive.”
“Maybe not, but Castiel wants to minimise casualties.  He’s looking for a
peaceful solution, he told me so himself.  His followers are only here because
of his non-violence.  So, why would he suddenly start ordering hits?  He knows
Sam and Dean won’t stand for human collateral damage.”
The reaper snorted, unimpressed.  She stood up from the chair slowly, keeping
her eyes on her, “I told you.  The other angels are too weak to do what we’re
doing.  Castiel tells them… and you… what you want to hear.  We were hand-
picked, the chosen few.  You can’t possibly understand… Lilah?  was it?” she
asked, tilting her head to the side, looking at her more closely. “Mmm, right. 
Delilah McAllister.”
Delilah frowned, confused, “How do you know that?”
“Honey, I’m a reaper,” she said, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. 
“It’s my job to know.  You think those scratches on your ribs can keep us
away?  Please.”
The reaper turned away and faced the back wall of the room.  Delilah stared at
her wide-eyed, her mind racing.  Her job, she thought suddenly, it was her job
to ferry souls…  Hand-picked for a job…  The chosen few… “Hardly anyone was
chosen,” said a different voice…  It felt like the answer was right there but
she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.  Her thoughts were interrupted by Dean
coming back into the room, alone.  She turned to look at him and he glanced
from her to Tessa and then back, “Everything alright in here?” he asked her.
It was Tessa who answered, turning around again, “Swell.  Just getting to know
your girlfriend, Dean.  She’s a peach.  Can’t wait to bring her home to meet
your parents.”  Her voice was cheerful, but her face was stone serious and
Delilah shuddered at the subtle reminder of her mortality.
Dean stuck out his lower lip in a sarcastic pout, “That’s sweet Tessa.”  He
paused, taking a few steps towards her.  “Let’s talk about us,” he said, his
voice casual, “I mean, we got history, yeah?”
“Sure,” she said, looking up at him, a slight smile on her face, “I still
remember our meet-cute.  You were dying,” she said, like she was remembering a
sweet memory.
“Good times,” answered Dean with a wistful smile of his own.  “Here’s the
deal,” he pushed on, “I like you, Tess, okay? For an angel--”
“Reaper,” she interrupted, “I don’t call you chimp, do I?”
“Fair point.  But tell me, why are you doing this?” he asked her and that look
of reverence came over her face again as she said Castiel’s name.  Dean reacted
angrily, “No!  Forget Cas.  Why are you looking to pop your top, huh?”
“I guess, I just can’t take the screaming,” she said, sadness suffusing her
face and voice, then she walked away, past Dean, towards the front of the room.
Delilah took a step and sat down on the corner of the little table.  Dean
turned, keeping his eyes on her, “Who’s screaming?”
Tessa did an about-turn and faced him and Delilah, looking like she was in so
much pain, “All of them,” she said with a tremor, “The lost souls.  The ones
that can’t get into Heaven now that it’s been boarded up.”
Kevin… DMV-lines-times-infinity bad…  “Fuck,” Delilah sighed, unable to imagine
what it must be like for Tessa, for all reapers, hearing all those confused
souls, unable to leave the veil because the door was locked… and these were the
good ones, the ones destined for an afterlife of peace and contentment.
“They’re in so much pain,” the reaper continued, looking at her with her
otherworldly gaze.  “All I want to do is help them.  It’s what I do.” She
turned back to look at Dean, her voice rising in her desperation, “It’s my
job!  But I can’t.  So, I suffered… until… death?  Nothingness?  Suddenly, it
didn’t seem so bad.  It seemed quiet.” She looked at Delilah again, maybe
sensing her understanding in her sorrow.
 “So why don’t you just jam an angel blade in your throat and call it a day?”
asked Dean, insensitively though his voice sounded gentle.
“I thought about it…  But I was too weak…  ‘Till Castiel gave me a reason to
die.”
“Yeah…  See that just doesn’t sound like the Cas I know,” said Dean, with a
deep frown.
“But doesn’t it though?” answered Tessa, with a fervour in her eyes as she
stepped closer to Dean, eyes only for him.  “And the Cas you know, would he
raise an army of angels without telling you?  ‘Cause this Cas did.  I’ll tell
you a secret.  There’s more out there…  like me.  So many more.”
“You got names?” Dean suddenly demanded, sounding angry, whatever mock levity
had crept into his voice before now completely vanished, but Tessa only
laughed.
“That would ruin all the fun.”
“No.  No, see…” Dean pulled something from the back of his pants, something he
had been hiding under his jacket and Delilah startled off the table as she
recognized the crooked teeth and jaw bone.  “The fun’s just getting started,”
and his voice was deadly calm.
What the hell was that doing here?  He had left it in Kansas!  Tessa glanced
down at the First Blade in his hand and then back up to his face looking
alarmed.  “Dean, what have you done?”
“What I had to,” he answered.
“Dean,” Delilah started, taking a step towards them, praying he would let her
take it away from him, for his sake…  for all their sakes.  Everything happened
so fast though, all she could do was react as suddenly Tessa threw herself
forward, grabbing hold of Dean’s jacket at the shoulders and impaling herself
on the blade in his hand.  Light spilled from around the bone and Dean looked
into the reaper’s face, surprised.  Delilah hurried to their side, impotent as
Tessa thanked him and pulled herself closer, driving the blade in deeper.  Dean
closed his eyes and Delilah turned away as bright white light burst from
Tessa’s body, mouth and eyes and she screamed in dying agony.  Delilah looked
back as the light disappeared again and the noises faded to nothing and she
watched as the reaper’s body fell to the ground like a rag doll.  She grabbed
Dean’s sleeve reflexively as she turned to look up at his face, the anger
giving way to shock as he breathed heavily, his face transforming, betraying a
yearning akin to the blissful release of sex as he looked down at the bloodied
blade in his hand, a red glow visible through his sleeve right where the Mark
of Cain was on his arm.
Delilah swallowed hard, terrified of the Dean before her, his soul enraptured
by the mark and blade – by the ecstasy of killing.  The door suddenly opened
behind them and Hannah walked in, followed by Benjamin and another angel,
snapping the hunters back to the moment.  The angels stared at the body on the
ground and Delilah found herself moving to stand in front of Dean, protectively
raising one hand towards his chest and the other towards the angels, palm out.
“This…” she looked down at the corpse and up to Dean’s face as he stared
hungrily at the angels, and then back to Hannah, “Please, Hannah, this is not
what it looks like.”  The angels stepped towards them, their focused stares on
Dean, and Delilah turned around, “Dean, give me the blade,” she pleaded in a
last-ditch effort to avoid the imminent fight.
