Chapter Text
Time has no meaning, for them it doesn’t apply …
H
Music is paying, blasting from the speakers around the bar and there's people trying to talk over it but the noise just builds. The rain outside doesn’t register into the noise level and no cares about a little water until they head outside and to their respective cars.
It’s a usual night for them, Dean and Sam Winchester. Both of them are working a hustle at the pool table; Sam is pretending to be drunk out of his head. Dean knows the money is all theirs but there is the formality that has to be performed before he can put those green backs into his pocket. Sam keeps slurring his words; occasionally giving Dean the evil eye but Sammy's going along with the plan so Dean figures little brother shouldn’t bitch about it. Sam wobbles as he leans down to take his shot; it’s an easy one and then Sam is moving on to the next one while the idiot they're playing looks on in confusion. That slowly gives way to anger just as the eight ball drops into the corner pocket.
Dean sighs internally, he doesn’t mind a fight but he'd rather not start a brawl. It draws attention to them and neither can afford to start up another cat & mouse game with an FBI agent. The reminder of Henrickson is bittersweet. The guy was good – looking for the wrong bad guys – but …
‘Everyone ends up dead. That’s life.’
Dean finds no comfort in telling himself that but it’s become a habit. Every time he closes his eyes there's one more familiar face to haunt him. He can hear the echo of his Father's voice telling him about Sam and what had to be done. How different would their lives be if Dean had followed John's orders?
Right about now is when Dean focuses on something else. He straightens up, passes a quick glance over the bar and the rowdy crowd taking note of the rough element under the neon lights figuring its not going to be easy getting out of an all out brawl.
He stops.
He's not sure what grabs his immediate attention but he doesn’t question the feeling. He starts moving away from the pool table and Sam and the idiot that’s getting louder the more Sam tries to fake confusion about the game. All Dean wants is a good look at the woman he can see sitting at the bar. Sammy would have plenty to say but it’s not exactly ‘like that’. He ducks around the waitress and stops again because people- the patrons spending money- keep getting in the way, they block his line of sight but even as they move on Dean can only stare…
She's sitting at the bar, there's another man she's with – a big guy with dark hair a close match to Sam’s own messy mop. The guy sitting there is built and Dean skims those green eyes over the colors inked on the arm she nudges. There's something familiar about the man even though Dean has never seen him before and Dean would remember a character like that but its there. He's had that feeling once before… with a girl and it’s the woman sitting at the bar that holds all his attention.
She's exactly as he remembers her. The same inky blue-black hair, heavy and smooth as silk, still reaching past her waist, flowing loose down her back…. And Dean knows her. He's as sure of it as he breathes but that’s impossible. And then he remembers the kind of impossible he's been living with the past seven years.
Both suddenly tense and sit up. They look around the bar and Dean frowns because its just weird and he looks for whatever it is that grabbed their attention though he follows her progress instead. He can't help it.
‘It is her.’
She stands up, grabs the leather jacket and with a nod the guy accepts the gentle patof her hand on his shoulder as she walks past him. And Dean remembers what those hands were capable of doing and did on various occasions…
She turns towards the door, soft full lips pressed into a tight line; she's not happy. Dean knows this just like he knows she can't possibly be there, that she can't look exactly the same as she did eleven years ago.
Be she is there.
She walks out of the bar and into the cold drizzle of the rainy night. She's leaving and right then Dean can't let her go. He just can't.
Sam looks up from the mean little man they’ve just hustled and sees Dean heading for the door. He wonders if after everything they’ve been through, with John and the YED, with Ruby and Dean going to Hell…with the angels and Lucifer, having dealt with Cas… Is Dean really going to leave Sam to fight this one alone?
Sam doesn’t fool himself in thinking its ever going to be the same, not after everything that’s been done and said between them but they're brothers, they're all the family each one has left.
Dean ignores the guy watching the door – the guy she was obviously with doesn’t matter when she's outside and getting further away each second he wastes trying to move through the crowd, each steps that’s interrupted by some idiot that gets in his way and why the hell did he pick such a busy bar in the first place?
Dean keeps going, it’s a compulsion beyond anything he's experienced; the need to touch her, to know that she's flesh and blood and feel the heat of her skin again- she's the one image they couldn’t make him twist into something ugly when he was in the pit. He wouldn’t- couldn’t do that…
“Dean!”
