"Fate is an Engineer Pt. II: These Hands," Miracles/SPN, NC-17

[sailorhathor]

A Miracles/Supernatural Cross-over
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

Chapters: 2 of 5
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,660 this part
See Parts I and V for Author's Notes and Credits.



Part II: These Hands

Next thing Paul knew, his hands had been placed on Dean's chest, and Dean was climbing on the bed with him, kissing him hard. The sex was back on! Yes! Paul definitely kissed back, running his hands over the defined lines in Dean's chest through his shirt. He slipped his hands under the t-shirt and started pulling it off over Dean's head. With a bothered grunt, Dean leaned up a bit, yanked the unwanted shirt off, and tossed it carelessly on the floor. Paul made a little bit of a face, looking after the discarded piece of clothing, but his attention was quickly stolen back by Dean trying to take off his shirt too. Dean had a hold of the bottom hem, but Paul lightly pushed his hands off.

"Nuh uh," he hummed, then took a small amount of time to put the rosary inside his shirt so it wouldn't get in the way. He reached over his head, grabbed the back of his collar, and carefully pulled the shirt off over his head.

Dean looked confused, then chuckled heartily. "I've never seen a person take their shirt off that way."

"Keeps it from turning inside out." Paul shrugged. He couldn't get to the chair near the bed with Dean on top of him, so he held the shirt out. "Would you lay this across that chair?"

"Why, so it doesn't get wrinkled?" Dean said with a smirk.

"Exactly."

Chuckling harder, he asked, "It's covered in blood flecks and you're worried about it getting wrinkled?"

"Would you just do it?" Paul's lust was making him impatient.

Dean, amused, said, "Metrosexual," and, just to rub the joke in, extended his pinkies like the shirt was a fine cup of tea before tossing it as carefully as he cared to onto the chair. Paul seemed satisfied, although he gave Dean a brief, scolding glare.

Paul now wore nothing above the waist but his watch and the rosary. Dean liked the sight of him shirtless in that rosary; there was something wicked sexy about doing this guy while he was wearing it. How bad was that? Guy was supposed to be Catholic and he had a hellion like Dean Winchester on top of him. Hot.

Although Dean's build was a heavy distraction from any other visual stimulation, Paul still noticed a scattering of scars on his body. Most were small; Dean could thank the first aid his father taught him for that. But there was a long, thin burn on his shoulder that was still healing. Paul wondered where it came from, and just how violent Dean's daily life had to be to mark him that much.

Paul worked at removing Dean's belt, breathing a little harder, but immediately started to wince because the action hurt his hands; a belt sure could be a tricky thing under those circumstances. Dean waited and watched with secret amusement for several seconds, but then got impatient. Paul managed the buckle finally, just getting it open when Dean shoved him down on the bed and kissed him again. He then went for Paul's neck. Paul felt teeth and lips going at his skin. Dean seemed to have a thing for nibbling and biting. There were hot, quick breaths tickling Paul's ear, then teeth digging lightly into his earlobe before running up the ridge of his ear. "Damn, I like the way you smell," Dean's voice, heavy with arousal, said to him.

Paul had to moan out loud and make soft sounds of surprise at the rough attention. Dean was like some beautiful, wild animal. Paul uttered another surprised noise when Dean did a graceful move that slid both of his legs between Paul's, forcing his thighs apart. He ground down on Paul's crotch hard with his own. Dean had purposefully maneuvered the dangling belt buckle so it was ground between them, biting into both of them through their pants.

Paul cried out, caught off guard by the delicious pain. He bit at his lower lip. Pleasure burned through his entire crotch as Dean made lazy grinding circles, then would hump against him with stabbing gyrations. "Mmmmuh, uuuuh..." he moaned.

Dean continued to kiss and bite his neck, pulling at Paul's skin, moving along the bends and folds.

Paul, grinning to himself, decided to surprise Dean back. He slapped Dean's ass, keeping his hand there, squeezing and holding him down while he kept grinding. Dean chuckled wickedly into his neck and gave him a harder bite to get even, dragging his teeth along Paul's throat. Paul made a sound between pleasure and pain. He started to grind back. They became a hip rotating, heavy breathing contraption. Paul eventually arched into Dean and threw his head back, exposing even more of his throat to Dean's lips, tongue, and teeth. "Dean..."

There wasn't much that got Dean off more than hearing someone moan his name like that. He wasn't sure how this was going to go; he'd let Paul gauge that, although he'd try to swing things his way. They were both already pretty hard. Dean thought grinding to mutual orgasm would be pretty okay, but he'd rather fuck this guy - he liked fucking. A lot. But he had no idea if Paul had ever taken it that way. Dean had, a few times in his life, simply because he felt that vibe with the guy he was with at the time. Paul just looked so deliciously fuckable; head thrown back, mouth open, breathing heavy and letting out aroused moans, small fading bite marks on his throat... the combination of visual stimulation nearly drove Dean to orgasm. He had a mental fantasy of throwing Paul on his stomach, yanking off those pants, and ramming his dick in that perfect little ass. No, no, mustn't do that. Must have patience.

Paul's other hand caressed up and down Dean's chest. "Mmm... you are not too muscular and not too small... you're juuuust right," he said teasingly.

"Thank you, Goldilocks."

Paul snickered.

Dean kissed him, sticking his tongue in Paul's mouth. This is exactly the comfort Paul wanted, the feeling of a warm male body on his. While he loved the feeling of a female body against him, the male body felt quite different, and Dean on him brought up soothing, warm feelings of sleeping in the same bed with another boy. Before the sun comes up, we gotta get back in our own beds; the nuns can't catch us... Paul smiled into the tongue kiss.

Dean had begun to unbutton Paul's pants to move things along a little bit when Paul heard a gasp in the corner. A long, shocked gasp. It startled him, so he quickly turned his head, breaking the kiss, to look.

The teenage ghost girl who seemed to be related to Keel stood in the corner, hands over her mouth, watching Dean and Paul in shock. She definitely didn't expect to see that. The girl slapped her hands over her eyes.

Paul was instantly angry. Today had been all about invasions to his privacy, and apparently, now was no exception. This was the ultimate slap to the face - he was in the middle of sex, for Christ's sake! There had to be limits to when these ghosts could barge in, there had to be.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

Paul suddenly remembered the abilities Diane McNeal had passed on to him. He'd found that he could only use them when he focused his will in certain ways, or was under extreme duress and the powers burst from him involuntarily. Grasping Dean's wrist, Paul concentrated on making him see the girl.