He grabbed her by the jacket and shoved her to the side, yelling his rage as
the angels moved in on him.  Delilah’s knees connected with the hard cement
floor and she turned quickly crying out, “No!” as she sprang back to her feet
and ran at them.  She grabbed one of the angels’ arms as he stretched towards
Dean, and pivoted, pulling the angel off balance as she rolled to the floor,
bringing him down with her.  She released him and rolled back to her feet using
her momentum and ran at Benjamin and Hannah as they moved towards Dean.  She
tried to knock the angels out of the way, but found herself shoved to the
ground once again, falling hard on her hip this time.  There was no way she
could stop them without a weapon.  The angel she had knocked to the ground was
already back on his feet and he, Hannah and Benjamin were closing in on Dean
slowly, wary of the First Blade.  All Delilah knew was she had to protect
Dean.  She had to stop the bloodbath.
She jumped back to her feet as he raised his arm holding the blade, battle rage
all over his face and she did the only thing she could do.  She grabbed his
wrist and pulled it towards her body swinging her other arm over, around and
under his elbow, wrenching it as she turned his wrist out, applying more
pressure than she’d ever had to at the dojo.  Dean tried to pull away and she
cringed when she felt something pop and he cried out, his fingers releasing the
blade.  She let him go as it clattered to the ground, holding out her hands to
the side in apology as he turned his anger on her.  He raised his left fist and
she felt the crunch in her cheek as her head whipped to the side.  His right
hand, fingers tightly closed, came at her from the other direction and she
tried to deflect the blow but it connected with her temple, stars bursting in
her vision as she fell to her knees, disoriented.  “Dean, please,” she begged,
looking up at the monster he had become as he grabbed her by the shirt pulling
her back up, his right fist poised to hit her again, the bloodlust all she
could see in his eyes.  His fist connected with her jaw and she dropped to the
ground again, her whole body like boneless rubber, the bitter metallic taste of
blood flooding her mouth.  She sobbed as he grabbed her by the throat with his
left hand, those green eyes filled with so much rage and violence, boring into
hers as she remembered dreams of suffocating darkness.  Delilah grabbed at his
clenched fingers, trying to draw in air, panic growing inside her.  She stared
into his eyes and didn’t recognize the person staring back, this stranger
wearing a Dean suit, the deadly rage twisting his features.  She tried to break
his hold, but no matter what she did, he would not let go.  The world around
her was tilting, spinning as she tried to breathe, black spots starting to move
in from the edges as he raised his fist again.  And then, there was nothing.
Cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good.
Now, cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good.
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move.
                                       ⭐
***** Chain *****
Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise.
Run in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies.
And if, you don't love me now,
You will never love me again.
I can still hear you saying,
You would never break the chain.
There was nothing.  More than nothing, there was an absence.  Like when the
power goes out and that buzzing in the walls is silenced…  More than silence. 
More than darkness…  When you are in a dark room, you sense there is something
there, you sense the room is filled with things like walls, or furniture.  You
feel the ground beneath your feet, you sense the world around you breathing. 
But here… more than dark, empty.  There was a peacefulness to this emptiness,
this void, a quiet calm that went beyond meditation…  No worries, no fear, no
love, no… memories.  This… here… nothing.
Until that pulse: bobom, bobom, bobom.  Where was that coming from?  And then
there was a buzzing, a thrumming going through her whole body…  or was it just
in her mind?  Suddenly, body, mind, soul, everything was on fire and the pain
was excruciating as light came spilling into her dark void, and then everything
came flooding back.
Gasping for breath, Delilah opened her eyes.  The lights around her, though
dim, felt too bright and all she could see were the big blue eyes hovering
above her, barely a foot from her face.  Slowly, the rest of Castiel’s ever
serious features came into focus and the bright glare dimmed down to normal. 
“Delilah,” came a relieved voice from beside her and she turned to see Sam
reaching for her hand.  She took it, in a daze, and he pulled her to her feet
and into his arms, holding her almost painfully tight, his arms wrapped all the
way around her waist.
The last of the confusion suddenly evaporated as she looked past Sam’s hunched
shoulder to the man sitting handcuffed to a chair, duct tape over his mouth,
dried blood under his nose.  It would seem Dean hadn’t gone down without a
fight.  He was staring at the floor, turned away from where they were huddled,
and Delilah twisted gently away from Sam and walked over to the restrained man.
She ripped the tape off his mouth, oblivious to his groan.  “What the fuck were
you thinking bringing that thing in here?!” she yelled at him, unable to hold
back her anger.
“We needed answers,” Dean said roughly, unabashed.
“Answers?  What the fuck kind of answers are we gonna get from a corpse, Dean? 
Fuck!” she said turning away slightly.
“Hey!  It’s not my fucking fault she went all hara-kiri on my ass!”
Delilah turned back to face him, an irrepressible anger bubbling up inside from
her stomach and she clenched her fists tightly at her sides.  She was
practically shaking from it.  She took a step forward and drew back her right
arm and let her fury fly right at his face.  He barely jerked back as her
knuckles connected with his cheek and she screamed her pain and frustration out
as two tan fabric covered arms wrapped around her and pulled her away, lifting
her right off her feet.
Sam moved forward, lips pursed, jaw clenched, pulling his lock pick from his
inside pocket.  He crouched down by Dean’s hands and worked open the cuffs.
“Hara-kiri? Why would she do that, Dean?” he asked his brother angrily as he
stood up again.
“I don’t know, Sam.  She was saying all kinds of crap,” he answered brusquely,
shaking off the cuffs and rubbing his wrists.
“So that’s why you brought out the First Blade?”
Dean raised his eyebrows and pouted his mouth before swinging up and out of the
chair, standing next to his brother.  “They told you about that, huh?”
“Yeah, you know what else they told us?”
Dean looked away, shaking his head, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam yelled, his eyes half-crazed, “You nearly beat her
to death!”
Delilah straightened out of Castiel’s hold, frowning.  What?  She reached into
her jeans pocket and pulled out her cell phone.  The room spun around her
sickeningly for a few seconds before she took a deep breath to steady herself. 
It was 9 a.m.  Somehow the last twelve hours of her life had just disappeared.
“You think I wanted to kill her?” Dean growled at his brother, looking pissed.
“I don’t know, Dean!  Did you?  ‘Cause you came pretty damn fucking close.” 
Sam took a step toward Dean but Castiel called out to them.
“Alright!  That’s enough!” he said in his deep gravelly tones.  “Stop it,” he
ordered and the Winchesters fell silent.  “Did you manage to get any
information from Tessa?  Anything we can use?”
“Same as the last one,” Dean said, turning his angry glare on the angel, “Said
you picked her for this mission.” Handpicked, Delilah suddenly remembered. 
“There are more out there, too.”  Handpicked for a job…  The chosen
few. Delilah shook her head, trying to figure out why that was setting off
alarms.  “What the hell, Cas?  What the fuck games are you playing here?  She
was going to blow up a school!”  Dean finished roughly.
Her brain was mulling back to before she had woken up on the floor, to before
his fists were all she could see, to before… when she was alone with Tessa, and
the things the reaper had told her.