It feels like he's been hauled back and the invisible leash around his neck keeps him from heading out the door and after her. He tells himself Sammy can handle a bar fight and looks over his shoulder to where Sam is squaring off with five other guys because those aren't bad odds for Sasquatch and Dean really wants to follow her. He can hear the fight start, fists on flesh and finally takes a step back from the door. He's fighting the impulse to go after her and turns around. Dean heads back to his brother’s side knowing the anger he's feeling will have an outlet in the next few seconds. Because Dean wants to go outside, to follow her… except his duty lies with Sam.
‘Family first…’
It’s a moment before the fight really gets out of hand and the noise registers as what it is instead of more rowdy fun. The patrons at the bar look on, some stand to get a better view while the bar tender calls in the local cops. There's a call once a week at the very least and it won't take long for help to arrive. The one figure that stands out is uninterested in the fight inside and moves out of harms reach when the brawlers spill over from the pool tables.
Dean remembers what it was like; meeting the young college student and the time between hunts he spent with her. He remembers what she was like; exciting, happy – shed had this… wild – free spirit… she was just different than anyone he’d ever met- special. She had been his secret and from that first moment there was a connection. There was something about her that Dean liked and it wasn’t just the gorgeous face – its something he's never experienced with anyone, something…special. They were comfortable with each other, as though they'd know each other for years and Dean didn’t let himself think about that too much. She never asked him any questions, never made a big deal when he left or if he didn’t call. Not once did she ask him what he did for a living because almost every woman he's met along the road has asked that question. That’s usually Dean's cue to get right back on the road and he doesn’t look back.
She never made any demands of him beyond the moment and then, one day… she was just gone.
H
She arrives on her bike, a little drenched from the light drizzle of rain but is only a slight discomfort considering what's to come. It wasn’t difficult to spot him waiting in the parking lot, or to interpret the slight nod- the unvoiced challenge she wishes had been for Lomax instead. She's lived quietly for years, in peace, just outside The Game…. But once again it’s starting. They know of her, none of the young ones exactly sure of her age or knowledge but there's plenty who want the boasting right of having taken her head and the Quickening. They all want to be ‘The One’.
He stops on the side of the road and gets out of the car. It’s a dark color, nothing flashy and he disappears into the woods.
She chooses a spot where the trees grow close and hides her bike.
She walks without hesitation into the wet woods until the shadow of his frame is visible. It isn't difficult to follow the dark clothed figure. Time has changed the face of the world but she simply falls into the old ways; the life of The People. She picks her path through the foliage, stepping over exposed roots and using the rubble of stones to skip her way across a small ditch. He's leading her to a secluded spot; somewhere they can't be seen or heard.
There's a flash of lightning and the rumble follows moments after. The rain will fall harder and that will impede their sight and footing. She draws another breath and steps into the clearing- she's tired of killing but they haven't stopped coming for her. She stops far enough away from him and raises her sword. The same blade she has carried since her time with the Gozen clan in Japan. It shines like silver in the faint light, the blade slightly curved and the grip is truly a work of art. The pale jade colored hilt has been carved and a rainbow of shades color the small flowers interspersed with the black onyx dragon. The Katana was a gift and she's cared for it- made it an extension of herself as they have taught her.
“I am Davîla Aquil of the Tionontati People.” Her voice is steady, resolved to what she has to do. “You can still retreat.”
“Raixos of the Volga Tartars.” He's smirking as he walks towards her then allows himself the indulgence to laugh. “And I've come for your head.” The tip of his sword points towards her; drops of rain drip from the heavy metal. His features settle into an offended scowl, his voice thick with indignation and no doubt some anger at being offered a cowardly out.
“You’ll try.” Davîla says on an expelled breath. She doesn’t bother to hide the weary resignation and it further angers the giant challenging her.
The rain drizzles softly, sliding off her leather jacket in thin trails though most of it has been soaked up by her hair. The hasty braid hangs heavy down her back, another inconvenience. She’d much rather have been sitting at the bar with Lomax.
Raixos lunges and his blade, a heavy two handed pallos slices too close to her head. Davîla retreats, on the defensive while he presses her. He's good, better than some she's had the displeasure of dealing with, much too good to be taken lightly.
They trade blows, each one testing the other looking for weaknesses, taunting and all the while assessing the moves of the other. She parries and comes close to his side knowing that she has to stay closer because of his longer reach. She doesn’t see his foot move, only feels as it snakes around her ankle trying to bring her down. There’s a whisper of air as his blade slashes across but she's already rolling out of his reach. She comes to her feet and faces him, wary and clam. He's much faster the he looks, than his size would admit him capable of being.