Dean looked where Paul was looking. He abruptly gasped, pulling away from Paul by reflex. "I saw... some girl. Did you do that? Make me see her?"

Paul nodded. "Yeah. It's called projective clairvoyance."

"I've never seen an ability like that. What's she doing in here?" Dean could tell the appearance of the ghost had rattled Paul, and that made him mad. Just because you were dead didn't mean you had the right to be openly rude. And her presence threatened the continuance of the nookie, he just knew it! Dean got off the bed, sauntering on his feet, and undid his jeans. He pushed them down a bit along with his boxers to briefly expose his hard cock. "Is this what you came to see? Fuck off, bitch. You're killing the mood."

Dean could no longer see the girl, but Paul could. She looked at Dean in horror. "Reprobate! You... you rakehell!" she screamed, and sprang forward, slapping him across the face.

Dean recoiled, putting his hand to his chin. "Whoa, cold blast. What'd she do?"

"Slapped you." Usually, Paul would have been extremely offended to hear a man talk to a woman like that, but in this case, he simply felt too violated to care. Grinding his teeth, Paul said to the girl, "Just because I can see you doesn't mean you can come in here whenever you want like I'm a 24-hour buffet. I need time to myself to do the things live people do. Remember those things?"

It was like he was rubbing it in that she was dead, and could no longer share in Earthly pleasures. She again looked at him like he'd betrayed her, then dissolved from view.

That was all Paul could take. Why did he have to be available all the time, just because they needed someone to talk to? Some things had to wait. Paul shook with anger. He put his bandaged hands into his hair. "Why can't I have the things everyone else has?"

Dean, who had become fairly comfortable with his abnormal life for the most part, recognized the signs of a man about to lose it, and got back on the bed with Paul. "Hey, shhhhh, you can have them." He wrapped his arms around him and held him, touching his hair, easing his arms down. Dean was used to being the strong, protective comforter, which is exactly what Paul needed at that moment.

Still shaking in a bad way, Paul begged Dean to explain it to him. "Why can't I be normal, Dean? They just come in here whenever they feel like and show me horrible things. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy."

He'd never thought about the life of a medium that way. Paul was really suffering! He needed a good outlet for his anger today. Dean wanted to make that sacrifice for him, to put Paul's sexual needs before his own. He took Paul's face in his hands again and placed several kisses on his lips. Paul took a few seconds to begin to melt and respond.

"It's okay, Paul. There are things that can be done to lessen all your problems with the ghosts, I promise. We can make this better. But now..." Going on a hunch, Dean opened the top drawer of the nightstand and found just what he'd expected - condoms and warming lube. Even the ones who looked innocent had a stash just in case, if they had a sex life at all. Dean held up a condom, and with a very serious look, said, "Put it into me. Get it all out of your system, Paul. Put it all into me."

He didn't make the connection right away. "You want me to..."

Dean leaned forward to give Paul's neck a kiss and whisper in his ear, "Fuck me, Paul. As hard as you want." He didn't appreciate being topped with most men, but when it felt right... he liked it rough.

That warm breath and the lewd, sexy words in his ear made Paul shudder in a good way. "Dean... um..."

Grinning, Dean opened Paul's hand and put the condom in it. Then he slipped the bottle of lube in that hand too. "Don't use too much. Remember, a little pain can be a good thing." He started to take off his jeans, but the look on Paul's face stopped him. "You don't want to?"

Paul, looking at the items in his hands, suddenly laughed nervously. "I've only done... anal sex... once, when I was a teenager, and it was with a girl."

"You experimented with your girlfriend?"

"Yeah. It was a disaster," Paul laughed. "She didn't like it."

"Some women don't. But they don't have all the same things men have." With a smirk, Dean leaned into Paul again, speaking softly near his ear. "I will like it."

Paul's eyes widened; he seemed embarrassed, but also licked his lips as he looked over Dean's body again. He really was a good-looking man. Dean wanted this, and would do anything to get Paul to relax. He decided to encourage the mood by doing a little striptease. He pulled his belt from the loops slowly, beginning to sway his hips a bit. Paul watched, then laughed, shifting his eyes around nervously.

Dean threw the belt on the floor, and took Paul's chin in his hand, lifting it so their eyes locked. "Don't be embarrassed, get into it," he said in an encouraging tone. "The show's all for you."

Paul, trying to relax, watched Dean roll off the bed and reach to remove his pants. He allowed himself to appreciate the aesthetics of Dean's body, which was, like he'd said earlier, "just right." As his fly was still undone, Dean put his hands behind his head, striking a confident pose, and, maintaining eye contact with Paul, rotated and bucked his hips sensually to get the jeans to slide slowly down his thighs to his ankles. He was wearing dark blue boxers, the kind that hugged a man's legs instead of hanging loose. Dean turned around so Paul could get a good look at the tight ass he'd spanked.

Paul fell temporarily silent as he caressed that body with his eyes. The lightly scarred but well-muscled back was just as pleasant a sight as the perfectly formed butt. Dean had such confidence, such a saunter and a swagger to every move he made - it was so sexy! There was some conceit in there too, but he had good reason for it. The cut demon hunter looked at Paul over his shoulder and smirked at him as he circled his left hip and slid that side of the boxers down as he did. Paul had to laugh again, but out of excited amusement this time.

Dean slid his thumb under the waistband of his underwear on the other side and slid that side down too so Paul could get a good look at his bare ass. He shook it around a little.

That really made Paul chuckle. "Hm." He leaned over to look at it from a different angle.

Dean finally sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and pants, almost naked now. Paul just had to interrupt. He kissed Dean's neck on the side, nipping a little in imitation of what Dean had done to him earlier, which was very distracting.

"Just lemme get my boots off and we'll be in business," Dean said.

Paul looked at the bobbing, hard cock in Dean's lap. "We have a matching set."

"I'll show you mine if you - "

Paul reached over and ran the rim of Dean's cock head with his finger. "Mmph," Dean moaned briefly in surprise. He tried to take his pants off faster.

Paul did what he could to make it as hard as possible for Dean to simply get naked, just to aggravate him. He ducked under Dean's arm and put his mouth on the cock that just begged for his attention.