“Dean,” Castiel answered, his voice anguished and his eyes round in
consternation, “You have to believe me.  I had nothing to do with this.”
Hardly anyone was chosen, said that other voice again… A high, whiny, man’s
voice… “Ezra!” Delilah suddenly exclaimed, the three men stopping their heated
argument and turning around to look at her.  She didn’t have time to tell them
about the connection though before the door behind her opened and Hannah walked
in.  Delilah couldn’t help being angry at her too.  They had told Sam and
Castiel about what Dean had done, which means those bastard angels knew she was
out cold.  They knew and they left her there to die.  When she had been trying
to help them!  She could feel her old hatred for their kind rekindling inside
her chest and she glared at Castiel’s second in command.
“Commander, I’m sorry, but--” she paused, her eyes moving over the other
occupants of the room and stopping on Dean and then Delilah in turn, before
continuing, “You have a call.  From Metatron.”
Castiel turned to look at Sam and Dean in disbelief before the three of them
started out the door and down the hallway.  Delilah followed them all the way
to the main room to stand behind Benjamin’s work station.  Metatron’s middle-
aged, fleshy face was on the screen and his grating voice rang out of the
speakers, loud and clear.
“Castiel!” he said angrily, as they moved in front of the webcam. “Bet you’re
not happy to see me.”
He was sitting back in a padded leather chair frowning and fidgeting with his
right hand by his head, his elbow on a large desk.
“Is anyone?  Ever?” Dean retorted with an angry growl.
“Dean,” he answered with an ingratiating smile, “always with the B-grade, ‘80s-
action-movie wit.”
“What do you want, Metatron?” asked Sam.
Delilah looked around the room as slowly the angels gathered around the various
computer screens that all seemed to be broadcasting Metatron’s face.  Her eyes
landed on Neithan who was looking right at her, worry contorting his youthful
features.  He looked away, frowning.  What was all that about?
“I just wanted to tell Ass-tiel, there that I’m still alive,” continued
Metatron, sounding angry again, “His bomber failed.”
“My bomber?” asked Castiel, his confused frown matching Sam’s.
Delilah turned back to look at the angel on the screen, wondering about her
earlier insight.  If Metatron had been attacked, then her conclusion was wrong.
“The crazy guy.  Big knife,” gestured Metatron dramatically.  “Kablooey.  I’m
fine, thanks for asking, but Gadreel is wounded, and Tyrus…” he clicked his
tongue and slid his fingers across his throat, “R.I.P.”
“Tyrus?” Delilah leaned towards Sam and whispered her question.
“Uh,” he replied, “He leads another faction.  They’ve been staying out of the
conflicts.”
“Well, not anymore, Sam,” Metatron spoke with a smirk, “His followers are not
your biggest fans, Castiel.  They’ve all come over to my team.”
And suddenly, everything made sense.  As Castiel and Metatron continued their
discussion, she turned to look around the room at the angels watching the
screens.  He was trying to gain followers.  The remaining factions, this Tyrus
and Castiel, and possibly more, the angels were pacifists, they didn’t want to
fight their fellow angels anymore.  If he had openly attacked any of them, they
never would have joined him, but the bombers were claiming their actions were
for Castiel, and now Metatron was laying the blame on Castiel too.  Ezra’s
words rang in her head again, it was an honour to even be considered for the
squad.  This…  this was that squad!
Delilah’s attention was brought back to the moment by Castiel’s angry tone. 
“Who are you to lecture me on lying?  Your deception led to the fall.”
Delilah stared at Castiel.  When she had first visited the bunker, oh so long
ago, Sam had told her about how Metatron had tricked Castiel into causing the
angels to fall.  How many hours afterwards had she spent trying to help Kevin
to decipher the angel tablet to find a way to reverse that same spell?  It was
common knowledge among the angels that Metatron was the one who had locked them
out of Heaven.
“I did what I had to do,” Metatron answered, moving closer to his camera, “I
have always done what I have to do, for God and for the angels.”
“Sure, you’re Mother Teresa with neck beard,” cut in Dean with a glare and his
acerbic humour.
“What I did,” the angel said defensively, “was neither good nor bad.  It was
necessary – a small hardship to… make us all stronger, to make us a family
again.”
Delilah frowned again, none of this was making sense, how could he expect to
justify his actions to those who had been suffering, to those whose brothers
and sisters had died, because of them?  At least, she didn’t seem to be the
only one confused, many of the angels around the room had deep frowns on their
faces, listening, but warily.
“Yeah,” chimed in Sam, “Except for the angels you had Gadreel kill.”
Metatron looked to the side awkwardly, shaking his head, “Okay, yes,” he
conceded, “Maybe I got a little carried away at first, but those days are
over.  A near-death experience makes you re-evaluate.”
Does it? wondered Delilah as she glanced sideways at Dean, who was focused on
the screen.  Delilah turned away, shaking her head, seeing again those green
eyes as his fists flew at her face… that wasn’t Dean.  It was the mark.  And
she would find a way to fix this.
“So, one time only, I’m offering amnesty.”  There it is, thought Delilah as
Dean and Castiel swept the room with their gazes, looking at the angels whose
eyes were glued to the closest screen.  “Every angel, no matter what their sin,
may join me and return to Heaven.  I will be their God, and they can be my
heavenly host.”
“Why would we follow you?” asked Hannah, belligerently, and Delilah was
relieved.  Metatron hadn’t won yet.
He started laughing though, his yellowing teeth jutting over his lower lip,
“Well, look around.  You’ve seen Earth.  You’ve had a taste of free will.  I
got to ask you – do you like it?  I mean, the way you’ve flocked off to follow
Castiel tells me you need to follow someone.  It’s in your DNA.  But Cas… he’s
not what you think he is.”
Delilah couldn’t hold back anymore, “You’re the one who’s trying to make us
believe you’re something you’re not Metatron!”
“Delilah!” Metatron exclaimed with a fake air of excitement, “I hadn’t noticed
you there behind the Great Wall of Winchester.  Trying to play with the big
boys?”
Sam turned to looked at her as she continued, “You’re not fooling anyone
Metatron,” Delilah said, crossing her arms on her chest mixing a little
bullshit with what she had figured out, “I know it was you.  Oren, Tessa,
Constantine, Josiah, Ezra…  They’re your agents, Metatron.”
Metatron started laughing, shaking his head.  “Uh,” he made a sound like a game
show buzzer, “Wrong! But thanks for playing.  Castiel is the one who sends
angels out to die. He’s been attacking MY angels, he tried to have me killed.” 
Metatron leaned forward again.  “Have you told them about your stolen Grace,
Castiel?”  The angel in the trench coat shifted uncomfortably from one foot to
the other as the angels all around looked shocked.  “How it’s fading away?  And
when it burns out… so will you?”  All around the room, an uncomfortable whisper
started, like wind rustling through dead leaves.  Delilah turned to look at
Castiel, concerned about the angel.  Burn out?  Would it make him human again? 