“After,” his grin flashes in the shifting light as thunder claps once again. “I will take him your head.”
He comes at her with another two handed strike she slides off her own blade.
“You keep saying that.” Davîla catches his next blow, grunts under the force of strength as he pushes her sword down. His fist smashes into her cheek, a backhanded strike and she can taste blood on her tongue. Heat swells inside her chest-an ache that begins in her gut but she stamps it down. Anger has no place in this fight, not if she plans to keep her head.
“You bleed as easily as all the others.” Raixos taunts as he stands over her.
Davîla digs her fingers into the wet earth; a flash of memory has her locked in place unable to breathe past the sudden panic that grips her.
“Vedic,” Raixos leans towards her, voice dropping to a taunting murmur. “Sends his regards.”
H
The lightning that forks down can be seen for miles. By the Bar’s window, Lomax watches as it branches off then forks once more. He doubts anyone paid it much attention and the fact there is no accompanying rumble of thunder tells him it wasn’t because of the rain. He takes another swig of his beer wondering if this was the last time … nine hundred centuries … after everything she has lived … he thinks of Lucan and his short life hoping that Davîla hasn’t allowed herself to die – he figures morning is soon enough to find out.
They all fight alone … and in the end, there can only be one.
Twenty miles down the road, a black metal beast roars down the highway. Rain drops patter the windshield like pebbles. The dark haired passenger is scowling, nursing the cut on his lip while the driver is focused on the dark road. It’s the sudden flash of lights that draws their attention and they see the lightning strike the ground.
It isn't your regular, run of the mill, lightning. Not when the forks converge in one point and then blast outwards.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
They wait for the rumble of thunder that never comes while the lightning flares, dancing over the trees. Then it’s gone, the forks burned into their retinas and still not a rumble in the sky is heard.
“That’s not normal.” Sam states but his brother knows, he can see that it wasn’t normal. With a grumbled breath Dean pulls onto a side road heading towards the area struck by the abnormal lightning.
Twenty minutes and the road becomes a dirt track. The Impala slips, her tires unable to get enough traction on the muddy ground and she slides until Dean pulls over. He refuses to drive any further and they get out. They are close enough anyway and in the heavy drizzle they hunch over the trunk to arm themselves. They take a little of everything while rain is soaked into their hair and clothes.
“That way.” Sam points as Dean closes the trunk. Both trudge through mud that feels like its trying to suck them into the earth until they are both into the line of trees. Sam barely hesitates before moving further in and Dean doesn’t get the chance to protest his brothers’ enthusiasm over the unknown. Dean doesn’t like hurrying into trouble yet that is what his life is. He would prefer to have a clue- something real to build a semi-plan that keeps them from getting fucked. The lightning has him thinking of demons and Sam's tall frame becomes harder to see in the dark. There are too many demons that want the Winchesters dead and they aren't exactly shy about trying. Dean pulls out the shiny colt from his back, his grip firm as he spots Sam a few yards ahead of him. Another fork of lightning cracks and booms with accompanying thunder.
The rain doesn’t exactly hide the sound of them trudging through the shrubs and Dean has that decidedly ‘I'm being watched’ feeling; an uncomfortable itch at the nape of his neck. He glances left, voice pitched low as he calls to Sam in warning. Dean frowns, thinks he may see a light- a flickering like flames but can't be sure. Dean is only sure of one thing and that is they are not alone.
Sam's voice is muffled but Dean hears the grunt followed by the sound of flesh being hit.
He drops the shotgun and raises his arm to block the next blow coming at him in the dark. He can hear Dean’s hoarse whisper and then Sam can't feel his arm anymore. From his shoulder to the tips of his fingers- all feeling is gone and it hangs limp at his side. He gasps a breath and doubles over feeling something hard shove into his stomach. Whoever it is, it moves fast and knows where to inflict pain. Fear threads into Sam as he stares at the dark shape in front of him. He can't move either arm now and with another blow feels his throat constrict. Sam can't draw a breath…
All Dean knows is that Sam is down and he isn't moving. Dean is not about to let some unknown fugly take his brother not when he's gone to the trouble of bringing him back. While Dean couldn’t take a shot before, Sam is no longer in the way and he aims but something comes at him. The stick is about elbow to wrist in length and its twists end over end before smacking into his hands. It just flew at him out of the dark and Dean snarls; his gun now lost in the leaves somewhere at his feet. He ignores the pain flaring in his hand and wrist from the blow and lunges at the shadow barely discernible.