"Muh... Paul!" Dean growled impatiently. He suddenly realized he was getting mad at Paul for sucking his dick. This is not a problem, Einstein. Paul snickered around his cock, causing nice vibrations. "Damn, baby..." Dean moaned. He decided to lie back on the bed and try to remove the rest of his clothes with his feet while Paul gave his rod a little polishing.

Paul had always loved to give head. He especially liked doing it to women, but men were fun too. More than one person had said he was good at it. Very good. Paul had no intention of finishing Dean off right now; he just wanted to play with him a little.

Rimming the head of Dean's cock with his tongue, Paul pulled away to say, "You like my hands?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed.

Paul spread some lube from the bottle on his first two fingers. "Then you might like what I do with them." He slid his slicked-up fingers under Dean's thigh. Dean took the hint and put his now-bare foot up on the bed, which raised that thigh. Paul then applied some of the warming lube, rimming and stroking a bit before inserting his first two fingers.

"Nnnnuh," Dean moaned, squirming on the bed.

Paul slowly ran his fingers out and then back in, out and in, lubricating him. The lube began to warm on contact with the skin, which was extremely pleasant. Paul's other hand, he slid down Dean's stomach and between his legs to caress his balls with those long fingers the man seemed to like; at the same time, he put his mouth back on the hard, throbbing cock before him.

Dean moaned again. He arched his back, his hand going to Paul's head to stroke his hair.

Leaning over farther, Paul took more of Dean into his mouth before pulling back up, almost agonizingly slow, making the man tremble and breathe hard beneath him. "Mm, aaah, Paul... fuck me Paul..." Although he said that, Dean still held onto Paul's head with a little downward pressure, like he didn't want him to stop.

Bringing his head up, Paul did it slowly, sucking and licking the whole length. When he lifted his mouth from Dean's cock, he left it with a long, sucking kiss, adding a small one to its tip. He reached up and playfully threw Dean's hand off his head. "Then let go, Dean," Paul said with a grin.

"Couldn't help it," he said in a voice heavy with lust. "You do that real well."

Paul didn't even have his pants off yet. He unbuttoned them well enough, but couldn't do anything else without his other hand. Dean saw him struggling with the uncooperative zipper, and, not wanting Paul to stop finger-fucking him, reached over and helped Paul get his pants and underwear down. Paul's crotch was exposed now, and Dean longed for him at the sight of it. He also helped Paul put on the condom without drawing it out because he wanted Paul in him already. Paul was amused at Dean's insistence that he act as a second hand just so Paul didn't have to stop what his real second hand was doing. But it was time to remove his fingers now, to move on to hotter things.

Paul, panting, stepped off the bed, allowing his pants and underwear to slip down his legs, and squirted more lube into his hand.

"Hey, don't use so much," Dean protested.

"This isn't, uh, for that. Most guys like a little lotion on their palm when they beat off, right? So it feels like a real sex act?"

Dean liked those dirty fucking words coming out of such an angelic little mouth. He was corrupting the pious little churchgoer in the bedroom. Not much could make him want Paul more than that. Dean remarked on the idea of beating off with lotion, "So it feels like a wet pussy."

"Uh, yeah." They shared a mutual shiver as they both recalled how good women could feel, too. "You don't think I'm going to make you get yourself off here." Paul wrapped his hand around Dean's cock as he got on his knees on the bed. "Not when you're offering yourself to me like this."

Dean moaned at the feeling of that slippery hand on his dick. Paul was maneuvering himself between his legs. Dean opened them to allow him room. They were going to fuck face to face; nice. "Hey, you're ruining all my handiwork with that lube. The gauze must be soaked."

"Oh, sorry." Paul's snickery tone betrayed how insincere that apology really was. "We would have had to change it anyway after the post-sex shower."

"Then why'd you let me wrap them in the first place?" Dean asked.

Shrugging, Paul replied, "Thought you might like the texture."

Paul began to stroke down Dean's cock very slowly as he eased his own hardness up to the entrance of the younger man. He was able to put himself into position, then began to bear in as he crawled further up Dean's body. Paul felt himself entering Dean. He did it slowly to prolong the pleasure and pain.

Dean arched his back and let out a series of louder and louder moans as Paul slid up inside him. His thighs quaked in reaction. "Paaaul..." he said through gritted teeth.

His mouth dropping open, Paul took a deep, loud breath. The hand he had on Dean's cock temporarily stopped pumping because too much movement right then would have made Paul cum. The further in he got, the harsher his breathing became. Paul growled, "Rrr... Dean, you're so tiiight!" His free hand braced himself on the bed, squeezing the sheets and blanket in his fingers, while he tried not to cum right then and there. The tightness of Dean, his warmth wrapped around him, the slippery warm sensation caused by the lube... it was almost an overload of pleasure for Paul.

With an evil smirk, Dean hooked one leg around Paul's waist and rubbed his bare rear end with his calf and toes. He deliberately squirmed to cause friction on Paul's cock. Paul gasped and snarled out a moan. "Does it feel good?" Dean asked with mock innocence.

"Sssssoh, you are wicked," Paul hissed, and waited for the trembles to calm down so he could move without cumming too quick. "I'm gonna make you pay for that." As if to show him, Paul eased almost fully out, and rammed himself back in, being rough on purpose.

"Ahhh!" Dean cried. His body gave a mighty shiver all over. "Give it to me, Paul. Just like that!"

Paul did it again, his hand beginning to move once more, stroking Dean slowly and firmly. He moaned appreciatively. Paul was right; the gauze gave the hand-job a bit of exciting texture. After half a minute of humping, Paul leaned further over Dean, bracing again with his free hand, so he could plunge himself in deeper. His rosary dangled just over Dean's chest, the cool metal crucifix brushing his skin. Dean wore his own Egyptian amulet necklace, and soon, the motion of their sex had the two idols dancing and clinking together. In that way, their chosen gods conversed while they spoke their own language of merged souls.

Paul leaned over and kissed Dean deeply on the mouth. "Dean... ahh, Dean!"

"Put it all... into me..." he said again, breathing heavy as he pressed into Paul's thrusts. Dean closed his eyes to lose himself in the dual sensations. "Mmm, Paul... baby..."

"You feel so good," Paul whispered breathily. That sent a nice shiver down Dean's spine; the man really did sound sexy when he spoke so softly.

Paul spent the next few minutes giving Dean's neck a good once over with his tongue and lips, kissing and sucking on it. He'd thrown his head back and presented it so nicely, how could Paul resist? Next thing either of them knew, Paul was expelling heavy pants against the side of Dean's throat, some of them accompanied by longing moans, and the utterance of Dean's name. "Uh! Dean! Dean! I'm going... I'm about to... making me... cum... ahh!"