Or would he die?  Metatron seemed content to let them whisper a little longer,
then he said, “So… no, then.
“I’m not the best,” he added, addressing the assembled angels in his honest
politician, anything-for-a-vote kind of voice, “but I’m the best you’ve got. 
You wanna stay with Castiel?  Fine.  But he’s playing you.  Because at the end
of the day, the only thing he cares about is himself… and the Hardy Boys
there.  You’ve got a choice to make.  Make the right one,” he finished,
reaching forward to disconnect the call.
Castiel turned to face the room as the angels shifted around to look at him,
expectantly.  “He’s lying,” he told them.
 “About the Grace?” Hannah said in a flat tone that made Delilah’s shoulders
slump, discouraged.
“It’s complicated,” answered Castiel.
“So, he wasn’t lying,” chimed in Flagstaff, her face a blank as she stared at
the angel who had been leading them.
“He was,” Castiel answered, fervour creeping back into his voice, “about
everything else.  He…” He stopped suddenly, his eyes roaming from angel to
angel, and Delilah turned to look at them too – this army he had raised, these
angels he had united under the banner of non-violence and who were now glaring
at him, betrayed by the actions Metatron was accusing him of.  Delilah unfolded
her arms and took a step towards the gathered angels.
“Metatron’s lying,” she said to them with absolute conviction, “He’s the one
sending angels out to die.  Open you eyes, for God’s sake, he’s manipulating
you, making it look like Castiel is to blame so you’ll join him instead.”  The
angels around the room were looking at her with open hostility.  What the hell
had she done to them?  Or was this hatred by association because of Dean? 
“Goddamnit!  Think about it!”
Delilah swept her gaze around the room and her eyes met Neithan’s, confused and
conflicted, as he glanced around the room and then back at her, and finally at
the ground.  Castiel took a step and laid a hand on her shoulder.  She looked
back at him, but his blue eyes were focused on Hannah who was standing right at
the front of the group.
“You believe me, don’t you?” he asked her.
“I want to believe you, but I…” she started, the doubt clear in her soft tone. 
Castiel looked hurt, and his arm fell off Delilah’s shoulder, his face
crestfallen as Hannah too looked at her fellow angels before continuing more
firmly, “We need proof.”
“Name it,” said Castiel earnestly, eager to prove himself.
“Punish him,” she said glancing at Dean.  Delilah’s stomach dropped and Dean’s
face was incredulous, a confused “What?” escaping his lips as Hannah pushed on,
“He murdered Tessa.”
“Tessa killed herself!” Delilah said, outraged, panic making her voice sound
higher than usual, but Hannah ignored her.
“He broke our rules.”
“Y’all can all go to Hell,” Dean said, pointing at them and smiling crookedly
like she had just made a bad joke.  He started walking away, but one of the
angels grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him back to face Castiel.
“Wait a sec…” Sam said quickly, taking a step towards them, but another angel
stepped in his way and pushed him back.
Delilah reached towards Dean, but stopped herself, not crazy enough to think
she could take on the angels.  She was looking at him as she tried to figure
out what she could do to stop this train wreck.
“You gave us order, Castiel,” went on Hannah, “and we gave you our trust. 
Don’t lose it over one man.”
Delilah glanced at Castiel’s face, and the look of uncertainty made her startle
in anger.  “Cas!  You can’t seriously be considering this!”
Hannah slipped her angel blade out of her sleeve and held it out towards
Castiel.  “This is justice,” she said.
To her utter disbelief, Castiel reached forward and took the blade from Hannah
like he was in a daze.  “Cas!” she pleaded with him, reaching to grab his
trench coat sleeve.  Another of the angels grabbed her shoulder and pulled her
back roughly.  She shrugged her off, but the angel just grabbed her arm and
yanked her away.  She pleaded with Castiel, her voice rising as the desperation
filled her; she couldn’t let Dean be killed.  She couldn’t!  “He made a
mistake, you know the mark is doing things to him.  This isn’t right!”
Castiel’s deep frown as he and Dean stared each other down did nothing to
comfort her.  Dean was looking worried too, but he didn’t say a word to defend
himself or try to convince the angel, and Delilah felt anger rise in her as she
looked around the room at the self-righteous asswipes.  She could feel it
coursing through her as she prepared to fight Heaven itself to save him, if she
could just get a blade from one of the angels.
“No,” Castiel said, finally, in a low sigh and Delilah turned to look at him,
her knees going weak with relief, “I can’t.”  He lowered the blade, still
looking at Dean and then glancing down and away.  Delilah could see the sadness
in his eyes, the angel torn between his kin and his friend.
“Goodbye, Castiel,” Hannah said, then walked away towards the exit without
another word.
The angels holding her, Sam and Dean also let go and turned away, following the
dark-haired Hannah, and slowly the room emptied, all the angels leaving the
building where, together, they had been working so hard to find their way back
to Heaven.  Delilah understood that this was the easier way for them. Metatron
had already promised to return them to Heaven if they only jumped ships, and
now they had – the fair-weather, turncoat bastards.  Delilah turned back to
look at Dean, who was facing away from her, also watching the angels leaving,
and her eyes caught one very confused looking Neithan who was standing by his
desk, his feet turned to follow his brothers and sisters, but his head looking
towards her, conflicted.  She turned to look at Castiel beside her whose
shoulders were slumped in defeat.  Sam walked over and patted him on the back.
Delilah walked up to Neithan and put her hand on his shoulder.  The angel’s
vessel was lankier looking while standing than when he was sitting, and she
could see now that he was several inches taller than her. His confusion made
him look small however and she felt sad for him, figuring his hybrid-style
relationship between angel and vessel was pulling him in so many different
directions.
“You should go with them, Neithan.”  The angel looked hurt but she continued
her explanation, “It’s the safest place for you.  If you hang around with us,
who knows what will happen.  At least in Heaven, you’ll be able to find a place
away from the fighting.  Okay?  When things settle down, I’ll see you again,
I’m sure.”  She gave the angel a comforting smile and he smiled back shyly.
His eyes strayed to the Winchesters standing behind her, talking to Castiel. 
“What about you?  Will you be okay?” the boy-angel asked.
She cocked her head to the side in confusion, “What do you mean?”
Neithan bent close to her ear, keeping his eyes on the group behind her.  “I
know what happened in there.  Hannah wouldn’t let me go and help.  She said he
was too dangerous.”
Delilah looked over at where Dean was standing talking with Castiel and Sam. 
His face was blank, looking neutral again now that the threat had gone away. 
What was happening to him?  She took a deep breath and sighed, “That’s
different, Neithan. I know he’s kinda scary right now, but that’s not who he
really is.  He needs me.”