He fights, trying to get in a hit but the shadow ducks out of his way each time. Neither has been able to get a hit and then it ducks and Dean's left with a swing that’s too damn high. His legs get tingly and he’s on his way down to the soggy ground while both hands reach for the dark figure and somehow grabs onto it. He's able to lock his arms and roll, taking it with him and grunts at the pain flaring in his side from an elbow. A second blow and it slips out of his hold turning on him. Dean grabs at it again, stopping the fist coming at his face. There's a flash of something and the flickering light off to the side highlights the figure straddling him.
“Dean?”
Her breath puffs out in a white mist, eyes wide and surprised. Her voice no more than a soft whisper- he's really there, breathing hard and the painful grip on her wrist loosens immediately.
“Davîla…” he sits up, wincing at the pain in his side from her elbow strikes. He can't believe what he's seeing but he can feel her- she is real- not something he's hallucinating because there's been enough of that.
Davîla isn't sure what to do now. Her instinct had been to attack when she heard them. Unable to see them clearly she assumed Vedic had sent more than one to capture her. Being alone, in the middle of nowhere had not been in her plans for the night and Davîla would have made her way silently past them only he'd seen her.
The last person Davîla expects to see again is Dean, especially in some rained out woods off the side of the road where she's just beheaded an Immortal….
She hasn’t moved. With Dean sitting up they are closer- their breaths mingle, the white mist fading under the rain but neither minds it now. Dean can see the shift in her expression and knows something has bothered her. He gets the sudden flash in his mind of Davîla sitting just like now only it hadn't been raining then and they hadn't been wearing any clothes. Dean is jarred back to the present by the gurgled exclamation off to their left.
Dean remembers his brother.
“Sam!” he jerks, both hands gripping her upper arms and easily moving her off his thighs. He does it quickly, efficiently and yet still manages to make it feel like a caress.
‘Sam?’
Davîla scrambles to her feet pushing down the rush of emotions swamping her at this unexpected encounter. Her brow furrows and she follows Dean, aware of the frantic concern in his voice for the other man and focuses on the male she has incapacitated. The little brother Dean has spoken of…
“Let me.” She brushes Dean aside and quickly jabs her fingers into Sam's shoulder and collar. He takes in a gulping breath, quickly followed by another that cuts off when he coughs. Davîla knows there will be questions; it’s inevitable and … she is going to lie to him.
H
“I'm sorry about your arm…” Davîla trails off, her green-gold eyes flicking over Dean's brother and away. She's heard of this one; the annoying little brother who wanted more than to just join in the family business. A business Dean has never mentioned and Davîla didn’t push it. Davîla wonders if he ever went to college… She doesn’t see any similarities between the brothers. Sam is tall – not many 21st century men can claim that and it puts Davîla in mind of the Vikings, how they'd tower over her… Sam's hair is a shaggy mop of dark-brown and not exactly a lawyers cut. It falls over his eyes, a very dark hazel that is more brown than green; haunted, tortured… Davîla wonders what could have happened to him. She wonders why Sam isn't sitting in some court room or law office but doesn’t ask them. She's hoping they won't ask her any questions either but-
“Its…ok.” Sam gingerly rolls his aching shoulder, hesitant of walking too near her. He has the same thoughts as Dean. Both are wondering what she is doing out in the woods, in the rain, alone. And how she managed to take them both? What the hell she did to Sam…?
“What are you doing out here, Davî?” Dean's green eyes are trained on her face but she hides her unease. There's a wall around her and Dean knows she won't talk; it’s her stubborn expression, at least it’s what he calls the slight tilt of her chin, the thinning of her full lips.
“I was out for a ride and saw the lightning.” The lie is easy to tell, even if it is Dean because there is no other option. The truth is not something she can tell him, not something she wants him to know of, not this time. Maybe never again…
“In the rain?” Sam wonders and when her eyes focus on him it’s strange. Her eyes are a faint green with an almost yellowish tint though in reality is a coppery brown. Still, it’s enough to make Sam uncomfortable, for the close reminder of the demon that has taken so much from them.
“You're out in the rain.” Davîla points out as they step onto the mud track that had once been a road. Her attention quickly returns to Dean-she hasn’t been able to stop looking at him. It’s been difficult not to reach out and touch him when that’s all she wants. Her mind keeps going back to how it was and each time she notices something else, little things-differences and none of them are bad. Davîla likes everything about this older Dean. The stubble on his face, she can see that he is wider across the shoulders; the coiled power in the muscles beneath her hands as they sparred … Davîla knows him.