"Keep going... right there... with you, Paul!" With another wicked grin, Dean deliberately pushed Paul over the edge. He locked eyes with him, knowing that Paul had been gazing into his luminescent eyes all day, and said, "Make love to me, Paul," and kissed him ever so softly on the mouth, a feathery brush of the lips. Inwardly, Dean chuckled at himself; he could tell that Paul liked a good dirty fuck, but what really got a guy like him off was lovemaking. Feeling a connection with his sexual partner.

It worked. His eyes wide with disbelief and overwhelming pleasure, Paul came inside Dean. "Uhhhhhh AHHHH!" He closed his eyes, shuddering all over, his hand squeezing Dean's cock a little harder as he pumped it even faster in reaction to his orgasm. Every time Paul opened his eyes, Dean locked eyes with him - he was there for every whimper and moan and shrill breath that came from Paul's mouth.

But soon, Dean lost his edge and cried out himself. That extra, rough texture had done him in much quicker than usual. "Ahh, shit, Paul!" His cock spasmed, and he splattered both his chest and Paul's with cum. Head thrown back again, Dean also made sounds that came from the base of his loss of control, where he gave all his power over to the ecstasy Paul provided.

Paul's motions came to a slow stop. They laid there tangled in one another and panted for half a minute. Paul finally rolled off of Dean, pulling out and removing the condom. Dean was very glad they'd used that. This guy looked so clean... it wasn't that Dean had anything, because he was disease free, but he still feared he might dirty Paul somehow if they hadn't used the condom. He wanted to corrupt Paul temporarily, not taint him for good.

The fact that Dean had cum all over both of them didn't seem to bother Paul; in fact, he smiled at it, but did suggest, "You wanna get cleaned up?"

From the moment they stepped into the shower until he gave Paul the first kiss, Dean could not stop chuckling over all of Paul's haircare products laid out on the window shelf. "Metrosexual," he teased.

Paul rolled his eyes with good humor. "I like to take care of my hair, is all."

"Vanity, thy name is Paul." He helped him close the shower curtain around them. "But I like it. It's cute."

As they backed under the warm spray, Dean cradled Paul's face in his hands again and kissed him without reserve. It was Paul's softer qualities that brought out the natural protector in Dean, and the way he was plagued by visions he couldn't control, just like Sam... Dean had a pang of regret just then, remembering his missing brother. Holding Paul's gentle face brought back fuzzy, ancient memories of holding his baby brother to his little pajama clad chest as he ran for both their lives. Touching Paul was comforting, almost like Sam was still with him, instead of missing. Dean's eyes took on a sad cast before he resumed kissing Paul. Sex had always been one of the ways Dean unwound, a way he comforted himself, a way to block out the world.

For Paul's part, although he rarely talked about it, he was just plain starved for affection. Growing up in an orphanage had been responsible for that. No amount of cuddling with other kids after lights out and the occasional hug from Poppi or one of the nuns could make up for all he had missed when his mother died. It was the reason he was so clingy and jealous in relationships. It was the reason he now did little to discourage Dean from prolonging the shower with a little petting. The affection felt so good; Paul drank it all in, not realizing for a while that he had unconsciously connected to Dean empathically, and was feeding off his emotions.

Though Paul greatly enjoyed the kissing, the light washing they gave each other, and the warm touches, it was a lost cause. Some people found a warm shower just what they needed to get sexually aroused - Paul was just the opposite. Warm water, cold water, it all just kept him flaccid. He was one of those people who couldn't get anything going in a pool. Maybe it was the lack of traction. But, as he found out, Dean was in the other portion of the population.

While he watched Dean's cock rise again, Paul also felt it through the link. Still, his own cock refused to respond. That was okay. Paul was happy with the things he could glean off Dean, the fact that Dean felt protective over him because of all he'd seen of Paul's life so far, the love he felt for his baby brother, the raw lust mixed with a strange caring for Paul (after all, they'd just met) - it all came through as an intensely pleasant warmth for him to wade through. He supposed their shared need for comfort had a lot to do with the emotions coming off Dean right now. Either way, it had gotten Dean hard again, and he couldn't stop kissing and kissing Paul. What was it about this guy, anyway?

Paul had to be the one to move Dean away, whispering, "Okay, okay, stop stop stop." Why'd he have to whisper like that, that would never make Dean want to stop! "The water's going cold, I want to get out. Come 'ere." Paul gripped Dean's cock all of a sudden and began to stroke it. Dean moaned softly with surprise and appreciation. He reached down, but found Paul hanging loose, and looked at him, bewildered. "I can't get hard in water," Paul shrugged. That satisfied Dean; some people were like that. Oh well, at least he'd get some. Back to kissing while Paul jerked him off.

Soon after, the two men were satisfied (Dean sexually, Paul emotionally), clean, and dried off. Both put on only underwear because they knew they were going to sleep. Dean rewrapped Paul's hands with fresh, dry bandages. They got into Paul's bed; something about the atmosphere between them made Dean chatty. He put both arms under his pillow and alternated between studying the ceiling and occasionally glancing at Paul. Paul was rubbing at the beads of his rosary. "You're Catholic?"

"Yeah." Damn scratches would never come off.

"I'm sorry."

The joke caught Paul off guard; he snickered and rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

"Where does our little tryst fall into your religion?" asked Dean.

"Oh, you want to ask the hard questions now?"

"Sorry, I'm just curious how you reconcile it all," Dean said with a wicked smile.

Paul shrugged. "We're all sinners, Dean. It's how you deal with it that makes all the difference."

Dean could be a bit too morbidly fascinated with people like Paul, those who were devoutly religious, but also did things that were clearly against their religion. Most of them seemed to be hypocrites to Dean, but Paul was different, not as judgmental as what Dean was used to. "Will you go to confession?"

His eyebrows rising, Paul replied, "Yeah. Just not to Father Calero."

"Who's he?" Dean asked.

"A priest I grew up with in the orphanage. He's always been like a father to me."

Dean would have teased him about not wanting to confess his tryst to his father figure, but he was stuck on one word. "You grew up in an orphanage?"

"Yes."

"Where'd your parents go?"