She turned back to Neithan who was now looking right at her with his odd, too-
wide, golden eyes.  “I think love is making you blind, Delilah.  You want me to
find a place to hide in Heaven, but you…  you’re choosing to stay where it’s
most dangerous.”
“I don’t have a choice, Neithan.  I don’t expect you to understand, you’re just
a kid.”
“I am not a child, I’m an angel.  Do you really think angels don’t know about
devotion?  Loyalty?  Obedience?  Our father gave you free will.  So, use it. 
Before it’s too late.”
Delilah looked at the youthful face of the teenager in front of her, and then
into the millennia-old eyes of the angel possessing him and she shivered at the
uncanny melding of the two into the amalgam she knew as Neithan.  She could
feel his concern reaching for the fear she had locked away inside of her, and
suddenly she was the one who didn’t know what to do anymore.  Neithan pursed
his lips and turned away, heading towards the exit and leaving her to ponder
his words of advice.
The next few hours, Delilah spent in a quiet contemplative daze as they
gathered all the information, left behind by the angels, that they could bring
back to the bunker with them, as well as their personal effects – Dean taking
back the First Blade and handing her her gun which the angels had confiscated.
Delilah got her bag out of the back office, then they hopped into their
respective cars; Sam sliding into the Impala’s passenger seat like slipping
into a comfortable old pair of jeans, and Castiel, to her surprise, coming to
sit with her in Sam’s old Charger.
She tried to talk to him at first, asking him what had happened with Josiah in
Colorado.  His answer was short and to the point, telling her about the trap
Metatron had set for him, Josiah getting caught and killed instead.  He was
quiet after that giving her ample opportunity to think back over the events of
the past few weeks, something she had actively been avoiding, she realized.
She thought about Abaddon, and how her death seemed to have pushed Dean over
the edge… that edge that she was supposed to have been protecting him from, it
feels like you’re the only thing keeping me sane.  She thought a lot about the
state of her own sanity following her experience with the mirror: she was
relieved that things seemed to have settled down, those planted memories now
faded to innocuousness.  She realized suddenly, that Dean’s beating, was the
fourth time in the past month that she nearly died.  Dean, Abaddon, the mirror,
the vampire from Jody’s cabin…  how was she supposed to process that?  A near-
death experience makes you re-evaluate. Metatron had said that and Delilah had
brushed it off, yet here she was, near-death after near-death and still she was
as determined as ever to follow the path she had set for herself.  Our father
gave you free will.  So, use it.  Before it’s too late.
They made it back to the bunker and Delilah parked the Charger in its back
corner spot.  Dean didn’t bother to park in the garage, preferring to keep Baby
handy on the road outside the main bunker door.  She walked down the steps and
down the hallway, heading for her room to unpack her bag.  Castiel continued
on, heading towards the front of the bunker, most likely to meet up with Sam
and Dean on their way in.  Delilah wondered how their ride had gone as she
pulled out her worn clothes and threw it into the hamper, then pulled out her
gun and angel blade and set them down on the dresser.
She had left her door open, and voices drifted to her from the main hall
announcing the arrival of the Winchesters, and it sounded like they were
arguing.  With a sigh, Delilah headed out the door and down the hall towards
the war room, the voices getting louder as she approached.
“We are not a team,” she heard Dean say, his tone hard, leaving no room for
discussion, “This is a dictatorship.  Now, you don’t have to like it, but
that’s how it’s gonna be.”
Delilah hurried up the steps in front of the kitchen, just to nearly crash into
Sam as he came down from the war room.  His lips were pursed and his eyebrows
were drawn together as he pushed right past her and down into the kitchen,
holding his backpack in his hand by the strap.
“Sam,” she called out to him.  He stopped and turned around to look at her,
their eyes almost level as he stood at the bottom of the steps.  “Are you
okay?”
“What does it matter?” he said tersely, his jaw working.
“Don’t snap at me just ‘cause your brother’s being a jerk,” Delilah said,
crossing her arms on her chest and raising her eyebrows.  He turned his head
away and took a deep breath, moving into the kitchen, and dropped his bag onto
the table.  Delilah followed him in.  “Rough drive?” she asked him more gently.
“Not really.  He didn’t say a damn word all the way here.  Didn’t even turn on
the radio,” he said as he stood by the table, opening his bag and taking out
some of the things in there.
“Yeah, he was acting weird the whole time you and Cas were gone, too.  He
hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten.  I’m really getting worried Sam.”
He stopped what he was doing and turned his head towards her, looking
concerned, “Me too.”
Delilah turned her head towards the war room as she heard the main door squeal
open and then shut again.  Did someone just leave?  She turned towards Sam and
they both startled into action, heading out quickly towards the hall as they
heard the heavy footsteps on the metal stairs that led down from the
mezzanine.  Someone was coming in, not going out.
Delilah stopped dead in her tracks at the room’s threshold, Sam calling out
loudly to Castiel and Dean, as her eyes registered what her brain was refusing
to believe.  The man coming down the stairs was tall and square in the
shoulders under his black leather jacket, his face chiseled out of stone as he
spoke, hands open at chest height.
“I’m not here to fight,” said Gadreel.  Dean and Castiel had come out of the
library and Delilah glanced quickly at them, then turned back to keep an eye on
the intruder making his way steadily around the world table and towards the
library door, his eyes fixed on Castiel.  “I thought about what you said.”  He
dropped his arms to his sides and Sam moved around the table too, towards the
library entrance, closely followed by Delilah who was listening attentively.
When had Castiel and Gadreel talked? “Metatron, he’s--” The angel’s eyes
shifted from Castiel to Dean and then to Sam and her, and returned to the angel
and the hunter just outside the library.  Delilah followed his gaze and
shivered at the absolute hatred on Dean’s face.  “Something needs to be done,”
he finished, undeterred by the room’s total hostility.
“And we should trust you why?” asked Sam in a low, threatening tone Delilah had
hardly ever heard the younger brother use. His body was tense, ready to fight.
“Because I can give him to you.  I know where Metatron is,” said the angel,
turning back towards Castiel, “I know everything.”
Delilah openly stared at Gadreel, searching his face for signs of treachery,
but it was impassive as always, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.  If he
could give them Metatron, then they would have the advantage, they could get
the drop on him and actually have a fighting chance.  Gadreel could have inside
information too on how he was using the tablet to give himself those super-
powers!  Delilah couldn’t help the rush of excitement that was only slightly
dampened by the possibility of betrayal and the memory of Kevin’s execution. 
If they could get Metatron, access to Heaven could be restored, and Kevin could
be at peace, she reasoned with herself.  If she could only get the Winchesters
to see past their vengeance.
Gadreel looked at each of them again, and his face changed, the features
transforming into a pleading look of near desperation as he turned to Castiel
again.  “I know the bombers, they… they were his agents, not yours.”  He paused
while everyone in the room looked at each other: Castiel frowning, Dean looking
mildly surprised but still angry and Sam looking unsure.  “You don’t trust me,
fine,” continued Gadreel, sounding impatient suddenly as everyone in the room
continued to stare at him skeptically, “I understand.  I’ve… made mistakes. 