“Where did you park?” Dean is gruff and starts off to where he can barely see the Impala. “We’ll give you a lift.”
He ignores his brothers’ silent looks and takes her hand. Her fingers thread through his and Dean feels that familiar tug at his insides he experienced on their first encounter. He hasn’t missed the admiring glances from Davî either and he forces himself to drop her hand to open the trunk. Sam's bag lands next to Dean's and there is going to be questions once they're alone. Dean wants to hold that off as long as possible and he takes her arm, leading her to his side. She doesn’t protest and he tries to ignore the way she leans into his side. Dean opens the drivers’ side door and gently pushes her in even though the back seat is plenty big and empty.
Dean wants her beside him.
Close enough he can feel the heat from her body and catch the light scent of lilies… It’s been eleven years without any news- no way of contacting her, to know that she was alright…
“I'm ok to walk.” She assures but Dean slides into the drivers seat while the passenger door opens and a cold gust of air lands some rain in Sam's seat. His brother studiously keeps his eyes on the steering wheel, making no comment and Sam casts a glance at the empty back seat.
Sam is surprised to see Dean display manners- something he doesn’t bother with if it doesn’t serve his purpose. The door closes as the Impala roars to life and Dean is carefully navigating the moat called a road back towards the highway.
The silence becomes uncomfortable, especially when Sam can't ignore how Davîla leans on Dean's side and that her hand rests lightly on his jean clad thigh. Stretching out Sam can't help another glance at the pair.
“How did you do that?” he blurts out, curiosity getting the best of him. He turns in his seat, wincing at the painful ache in his shoulder and chest, to look at the brunette. She doesn’t seem Dean's usual type; blond, fast and not exactly smart. But there is something about her … Sam can't hold her eyes too long. There's something about Davîla that makes him feel guilty- as though she can see what he's thinking and that’s a ridiculous notion to have. Sam knows that but it doesn’t change anything.
“I didn’t take you for a rebel.” Dean speaks up on her left and Davîla knows the time for lying has come sooner than she wanted. His tone is slightly accusing, as though he knows she is lying to him already but Davîla won't say any more on that because lies have always been too easy for him. She knows him and like before, some things don’t change.
“There are many pressure points in the human body.” Her tone is cold, analytical, close to what a medical teacher would sound like and she remembers a few of them. It masks her unease with the topic of her skill. “I used a few.” She gives a barely discernible shrug of her shoulder that earns her a frown from the brothers. Sam, in particular, finds nothing to shrug over when it was him laid out by the slim woman.
“Where did you learn that?” Dean spares her a glance but she's looking straight ahead and her hand is curled in her lap. He doesn’t like that she took them both on. He doesn’t like that she was out in the middle of nowhere alone and in the rain. He doesn’t like the unexplained lightning and its silence. He doesn’t like how easily she side stepped their questions on the swords she tucked into the leather cylinder shaped case that was strapped to her back and now rests between her knees. And, well, there's too many damn things he doesn’t like!
“Just… along the way.” Davîla answers quietly. They make it onto the road and she raises her hand to point where a few yards away she parked. “That’s me.” She feels relieved and can't seem to get out of the car quickly enough when Dean grudgingly pulls over. “Well … thank you.”
They're staring.
She tries not to fidget and the smile she forces only deepens the scowl on Dean's face. She follows his line of sight to-
“A bike?” its bright teal shade glimmers with rain drops.
“Yes.” Davîla agrees and looks back at Dean. “A bike.” A Harley to be exact. It was Lomax and the need to feel as though he were on a horse once again.
Dean can't believe she's out in the rain-in the middle of nowhere- and she's riding a bike.
“Would you like to go for a spin?”
The question is ridiculous and Davîla knows it as well as they do but she can't help teasing the blond and amazingly the flash of his green eyes warms her. She's missed that look, the fire in his eyes and the passion she knows will follow ... But this is Dean, this is the 21st century and the time for a warrior’s passion has passed them both.
H
The trip to Davîla's house is unbearable. Dean is grumbling under his breath and his mutters ceased to be amusing right about the tenth mile. The invitation was extended in part because of Sam, mostly to apologize for having hurt him. Sam knows this, just as he is sure that while she might feel bad about hurting him- it’s really about Dean.