Paul had to grin, though he hid it behind his hand, at the way Dean had phrased that question. "My father didn't seem to want to have anything to do with me. I don't even know his name. Father Calero said my mother refused to reveal who he was because she thought my father would be a bad influence for me. I think, in ways, that she was a little afraid of my dad." Paul rested a hand across his forehead and gazed up at the ceiling that Dean found so interesting. "She said he lived very far away from us, and that was a good thing. So it was just me and mom against the world. No brothers or sisters. Then she died."

Dean felt kind of bad for him; at least he had Dad and Sammy. "How?"

"Cancer. When I was four. Just a week from my fifth birthday." Paul's eyes gazed far off, as if he saw the past before him instead of the ceiling of his bedroom.

Dean looked at him in disbelief. "I was four too."

That got Paul's attention. "What?"

"I said, I was four too. When my mom was killed." Dean gazed up at the ceiling again. "There was an intruder in our house, and... if he'd been just a burglar, it would have been better." Dean blew out a heavy breath. "But he was some kind of demon. He did something horrible to my mom." The pain and anguish he still felt over this incident showed plainly in his eyes. Now it was Paul's turn to feel bad for him. "My dad found her with a bloody stomach, like she'd been gutted or something."

Paul flinched. "That's awful."

"You'd think maybe it was your run-of-the-mill serial killing, except for the fact that she was on the ceiling at the time that Dad found her." Dean reached up, as if trying to touch his mother. Paul furrowed his brow in stunned confusion. "Then my mom suddenly burst into flame." He slowly lowered his arm. "Kinda tipped Dad off to the fact that it wasn't a normal killing."

"And that's what started the hunting," Paul stated more than asked.

"Yeah." Finally turning his head from the phantoms of memory above him, Dean looked at Paul. "You believe me?"

"Of course."

Dean just smiled, a small, closed-mouth smile just for Paul. "That's another thing we have in common. Both four, both lost our moms."

Not sure what to say, Paul just made a, "Hm," sound. He was starting to drift off, but apparently, Dean wasn't done.

"When did you discover you could see the dead?" he asked.

Paul opened one eye, looked at Dean, and opened the other. "Um, when Tommy died. I saw him at his funeral, standing in the doorway of the church. Keel thinks there could have been incidents before that, but I just didn't recognize them for what they were. That's most likely true. Like, when I was a kid, there was this couple who kept coming around the orphanage, making noise about adopting me. But eventually, they just stopped coming. It never occurred to me back then that I didn't see them talk to anyone else, ever, except me. Then late last year, they came back. I was at St. Jerome's spending time with some of the kids and the couple showed up there. They didn't look any different than they had when I was young."

Dean's eyes were wide as he added, "And no one else could see them."

"You guessed it."

"Did they still want to adopt you?" he joked.

Paul shrugged with a big grin. "Yes. They reacted to me as if they still saw me as a child."

"Whoa. Weird," Dean commented. "So you were a medium even back then."

Nodding, he continued, "We investigated this doctor once. He had a possessed patient, and his daughter helped us every step of the way. But Keel and Evelyn never saw her. I had no idea she was dead. She looked and felt completely real to me." Paul allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of sweet, beautiful Raina. He asked himself, "The only thing I can't understand is why Tommy came back. He said I wasn't going to see him anymore."

"I don't know, man, but I'd be careful," Dean warned. "I don't trust healers."

They both fell silent, thinking, and starting to doze off. Paul watched Dean for a minute, grateful that they had encountered each other, because the man's touch had brought him back from the brink. His firm, strong touch. Maybe now that he'd had his release, he could deal with what had happened in Mountaineer.

Paul noticed that Dean was now looking back at him sleepily, his brow furrowed. "You know... you look a lot like this guy I knew in high school. Back when we lived in Southern California for a year. One of the time periods we weren't totally nomadic, living out of a car. You might be surprised how many demons you can kill just standing in one place in Cali. Earthquakes and Hollywood stir 'em up. That and there was a Hellmouth there. And a huge Chaos cult." Dean yawned like a mighty canyon.

Chucking lightly, Paul said, "A Hellmouth? What's that?"

"Mouth to Hell."

"Oh. I should have known." He wasn't even going to allow himself to think about that one. A mouth to Hell on Earth?! "Go to sleep."

"Do you think we'll hear from Tommy in the morning?"

"Yes."

"If the phone rings, will you wake up? 'Cause I kinda sleep like a rock, especially after sex," Dean said.

"Yeah, I'll wake up. Keel's always calling me at the crack of dawn with some theory or another, and it always wakes me up," Paul replied with a bit of annoyance in his voice at the memory of many early mornings spent listening to Keel blab.

"Dude, someone calls me at the asscrack of dawn, that's the last call they ever make. Only two people are allowed to wake me up that early."

Paul suddenly started chuckling. "Why are you concerned about that anyway? You think Tommy's going to call me?"

"No, but that guy could call again. The guy who saw Sammy hitchhiking." He pointed to his cell phone on the bedside table. "If I don't wake up, you answer it."

"Okay."

Dean went silent long enough for Paul to think he had fallen asleep, until he suddenly started talking again, and nearly startled Paul right out of bed. "You asleep?"

"No," Paul replied sharply.

"Sorry, I had another question." He stopped and cleared his throat. "You can see all kinds of ghosts, right?"

"That's been established."

"Okay, sure." Dean ached to just get the words out of his mouth. "Do you see anyone around me?"

Ah, the question Paul got from every person eventually, once they found out he could see the dead. He didn't mind so much as long as they understood he couldn't command any particular dead person to speak; he could only talk to those who came to him. "Hmm." He scanned the area around Dean, the bed, the space behind him, and the rest of the room, and finally spotted something. "There's a floating patch of flame over there by the chair." Paul suddenly heard Tommy's voice in his head again, feeding him information that he wouldn't have known otherwise. "It's... it's, ah, your mother. She's trying to regain her energy, the energy she expended fighting off a malevolent spirit. She's hoping to use the power that killed her to her advantage, to become a fire elemental." He said all this as gently as he could because he could imagine that to hear such things about someone you loved was overwhelming, even for someone as tough as Dean. "It may be her only choice, since she was weakened by the attack that killed her, and the fight with this evil spirit."

Dean's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Really? She's working to come back?"

Paul smiled warmly, trying to be comforting. He ran the backs of his fingers over Dean's cheek. "Yeah."

Dean smiled too. "Then I'll probably get to see her again."