But haven’t you?  Haven’t we all?”  Delilah looked around again; someone had to
make the first move here.  “At least give me a chance!” Gadreel pleaded almost
passionately.
Damnit!  Delilah took a few steps past Sam who startled like he had forgotten
she was there beside him, he was too slow to stop her though: his hand brushing
her arm as she moved out of his reach.  She kept walking past the top of the
world table, keeping her eyes on Gadreel as she approached, her heart pounding
in her chest.  She was far from certain about his willingness to help, finding
his sudden betrayal of Metatron as disturbing as Castiel’s army switching
sides, but they were out of options.  It was Dean who stopped her progress
around the room, his arm stretching across her shoulders as he kept right on
staring at Gadreel, a mask of indifference firmly in place, hiding his previous
hostility.  Delilah was about to argue with him when he started taking steps
towards the angel himself, closing the gap between them and holding out his
hand to shake in a gesture of peace.
His left hand.
What the hell?  Delilah frowned and looked up at Gadreel who was looking
relieved as he reached for and took Dean’s proffered hand, and then it
clicked.  “Dean, No!” she yelled as she rushed forward, too late to stop him
from pulling the First Blade out from the back of his belt with his free right
hand and slashing Gadreel across the torso, a glowing blue-white gash opening
up from his shoulder to his waist as he fell back against the column.  Castiel
and Sam rushed forward as she put herself between Dean and the wounded angel
yelling his name again trying to reason with him.  The dark murderous look was
back in his eyes, his face twisted into an animalistic snarl and her heart
skipped a beat and her knees quaked.  She stood her ground, however, as Dean
raised the blade again, his eyes still fixed on Gadreel behind her like he
couldn’t see her standing in the path of his next slash, or like he didn’t
care.
Castiel and Sam got there before he could swing again and they each grabbed one
of his arms and held him back as he roared his rage, terrifying her as she saw
no trace of her Dean Winchester in the violent, uncontrollable animal before
her.  He threw them off, that strength the blade gave him making him surpass
his giant brother and an angel and Delilah took a step back, nothing between
her and the hunter… only her between him and his prey.  She took another step
back and fell, tripped up by Gadreel’s legs as he lay half-sprawled on the
floor, clutching at his bleeding chest.  Flashes of an ancient dream came to
her as Dean took a step in their direction, the blade in his hand ready for
another strike, and she froze, unable to think of what to do, until Sam stepped
in front of his brother, intercepting him.
“Drop the blade, Dean,” he said, forcefully.
“Move,” answered Dean, his voice barely above a low growl.
“Dean. Look at me,” Sam tried again.
“Sam!” Dean yelled, his eyes round like silver coins, “Move!”
Castiel suddenly jumped him from behind, clamping his arms around his chest
tightly, pinning his arms against his body as Dean let out a frustrated cry
again, his eyes still fixed on Gadreel and her.  Sam moved up to his brother
and seized his right wrist, telling him to let it go as he tried to pry his
fingers open.  He finally got the First Blade out of his brother’s hand and
some of the fight seemed to go out of the older Winchester, although he was
still glaring – his hatred focused on Gadreel – as Castiel marched him out to
the left, Sam lending his strength to get him out of the room.
Delilah tried to steady her wildly beating heart, the adrenaline coursing
through her making it hard to calm down.  Gadreel shifted behind her, his foot
scraping against the ground as he tried to straighten up and Delilah turned
around, kneeling in front of the slouched angel to get a look at his wound.
“How bad is it?” she asked the gasping angel.  He was looking at her with
suspicion in his eyes, untrusting in light of the attack.  Delilah only had
half her attention for the wounded angel and no inclination to ease his
concern, as she worried about Dean, unable to help herself.  She turned her
eyes to Gadreel’s cut: the wound looked deep, but obviously hadn’t touched any
of his vessel’s vital organs.  It was, however, bleeding quite a bit, and it
wasn’t healing.  She reached for the edge of his shirt where it was soaked in
blood, trying to pull it away from the gash to get a better look, while still
haunted by the murderous look in Dean’s eyes.  Gadreel hissed and she pulled
her hand away, looking up at his strained blue eyes.  “Can you heal yourself?”
“I have tried,” he answered, his already halting speech, sounding breathy as he
heaved from the pain, “but his blade weakened me.”
Delilah held her hands out, unsure what the hell she was supposed to do with
him; somehow, she didn’t think stitching him up would do any good.  “Stay
here.  I’ll go get Castiel,” she decided, as she jumped to her feet and made
her way down the left-hand hallway where the other three had gone just before. 
She rushed down the stairs to the storage level and heard Dean’s voice coming
from the dungeon, he was yelling.
“You’re trying to lock up the one guy who has a shot at killing the son of a
bitch!  Hell of a plan fellas!”
Delilah turned the corner into the narrow storage hallway and drew up to room
7B as Sam and Castiel walked out, closing and locking the door behind them.
“What are you guys doing?  You can’t leave him in there!” Delilah said,
forgetting about Gadreel and her reason for seeking out Castiel in the first
place.  She could hear Dean through the door calling out to his brother.
“There’s something wrong with him,” Sam said, patiently, trying to catch her
eye as she stared at the closed door behind him.  “Until we figure out how to
help him, he has to stay in there.”  Delilah shook her head slowly side-to-
side.  Of course, she knew there was something wrong with him, but that didn’t
mean he belonged locked up!  Sam put his hand on her shoulder and bent down
until she turned her attention to him.  “He’s dangerous, Delilah.”  She
frowned, so what?  She should be in there, with him, he needed her.  Sam gave
her his sad, pinched lips look, his eyebrows creasing his forehead as they
tried to meet.  “Come back upstairs with us.”  Delilah flinched as she heard
the sound of something hitting the back of the metal shelves in the closed
storage room followed by a particularly loud cry of, Sam!  “Don’t go in there. 
Trust me.”
He kept his eyes on her a little longer, then straightened up with a sigh.  He
and Castiel left, walking out of the hallway.  Delilah moved up to the door,
laying her hand on the sliding latch, hesitating.  Sam’s advice bounced around
in her head, her own mind throwing memories at her of Dean’s animal rage and
she was half-convinced that Sam was right.  She leaned her head against the
wooden door, squeezing her eyes against the prickling caused by her uncertainty
and her fear.
Then she heard a low keening groan, like someone in pain, and nothing could
have stopped her from rushing into the room.  She closed the door behind her
and headed straight for the shelves that Sam and Castiel had latched in place
to keep Dean from leaving the dungeon.  She pulled up on the stiff pin and
pulled the shelving units that doubled as doors along their tracks and swung
them open.  She scanned the small area quickly, her eyes landing on the blue
jacket-clad man right away: he was bent over, leaning on the wall in the
corner, coughing.  She ran up to him and put her arm around his back, her left
hand on his arm as he wiped at his mouth.  He pushed her away, retching and
coughing again, his body heaving from the force of it.  Delilah wrapped her
arms around herself, shaking off his rejection, and walked over to the antique
cabinet against the wall.  She found a rag in one of the small drawers and
handed it to him as he straightened up again.  He took it from her and wiped
his mouth.