Dean accepts before Sam has a chance to make up his mind and that is annoying. Neither Dean or Davîla is ready to go their separate ways; that much is crystal clear to Sam.
“How do you know her?”
The question cuts into Dean's muttered ramblings and the green eyes manage to tear themselves away from the red light of the bike a mile ahead. The questions have started and talking about his time with Davîla is … he doesn’t want to share. He doesn’t want to tell Sam about anything her because she is his.
‘Mine…?’
And yes, it’s exactly how he feels. Anything with Davîla is his and he doesn’t want to share it. The feeling is strange- uncomfortable for its certainty and Dean has to force the words out.
“That spring we hunted in New Orleans.” It had been a family hunt, rare since John had been sending him alone since Dean was twenty-one. Dean had been happy, it had felt like a family- a twisted sort of family what with the reason for the get together- but they were together and Dean had been missing that. But he doesn’t tell Sam that. He doesn’t tell his brother that Davîla had been the reason he stayed behind.
Sam waits patiently for more because they have been to New Orleans more than once and a couple of times in the spring. Still, Dean is tight lipped and says nothing else which leaves Sam to wonder ‘why’.
“I don’t remember her.” Sam frowns and stares at his brother, the question obvious but Dean isn’t going to say anything more. It’s frustrating for Sam and still there is nothing he can do that’s going to make Dean talk if he doesn’t want to.
Other questions abound, like the reason she has two swords. Dean's scowl is focused on the tail light heading into town trying to figure out a reasonable explanation for what she was doing out in the woods because he doesn’t buy into the story of ‘a meeting’ or that she collects antiques though it would make sense. He just doesn’t want to believe its this simple an explanation when he can remember her being jumpy at times; tensing just the same as she’d done in the bar and looking around as though searching for someone but he hadn't paid it much attention back then. He'd been too cocky, too sure of himself and his ‘training’ in the supernatural. It took a while to learn that was not how a Hunter remained alive. Overconfidence has knocked him on his ass a few times for the lesson to sink in.
Sam questions the pyre. He'd seen it, through a break in the trees and though she explained it was an attempt to stay warm in the rain, he hopes Davîla doesn’t turn out to be some sort of demon or witch. The brothers are always getting involved with something evil and it certainly makes trusting strangers impossible. Sam glances at Dean again wondering exactly how well he really knew the woman though it’s obvious his brother and Davîla had more than a passing acquaintance. Sam knows his brother too well not to assume a good part of their time together had been spent in one bed or another.
The town comes into view and twenty minutes later Dean follows Davîla into a wide driveway. They both stare at the huge house in front of them.
“What does she do?” Sam asks as Dean drives further into the property and parks under the trellised car port beside Davîla's bike.
“Med School.” Dean replies shortly. He wonders if she finished, is she a doctor now?
He gets out of the Impala leaving Sam to follow. He looks around and the house is reminiscent of the one in New Orleans but only in size. There's definitely a Victorian feel to the structure and then Davî's walking towards them, a familiar smile on her full lips. Dean tries to ignore the flutter in his chest at seeing her again. The slow strut his eyes automatically follow-
“Come inside.” Her head tilts over her shoulder towards the dark house. “There's a spare room for each of you…”
Sam is left to grab their duffels while Dean follows her through the side path right on her heels. They reach the front steps and get out of the rain.
“When did you move?” because he went back to the house in New Orleans and found it empty. There was no way to get in touch with her after that. Dean told himself she was better off without him anyway…anytime he thought of her… Because a girl like her could never have a life with a man like him, with this ‘job’ he just can't seem to shake … only Davîla is turning out to be more than he'd thought.
“Not long after I saw you the last time.” Davîla replies pausing at the front door to look up at him. He’s older… and his eyes are wounded. She reaches up and her palm cups on his cheek, a light caress and Dean shivers like someone’s walked over his grave. He leans into her touch, needs it and doesn’t question why that is.
“Why?” there's a husky rasp to his voice and it pulls her closer to him- she's flush against his body and Dean's holding onto her hips, looking down into the green – gold eyes he didn’t realize he has missed.
There's no need to explain his question, she knows what he's asking just like she knows that lying is her only option. She can't tell him The Game caught up to her, that she feared he would find her out… There had been too many Immortals knocking on her door.
“It was time.” Davîla whispers because there is too much of herself she can not share with him. Not this time and lying can only hurt-
Sam clears his throat and she's stepping back from Dean. He has to force himself to let go and then she's opening the front door.