"I bet you will." Paul felt a little like he had that night in Shadow Valley, Virginia, when those kids asked him what Heaven was like and he told them, among other things, that it was full of cotton candy houses with clowns living in them. How the heck was he supposed to know the answers to these questions? Everything he'd just said had been fed to him by Tommy. But he hated to disappoint people when they desperately needed answers. Paul said another thing he didn't totally feel. "You can trust my instincts about spiritual matters. I was almost a priest. Now go to sleep."

Feeling all warm inside, Dean settled into the pillow, but raised his head again just a few seconds later. "You were almost a priest?!"

*****

The sun had been up for an hour when someone stirred in Paul's apartment. It wasn't him or Dean, though, as they were still sleeping. A crystal paperweight holding down some bills on top of Paul's dresser suddenly flew through the air and thumped against the wall over Paul's head. He flinched when the paperweight rolled down his pillow and came to rest against his cheek. Within seconds, several empty hangers lifted off the closet rod and flung themselves at the bed, spreading all over the two men and making a loud racket.

Paul came awake with a start. "Guh!"

Dean stirred, beginning to awaken. "Whuzadeal?" he murmured.

Rubbing one eye, Paul looked at the closet. There was Mrs. Keel, breathing hard and looking angry, her hair mussed, her make-up smudged and run. "Mrs. Keel? What's the matter?"

She snatched up another hanger. Paul had a flashback of that scandalous movie about Joan Crawford. "Why wasn't I ever enough?" Vivian Keel shook the hanger with a trembling hand.

"What?"

"Paul, who ya talkin' to? Mrs. Keel?" Dean asked, still barely awake.

Vivian shrieked, "Why wasn't I ever enough?!" She threw the hanger at Paul. It winged him in the side of the head.

The movement was enough to get Dean's head off the pillow. "What was that?!"

"Mrs. Keel, calm down!" Paul started to sit up.

She grabbed a jar of pennies off the dresser and flung it at them. The jar clonked Paul a good one in the forehead. He covered it with his hands and moaned in pain.

"Hey!" Dean barked. He could see no assailant, but Paul had said "Mrs. Keel" twice. The ghost must be back. She was trying to hurt Paul, for some reason. That kid, Tommy, had said to be wary of her, hadn't he? Dean jumped up and started going through his bag.

"What was that for?!" Paul yelled.

"Like you don't know! You men are all alike." She looked at Dean with critical eyes and scoffed. "Always a wandering eye. Always thinking with your lowest parts. You tell me, why wasn't I enough?! Didn't I keep up a good appearance?" Vivian sunk her hands into her hair and yanked. "Didn't I take care of the children and keep up the house? Still, he blamed me. He was never there, always at the hospital or away at a seminar, and it was my fault? That must've been convenient. I did everything he wanted. Even the disgusting things in bed."

Vivian eyed a heavy pencil holder made of pewter sitting on top of the chest of drawers, just barely touching it so it inched along the wooden surface. "Still, he had a whole album full of whores."

Dean watched that pencil holder slide a few centimeters at a time across the chest; that told him where she was. He pulled the sawed-off shotgun from his bag. "Don't even think about it, bitch."

"Dean, what are you doing?!" Paul said, shocked. "You're going to shoot a ghost?!"

"Just trust me." The gun was full of rock salt rounds. He aimed it at where he thought Mrs. Keel was, but unfortunately, Dean had her placed on the left side of the dresser, when she was on the right. She could have reached the pencil holder from either side, so it was an easy mistake.

Vivian laughed at him mockingly. "How can you shoot someone who's already dead, you foul-mouthed hooligan?" She picked up the pencil holder.

"Wait Dean, wrong - " It all happened too fast for Paul to properly warn Dean that he was aiming at the wrong side of the dresser.

Dean saw the object move, and put up his arm to block the pencil holder as it was launched in the air - as Vivian threw it. He squeezed off a round at the space on the left side of the dresser, intending to repel Mrs. Keel's ghost, but of course, he missed her. The fact that she only allowed herself to be seen by Paul was a hindrance. Paul flinched at the sound of the gunshot. Because Dean's round didn't hit her, Vivian was free to unleash the abilities she'd gained as a ghost. She moved with supernatural speed across the room. The rushing created a wind so strong it overwhelmed Dean. He was caught off guard, and subsequently, was unable to block the heavy pencil holder. It bounced off his eyebrow, scratching him, bringing blood. Dean fell back into the chair near the bed with a groan.

"Mrs. Keel, stop it!" Paul pleaded. He started to crawl off the bed.

Vivian leaned over the chair, eye to eye with Dean. "Boo." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you ever talk to my daughter like that again."

"Paul, where is she?" Dean asked, since he couldn't even see the woman when she was inches from his face.

"She's - "

Vivian turned a furious eye on Paul, and suddenly, she was ghost-rushing him. He was thrown back on the bed with her on top of him. Paul, simply not knowing what to do, stared up at her raging face and gaped helplessly while she repeatedly slammed her hand into the mattress next to his head.

"My greatest shame! Bas' little seeeecret!" she screeched into his face. "Nothing but a thorn in my side!" Vivian had begun to weep. "Why, why wasn't I enough!"

Dean knew without a doubt where she was this time. He could see the mattress caving in under her weight, could see the imprint of her invisible palm in the sheets as she smacked the bed over and over. He got on one knee, aimed, and shot a rock salt round into Vivian Keel.

She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed as the projectile ripped through her. The scream faded as Vivian seemed to be torn apart on a molecular level, simply dissolving. Paul cringed violently, and slowly realized that it was over, that she was gone. "Dean... how did you do that?"

He stood up, showing him the gun. "It's loaded with rounds of rock salt. Salt is a natural spirit deterrent." He grinned. "Worked pretty well, huh? That is one pissed off bitch. Tell me something - why hasn't your boss taught you how to repel ghosts from your apartment with salt circles?"

Before Paul could answer, someone began knocking frantically at his front door. Dean looked at him wide-eyed. "That could be about Sam! Let's get it."

"No, Dean." He pointed to his eyebrow. "You're bleeding."

A muffled voice came through the door. "Paul, Paul, are you okay?"

"It's just my neighbor, Mrs. Bongiovi. Stay here." Paul called to the door as he threw on some jeans. "I'm fine, Mrs. Bongiovi. I'm coming! Give me a minute; I'm not decent!"

Dean had to grin at the ways that comment could be taken out of context. While Paul got the door, Dean retrieved a tissue to put to his eyebrow, and stood near the bedroom door to eavesdrop.