“What are you doing here, Lilah?” he asked her roughly, glancing at the rag,
his eyes widening, startled at what he saw there before closing his hand in a
tight fist and looking at her.
A faint sheen covered his skin, like he was damp with fever and she had to hold
herself back from reaching for him again, the impulse to take care of him
overriding her earlier fear.  “Do you want some water?” she asked him as he
walked to the cabinet and opened the glass doors to look inside.
“What do you want?” he asked, sounding annoyed and impatient. “Why don’t you
just get the fuck out of here?”
“Because…,” Delilah was struggling to find her words, struggling to express
herself and her need to fulfill her promise to help him, to keep him sane… to
keep him… him. “Dean… I…” she trailed off, put off by his abruptness.  How
could she help him?
“You what?” The sneer on his face and the disgust in his voice made her take a
step back as he straightened up from rummaging through the cabinet and turned
to face her.  She shivered from the cold, hard look in his eyes.  He scanned
her face and he must not have liked what he saw there because his eyes darkened
and narrowed as he took a slow step towards her. “What were you going to say? 
You love me?”  The venom in his voice made it sound like a curse and she took a
deep breath, determined to stand her ground.  She would win this fight.  “What
is it you see, Lilah?” he asked her, lowering his voice and cocking his head to
the side, his gaze still focused on her.  “When you look at me.  What do you
see?”
Delilah took a deep breath again as he stopped in front of her, glaring down at
her.  “I see you, Dean.  Just you.”
“Yeah?  And what am I?  A wounded animal?  Something you need to fix?  Maybe if
you love me hard enough, everything will be okay, right?  Maybe you can save
me.”  Delilah shivered again from his uncannily accurate guess, and from the
lack of emotion in his voice paired with that cold, empty look in his eyes. 
That terrifying darkness.
“Yes, Dean.  I will save you.  This thing… that mark… it’s not you.  It’s
controlling you – the things you’re saying and what happened…  You would never
do that,” she said, reaching towards him.  He didn’t move as she wrapped her
arms around his shoulders, holding him against her.
Suddenly, his hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around her throat, pushing
her away from him and holding her there. He was looking at her with that deadly
intensity.  She gasped in surprise and pain, struggling to take shallow breaths
through her constricted pipe, his fingers digging into her skin painfully.  She
reached her hands up to his and pulled at his wrist: a pitiful effort to get
him to release her. 
“You’re fucking delusional, Delilah.  You think you can save me?  You think
this thing is just another monster you can destroy?  It’s not.  This is me.”
His face was terrifying as he glared at her, his green eyes boring into hers
like he could see through to her soul. “And I don't give a shit about you.” He
drew close to her again, bringing his face to hers slowly and angling his head
like he was going to kiss her.  He stopped, a bare inch away, and looked her
right in the eyes, his voice whisper quiet, “You’re nothing to me but an easy
fuck, Delilah.  That’s all you ever were.  And next time you get in my way, I
won’t almost kill you, you’ll be dead and gone.”
He let go of her throat and stepped away and Delilah fell to her knees,
coughing.  No, her muddled mind whispered as she stared at the floor, stunned,
unable to process.  His words played on repeat inside her head, superimposed to
images of the look in his eyes as his fists flew at her face, and as he had
moved towards Gadreel, intent on killing him… even though she was in the way,
and that numb, indifferent look as he left her to clean herself up in the
library.
She slowly stood up, his words sinking in and weighing down her soul as she
looked at him, standing by the cabinet, back to rummaging through its contents
like she wasn’t there, like she had never stepped into the room, like she
hadn’t been a part of his life for the past several months.  I’m Dean
Winchester, are you okay?  He had changed her life that night… and she was less
than shit to him.  Numb oblivion settled over her and wrapped itself around her
comfortingly, whispering to her… telling her what she should do.
Like she was caught in a nightmare, Delilah turned away from him and headed out
through the opening in the shelves.  She pulled open the door and walked out
into the hallway, some small part of her thinking to close and bolt the door
again behind her… locking in the monster.  She made her way back up to the war
room and looked around impassively at the empty room, blood all over the floor
in a trail leading to the stairs, the only sign of Gadreel’s passing presence. 
There was no sign of Sam or Castiel either, and Delilah’s numb mind figured
they had gone after Gadreel who had probably taken off as soon as she had left
him.  She looked around what she had considered to be her home for the past few
months and felt nothing.
She walked into the library and noticed a large tin box sitting on the first
table by the entrance.  She opened it, only mildly surprised to find the First
Blade inside.  An insuppressible rage welled up inside her and she reached into
the box and lifted out the bone blade by the hide wrapped handle.  This piece
of bone, this curse on her life had taken away what she cared for the most. 
She raised it to eye level, her teeth grinding as her chest heaved with her
accelerated breathing.  Her blood was on fire, her head screaming to do
something, anything, and before she could stop herself, she let out a raw yell
and threw the weapon across the room with all her strength.  She watched it hit
the wall beside the curtained niche housing the telescope with a completely
unsatisfying clunk and then a clatter as it fell unscathed to the floor.
She heaved, the adrenaline rush dying back down to her previous numbness and
she collapsed into one of the chairs around the table, rubbing her forehead,
coming up with arguments against what her gut was saying.  She stared blankly
towards the blade on the ground, her mind brought back suddenly to that day so
long ago: the first time she had lost him. I’mpoison. Everything I touch turns
to shit.  She couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.  She couldn’t just sit
still watching the walls closing in around her.
She retrieved the blade from the floor and returned it to the box, closing the
lid.  Then she headed to the back door and down to her room, still unsure if
she should do what her instinct was telling her.  If she even could.  She moved
around her room restlessly; smoothing out a wrinkle on the bed, straightening
out a pillow, moving her weapons around where she had left them on her
dresser.  She picked up her gun and pulled it out of its holster.
Noise from the hall drew her attention and she quickly returned the gun to its
sheath and clipped it to the back of her belt.  She hurried up to the war room
and turned the corner quickly, catching Castiel rushing out the other side and
down the steps to the level below.  Delilah frowned but turned her head to the
library as she heard Sam swearing loudly followed by the sound of hollow metal
clanging together.
Sam was leaning against the first table in the library, the metal box closed in
front of him, anger clear in his eyes and face, his jaw working, his arms and
shoulders tense.  The tall, leather clad Gadreel was standing nearby looking
all healed up: the gaping wound on his chest and even the t-shirt miraculously
stitched back together.   Delilah caught a whiff of rotten eggs that made her
nose hair curl.  Sulfur.