They follow her inside; all the while Dean is cursing Sam and his untimely interruption. The lights come on and they look around the foyer and the partial hallway; dark wood floors and a fancy old chandelier lights the room. Dean recognizes the table to their left; the dark wood and carved panels in the front, all of them with trees. She has the same vase sitting on the end filled with white poppies and daffodils.
“It’s very old...” he remembers how close they came to knocking it over.
Above it is the painting; a valley peppered here and there with teepees and figures.
Sam walks towards it, his mouth forming a slight ‘o’ as he studies the painting. The colors are vibrant, a setting sun casting the entire thing in a red—orange glow, very warm…
“This is a Stanley.”
Both men are staring at her. She can see by Sam's expression that he knows what it is she has hanging on the wall. Davîla stares at the painting; no one has ever commented on it before- none of the Immortals she's called friend nor the few humans she's allowed into her home. While Stanley’s name might not be as recognizable as Monet or Picasso, he is still known to those that bother learning even a little something about art.
“Yes.” Her lips pull into a soft smile, the gold-green eyes focus on the brothers again and Dean can see she's sad. He glances at the painting again; there's an array of colors, browns, oranges and reds… it’s a landscape and Dean knows she's thinking of the place as it would be now; paved over for parking lots and shopping centers or homes… His girl isn't an activist but she loves nature, likes the hiking and camping-
“How did you get it?”
Dean frowns at the accusing tone of his brothers’ question. He doesn’t like what Sam is implying though Davîla replies in a calm tone he doesn’t expect.
“It was a gift.” Davîla turns away, doesn’t question the men will follow her.
She hasn’t lied about the painting; she remembers the days when they could roam freely over the land, through the same places that are now paved and polluted. She remembers Stanley trailing behind her, lugging his easel and supplies, announcing their presence to everything within a mile of them, scaring off their potential dinner…
Stanley was the only pale face to take an interest in her people that didn’t require more of them than the occasional pose. Most hadn't minded him while the others ignored him after the novelty wore off.
“It looks the same.” Dean looks over the railing at the furniture; it’s an eclectic mix of eras, vintage and antiques… “The … stuff.” He clears his throat and thinks he sounds like a moron.
The staircase is wide enough they can stand side by side and Davîla stops halfway up to look back at the Winchesters. Dean is slightly ahead of Sam, green eyes shadowed by the lack of light while Sam is noticeably stiff and disapproving but he is silent.
“I brought all of it.” She smiles, a little amused by the discomfort Dean displays. “When I moved. Its all here, just like it was before…” her voice drops and their eyes lock.
Its their silent conversation Sam finds unnerving and he gets it- how he and Dean can shut other people out and he doesn’t like being on the outside now. He can see the pull she has on Dean and that makes Sam uncomfortable. Dean is his, they’re bound by blood, they're family and yet Davîla seems to have a strong connection with his brother.
Sam feels threatened.
“What happened?” Dean finally asks. He sees the careless shrug and starts to frown even as Davîla turns. She hurries up the last stairs tossing a wink over her shoulder at him.
“I graduated.”
Once in the hall Dean reaches out and takes her wrist.
“You know I'm not talking about your move.”
She looks up at him, caught once again in his eyes and her lips turn up in a smile, her body swaying closer to his-
“I want to know what happened in that clearing, Davî.”
She pulls back, forces herself to focus on the now and not on her memories of him. Davîla takes another step back, her hand closing over the handle of the first bedroom she pushes the door open behind her. She keeps her eyes on Dean, aware that Sam is right beside him with their duffels.
“If you leave the curtains open the sun will wake you.” She steps aside, her eyes sliding to Sam and tilts her head towards the open door and ignores Dean's question.
“Davî.” Dean's tone is authorative and Davîla's brow furrows. She doesn’t like how easily she is able to picture Lucan standing in front of her, how much Dean's tone and expression remind her of him and the feelings that emerge because of it. There's still an open wound in her heart and though Dean is all of them he is still Dean.
“You had two swords.” Sam chimes in. Davîla looks from one to the other, her expression shuttered and Dean knows he won't be getting any answers out of her like this. But he has questions, too many to just let her off the hook.
“Why do you know about pressure points, Davî? Why learn to fight at all?” because there shouldn’t be any need for it if all she does is normal day to day stuff, if she's a student or a doctor- and why isn't she working in some hospital? Or is she?