"Paul, are you alright?" Mrs. Bongiovi asked warmly, touching his face. "I heard gunshots."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I had my TV up too loud. I was watching an action movie."

"The shots, they were so loud!" She seemed to accept his explanation, though. "Are you sure you're alright? Your forehead is all red here, and your hands...!"

"Oh, you know me. Always bumping into doors. Clumsy," Paul tried to explain, though it was all lies. He held up his bandaged hands. "This happened when I forgot the iron was on. Just grabbed it in both hands. Can you believe it?"

"Agh, Paul, you need a nice girl to look after you. Did you enjoy the lasagna I brought you?"

"Yes, it was delicious, Mrs. Bongiovi."

"Did your friend Keel enjoy it?" she asked.

"You should have seen how much he ate," Paul laughed.

Boring. Blah blah blah, Dean thought. He checked; the bleeding had stopped. Just a shallow scratch. This Paul guy sure was chummy with his neighbor. Every older person seemed to be a mother or father figure to him. Mrs. Bongiovi was mommying the hell out of Paul, and he just seemed to wallow in it. Dean didn't need another mother. He had one, and she died, and he would rather live with her memory than replace her.

He decided to speed things along; Dean needed this message to come in so he could find Sam. He put on his jeans and stepped out into the living room.

"You have a friend visiting?"

Paul seemed surprised at the question, then realized Dean had cleaned up his face and come into the room. "Yes, this is Dean."

"Oh, he is a handsome one. I've never seen you here before." She had always wondered about Paul. Such a nice boy, but very pretty.

Dean put on his best charming smile. "Thank you, ma'am." He made no comment about her second statement, because it was just nosy fishing for gossip. The black-haired Italian woman seemed nice, though. "Paul, we've got that thing we need to do..."

"Uh, right. Just let me get Mrs. Bongiovi's casserole dish. I washed it and everything." Paul headed for the kitchen.

"You are such a good boy." While he was gone, she smiled at Dean, looking like she had more to say. "You are a new friend of Paul's?"

"You could say that. Haven't known him long."

"Do you care about his safety?" she asked quietly.

That was an odd question. What was even stranger was the answer, given that Dean barely knew Paul. "Yes."

"Will you watch out for him when you're with him, then?" Mrs. Bongiovi leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Lui colloqui a sè."

"Huh?"

Like many people whose first language was not English, she slipped into her native language when saying something that could be considered gossip. "Sometimes he talks to himself in here. My husband and I can hear him through the walls. I think he is lonely."

Paul wasn't talking to himself. He was speaking to ghosts. But of course, Dean couldn't tell her that.

"What really worries me is what happens at night, much too often. Cammina nel suo sonno," she whispered, then remembered that he did not seem to know Italian. "Oh, I'm sorry, it is so natural for me."

Dean blinked several times; it was a fidgety motion out of concern. "What does he do at night, Mrs. Bongiovi?"

"He sleepwalks," she said at a whisper.

Troubled, he looked for clarification. "Paul leaves his apartment when he does this?"

"Yes, sometimes. We try to direct him back into his bed, but we don't always hear him. I've found him out here in the hall more than once. I'm afraid he's going to fall down the stairs. His friend Evelyn was very concerned, but Mr. Keel... I don't know about him sometimes. He and Paul travel a lot and they stay in the same hotel room, Paul told me, so I thought he should know so he could look out for Paul. Hotels have stairs, and elevator shafts, and are often located near busy highways. It scares me," Mrs. Bongiovi fretted with a sigh. "But Mr. Keel... he almost seemed to want it to continue. Told me to write down anything that Paul said while he was out walking in his sleep. Very strange, don't you think? Why does he want to know such things? You'll look after Paul when you are sleeping over, won't you?"

Dean wasn't staying in Boston forever... how could he look after him? "I'll do what I can."

They both shut their mouths when Paul reentered the room with the empty, clean casserole dish. "Here you go."

"Thank you." She gave Dean a meaningful look and left.

Paul barely had the door locked when his apartment phone began to ring. Dean looked desperate for him to answer it. Checking the caller ID, Paul shook his head. "It's just Keel." He considered not answering.

Obviously disappointed, Dean put his hands in his pockets and trudged into the bedroom to finish dressing.

Paul sighed and picked up the phone. "Hello."

"Paul. Are you alright?"

He instantly thought about Vivian Keel and the things she'd said during her tantrum. Was the woman that unhinged in life? Is that what Keel had to grow up with? A part of him wanted to be sympathetic, but the other part still couldn't deal with Keel and his methods. "I'm okay."

"I heard quite a bit of noise in your apartment before I left, sounded like you were tearing up the place. Are you sure you're okay?" Alva asked.

"Well, you try being a human bug light and see if it doesn't make you a little crazy now and then," Paul said sarcastically.

Dean couldn't help himself; he eavesdropped again on Paul's end of the conversation while getting dressed. He grinned to himself at the joke.

"I understand your anxiety, Paul," Alva said. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't hurt yourself."

"I did, as usual, but it's alright. My hands are wrapped up."

"Your hands?"

"Yeah. I punched the hell out of my coffee table."

Paul couldn't see him, but Alva visibly winced. "Didn't break any bones, I hope."

"No, it doesn't seem so." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Is that all?"

Alva cleared his throat. "Why do you sound angry at me?"

Good, that was the exact question Paul needed to launch into the tirade he'd been waiting for since he recovered these memories. "I just don't understand how you do it, Keel. How do you make life and death decisions and live with yourself when innocent people die because you did nothing to save them?"

Whoa, what was that all about, Dean wondered. He tried to stay quiet so he could hear better.

Alva sighed. "Who did I kill now?"

Sarcasm wasn't exactly what Paul wanted to hear at that moment. He snapped, "The Mothman told you that Danielle Franklin would come to a bad end years before she was murdered. Why didn't you warn her? You knew she was in danger."

Alva put a hand over his eyes and almost laughed, but verbalizing anything that sounded like amusement would be misinterpreted, with the way Paul felt, so he held it back. "Paul, be reasonable. What was I supposed to tell the woman? 'Hello, Mrs. Franklin, will you tell me about your hemography experience, and by the way, a giant moth said you might come to a bad end. His comment was very vague, could have meant several different things, but just thought you'd like to know about it.' Something like that?"