“What happened?” she asked, impassively, already figuring that Dean had
escaped.
“He’s gone,” said Castiel as he came up behind her from the dungeons.  “It
looks like he summoned a demon.”
“Damnit!” exclaimed Sam, and he straightened up from the table and stuck his
hand in his pocket bringing out his phone and hitting a speed dial.  “Crowley’s
behind this,” he said grinding his teeth as he waited for whoever to pick up
the phone.  She watched as he hung up frustrated and dialled again turning
around to sit back on the edge of the table.  She just couldn't muster enough
of any emotion to care and she stared at him, apathetic towards his distress. 
Castiel and Gadreel were standing by, waiting to hear what Dean had done. 
Sam’s body language was oozing anger and frustration as he sighed and rubbed
his hand over his eyes.  And she didn’t care.  “Dean,” he said into the mouth
piece, managing to keep his voice calm, “Pick up the phone.  Call me back.  I’m
not kidding alright?  Don’t do this.  Not like this.”
He hung up the phone and Castiel turned to face him.  Delilah leaned back
against the library entryway, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Are you sure it was Crowley?” he asked Sam.
“Who else would he summon?  I mean, he and Crowley have been bromancing over
the blade ever since Dean got the mark.”
“The mark?” asked Gadreel frowning, looking between Sam and Castiel for
answers.
Delilah half-listened, her numbness keeping her apart from the group’s
discussion as she continued to form a plan in her mind for what her next step
should be.  Gadreel suggested that Dean might be their best chance at getting
rid of Metatron which angered Sam, who refused to see his brother as just
another weapon.
“Back me up here, Delilah.”
Delilah blinked and straightened up, staring at her feet.  She had heard
everything they had been saying, but she found that she simply couldn’t care
anymore.  “I don’t know, Sam.  Dean wants Metatron dead, so might as well let
him go after him.”
Sam looked incredulous as she met his stare, but she quickly turned away and
started down the steps, heading back to her room.  He called out after her but
she didn’t stop until she had closed the door behind her.  She glanced around
and grabbed her empty duffel bag, opening it and laying it out on the bed.  She
started taking her clothes out of her dresser and stuffing it in the bag.  When
it was full she zipped it back up and grabbed her messenger bag, packing it
with her tablet and chargers, as well as her angel blade and her book box of
laminated fake IDs Sam had made her.  She didn't bother taking out the
reference books she still had in there from the last trip.  She walked over to
the desk in the corner and grabbed her jean jacket from the back of her chair,
slipping her arms in the sleeves and pulling her hair out of the collar
reflexively.
The knock on the door didn’t entirely surprise her, it didn’t matter enough to
surprise her.  Nothing did.  Sam didn’t wait for her answer, he just walked in
and she ignored him, keeping her eyes down.
“Oh good, you’re packed,” he said, no longer angry but his speech slightly
rushed, like when he was excited about something. “Gadreel and Cas are heading
out.  They’re gonna try and get their hands on the angel tablet.”
She turned to look at him.  “Okay,” she said blandly, watching as he fiddled
with his phone, tapping and swiping.
“I got a line on Metatron.  Muncie, Indiana.  He resurrected a woman who got
hit by a car.  Some kid caught the whole thing on his phone.  I figure if we
get moving, we can be there by dinner.  With a bit of luck we can beat Dean
there, too.”
“A-huh,” Delilah acknowledged as he turned the phone towards her, ready to show
her the video.
Their eyes met and she looked away.  After a pause, Sam scoffed, “You’re not
packed for a hunt… are you?”
“I’m sorry, Sam.  I just can’t do this, anymore.”
She looked up at him and this time she didn’t look away as his hazel eyes
scanned her face, frowning, probably trying to understand what was going on in
her head.  His eyes finally settled on hers and his confusion melted away, his
features relaxing into sadness.  He swallowed with difficulty, his Adam’s apple
bobbing in his throat before he looked down, his hair hiding most of his
strained smile.
“Is there anything I can say, to convince you to stay?”
He looked up at her from under his fine eyebrows and she tried… really she
tried, but she just couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t bring herself to care that
she was hurting him.  “No,” she told him simply and she walked over to the bed,
reaching across for her bag.  She slung it over her head and let it settle
against the base of her spine, then she grabbed her clothes duffel from the
floor and swung it onto her shoulder.
She stood and watched him for a minute, the lost look in his eyes almost
pulling at her heart strings, but then, with a pat to his shoulder, she told
him goodbye and walked out the door.  She didn’t stop until she had reached the
main road, a strange déjà vu hitting her as she recalled the last time she had
set out to hitchhike across a few states.  She was ready for it this time
though, and hours later, there had been no sign of Sam’s blue Dart or his beat
up Charger as she hopped into a stranger’s car off the 281 going north.
With a combination of a lot of walking, lucky rides and good weather – the sun
hiding behind clouds most of the way, the cover never turning to rain – it took
her two days to reach her destination.  When she stopped to rest that first
night, using cash to pay for a cheap room in a flea bag motel, she thought to
turn off the GPS setting on her phone and tablet so that by the time she
strolled into the generic brown brick government building with the squad cars
parked out front, nary a call nor a text, she knew she had fallen off the
Winchesters’ radar.
Inside, she headed straight for the front desk to talk to the deputy on
greeting duty, dropping her bag off her tired shoulder, but she didn’t have to
even ask her question that she heard her name called out from behind her. 
Delilah turned around and saw the smile on the pixie-faced, short-haired
sheriff that transformed into a concerned frown as she took in Delilah’s
appearance.
“Hey Jody.”
 
Only time will tell
If I can live without you
Can you see into the future?
Will you ever set me free?
 
In this heartache
We can try and start again
Stop the heartbreak
A little time will help to kill the pain
 
Trapped in time
I cannot leave you
I’m just a prisoner of your eyes
                                       ⭐
End Notes
     Happy fairy tale endings are not my thing apparently, in case the
     crazy tags hadn't given you the heads up, I'm sorry.
     I have been writing Delilah's story for over a year now, and in true
     Supernatural tradition, I've decided to go on hiatus. I'm not done
     telling Delilah McAllister's story, but I need a break.
     As always, here's the list of song titles and their artists:
     Story Title and Chapter 1: Prisoner of Your Eyes - Judas Priest (It's
     like this song was written about Dean Winchester... I swear)
     Chapter 2: Aletheia - Original hunt = Original name ;-)
     Chapter 3: All Along the Watchtower - Bob Dylan (Though you may know
     Jimi Hendrix's cover)
     Chapter 4: King of the Damned - S09E21
     Chapter 5: Fear of the Dark - Iron Maiden
     Chapter 6: Riders on the Storm - The Doors
     Chapter 7: When the Levee Breaks - Led Zeppelin
     Chapter 8: Chain - Fleetwood Mac
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