Not allowing the sarcasm to faze him, Paul said, "When Chad Goodwell started killing the 'God is Nowhere' people, you should have said something about it. That should have been a giant red flag that this is what the Mothman meant! We could have warned her, and she could have gone into hiding like Mr. Webster."

"For all the good it did him."

In the bedroom, Dean was reeling from what he'd heard. Sounded like a pretty major case these people had been involved in. Some pretty intense shit, a lot like what he and Sam got into all the time. The Mothman had predicted some woman's death? Why did that term 'God is Nowhere' sound so familiar?

Alva continued, "Paul, you have to accept that sometimes, good is not going to win out. You'll just make yourself crazy, and there isn't enough furniture in your apartment to beat up for all the times we're going to lose. In this case, evil was going to triumph until Chad Goodwell was caught - he was always one step ahead of us. You have to accept that no matter how hard we try, we can't save everyone. How many times do we need to discuss this?

"Even if Mrs. Franklin had known the danger, there's no guarantee that would have saved her life. The things we deal with would seem insane to the untrained eye. Sometimes, we have to lie. Sometimes, we tell the truth. Other times, we can do nothing but sit back and let a thing run its course."

"But I can't do that, Keel. I'm not like you. I need to be able to help."

"Do you think I don't feel guilty?" Alva asked. "Do you think I don't regret when my decisions go wrong? You can't let it eat you alive, Paul, or you'll be no good to anyone. When one deals so closely with death and its aftereffects, there are bound to be impossible decisions to make. Sometimes, they are the wrong ones. But even if I had put Danielle Franklin on her guard, she still probably would have died. After all, Chad was given the information to find Mr. Webster from his supernatural contacts; do you think Mrs. Franklin could have hidden from that? You can't over think it, Paul. You'll wind up destroying coffee tables in a rubber room."

Paul let out a long sigh. "I got her on the phone, Keel. I had her. Danielle Franklin, still alive. Then the police had to go and muck it all up."

Dean let out a quiet little scoff; the police were always mucking it up.

"Don't beat yourself up about it anymore. Life is full of those kinds of disappointments. Close, but yet so far. One of the bitterest things we experience in life. Let it go," Alva coaxed.

Sighing again, Paul replied, "I'll try." He paused, thinking. "Keel, I think I need help on a case I stumbled upon."

"What kind of case?"

"Missing person."

Dean knew he was talking about Sam. He listened, all of his attention on what he could hear.

"Why is that our kind of case?" Alva asked.

"Because Tommy has been feeding me information about it."

There was a meaningful pause on Alva's end. "That's amazing. He's talking to you again?"

"Yeah. Can you come over?"

"I've got that meeting with Mr. Yamashita in an hour. About the copy of the Book of Revolution we're trying to acquire. That's an ancient, rare book. It's very important."

"I know. You have to keep that appointment," Paul agreed.

"I'll come over right after. In the meantime, I'll send Evie over," said Alva.

"Good. Tell her to bring the laptop. And, uh, Keel?" He looked toward the bedroom. "We need to try to stop assuming that every person we deal with doesn't believe in the paranormal. There are believers out there. Maybe we should give them the benefit of the doubt."

"I'll attempt to do that as long as you promise to stop biting my head off so much." Alva's tone was a bit playful, though he meant it.

Paul had to grin. "Stop making it so tasty and I will."

Chuckling, Alva said, "See you in a few hours," and hung up.

Dean, hearing Paul put the phone in the cradle, emerged from the bedroom. "Hey, uh, I heard a little of that. Sorry. What is 'God is Nowhere'? The phrase is familiar. I think my dad wrote about it in his journal."

Paul's face drained of color. "Let me see it. Do you have it with you?"

"Always." Dean pulled the journal from an inside pocket of his jacket. He put it on Paul's dining room table and began to flip through it. "You okay? You look freaked. Sit down."

Paul did, folding his hands in front of his mouth while he waited, hardly breathing, for Dean to find the passage. He located it and showed Paul the page. "There. 'God is Nowhere.' My dad chronicled all the evil and bizarre things he's dealt with in this journal. Looks like he was keeping a record of all the people who saw this message written in blood. It's a list of six people. It doesn't seem he knew much more about it than that."

Paul exhaled with relief. "He was just keeping a case file."

"Yeah. What's this all about, Paul? What's the big deal about this message written in blood? I've seen that a bunch of times," Dean said with a shrug.

"I don't think you understand. This is hemography. The messages wrote themselves."

It dawned on him just what Paul meant. Dean's face took on an expression of confoundment. "Dude."

"Yeah. Dude. People hurt themselves, they bled, the blood flowed or was soaked into towels or bandages, and later, sometimes very quickly, people looked at those puddles of blood or soaked fabrics, and saw that the blood had formed words," Paul explained. "All of these people on the list saw the message 'God is Nowhere.' The night I was hit by the train, and Tommy saved me, my blood flowed out onto a piece of metal from my car. It spelled, 'God is Now Here.'"

"The message was different."

"Yes. I thought I was the only one who saw the words that way. Then came Chad Goodwell." Paul glanced at John Winchester's journal to see if he had any record of Chad. He didn't. There was nothing there about Paul, either. "He was a kid who - "

Someone knocked at Paul's door.

"Uh... this place is Grand Central Station this morning. Hold that thought. That's probably Evie." Paul got the door.

"Hey Paul, Alva called me and said you needed help tracking someone down." Evie stepped inside. "I was only a few blocks away, taking Matty to school."

"Thought you got here awfully fast," Paul laughed.

Evie glanced over at the table area, noticing someone was there. The smile dropped from her face. It was replaced by a look of pure shock and panic.

Any hint of welcome for the gorgeous Latina babe faded from Dean's person at that look. What the fuck? He tensed up, ready for fight or flight.

"Evie, this is - " Paul noticed her expression. "Evie? What's the matter?"

"Paul I need to talk to you in the hall for a moment," she blurted, almost completely running the words together, and dragged him by the arm out the still-open door, closing it behind them.

Something was up. Dean closed the journal, pocketed it, and reached behind his back to the waistband of his jeans to make sure his Glock was there, although he knew it was. The chick had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, after the way she'd looked at him. Dean went to the door and put his ear to it.

Paul was laughing awkwardly. "What's up, Evie? Why the cloak and dagger routine?"

Evie looked like she was about to blow her top at a very bad child. She pointed at his front door. "Paul, what is Dean Winchester doing in your apartment?!"

On to Part III: Methods.