Dean can see her clearly under the light in the hallway and there is nothing different about her. Eleven years and Davîla remains the same; her inky hair is confined to a braid and maybe it’s just a little longer. His fingers twitch, almost reaching out to touch her face because her eyes are that deep green-gold shade he has never seen on anyone since.
“Doctor.” That should explain her knowledge of the human body though she has had knowledge of pressure points long before any university took her in. Davîla crosses her arms. She has plenty of questions for them as well because a random encounter in a supposedly deserted area – especially in the rain – what was Dean doing out there? Her gaze drifts over to Sam and the duffels he is still holding. They had carried one each out there in the rain. She turns back to Dean. “You never asked these many questions before.”
They withdraw, both men glancing at each other and its clear they have something to hide. It’s the carefully blank expressions they turn to her that piques her curiosity and confirms her suspicion that there is more to uncover. But … she’ll let them keep their secrets so long as they don’t pry into hers.
“What were you burning?” because Sam doesn’t believe it was already there. His quiet question draws her attention from Dean. There’s a flash of discomfort in the gold-green eyes. Dean knows it’s the wrong time and he wishes Sam would just lay off and let him handle Davî but he doesn’t say anything to his brother.
“In the rain?” Davîla questions, an inky eyebrow raised. There's more than a hint of dry sarcasm in her tone and Dean can't help the slight twitch of his lips at hearing it. “Are you sure you feel alright? I didn’t hurt you worse than you'd prefer to admit…?”
It’s a low blow, attacking Sam’s male ego but it works well enough to make him leave her alone. His expression is pinched-lips thinned out, obviously annoyed by the reminder of what she did to him in the woods. Davîla feels badly about it even if it was in defense, the fact is nothing short of decapitation could hurt her permanently.
“I'm fine.” Sam states. She takes another step aside watching as Sam drops a duffel and heads into the bedroom. He doesn’t close the door and neither does she.
“Davî.” Dean insists but she only shrugs and taking his hand tugs him away from the open door. He grabs his duffel and follows her down the hall. “Those aren't prop swords so don’t tell me you were out there rehearsing some play.” He jabs a finger towards the walls but she knows what he means and she remembers the lie. Davîla is surprised he remembers the excuse as well considering he never brought it up or mentioned it again.
“Yeah,” Dean nods at her expression. “I remember.” He assures in a softer tone. His duffel thumps on the floor, one hand reaches to her face and the tips of his finger trace her cheek lightly, staring into her eyes… He remembers a lot more than he will say so out loud. He can't. Even though that’s what he wants.
‘I want her.’
H
She hurries down the street, well aware of the blood soaking into the hasty bandage.
‘Dying would take care of it.’ Davîla muses but dropping dead in the middle of the street with a sword hidden inside the lining of her coat… ‘Too many questions.’
Her features settle into a frown and she thinks of the hour past, of the headless body left for the police to find.
‘Maybe the gators will get to him…’
It’s likely considering the parish.
Davîla stumbles, vision blurry and she stops for a moment knowing she needs to get home.
‘Just get home. That’s all.’
It’s a minute before the familiar rumble of the engine registers and by then he's at her side.
“Hey, Davî? What's wrong?”
She knows it isn't him.
‘He doesn’t remember.’
Difficult as it is to pretend it doesn’t bother her; Davîla is still hurt by the knowledge.
“…fine…” she assures in a husky murmur. Those green eyes darken, his brow furrows and the familiar frown only hurts worse. It’s a ghost she's thinking of, longing for the truth and aware it will be the end-
“What happened?” he demands. A gentle hand cups her chin as he turns her face so he can inspect the damage. Davî winces; she’d forgotten the bruise on her cheek, the tell-tale sign of her fight and wracks her muddled brain for a good lie. “Who the hell hit you, Davîla?” Dean insists. He cups her face in both hands, his touch so light Davî can't help the longing he stirs up; memories…
“…accident…”
“An accident.” Dean echoes. He doesn’t believe her for a second and with good reason. Hadn't she ‘instigated’ a bar fight the last time he'd been in town? “What kind of accident leaves bruises on your face, Davî?”
She leans into him, letting out a breath.
“Get me home, please.” She asks and now he notices the clammy feel of her skin.
“Are you sick?” he questions already leading her towards the Impala. Her house isn't far, just two blocks and as he helps her sit something clangs. Davîla tries to hide the sword but Dean has the fancy hilt in hand. The obvious question is on the tip of his tongue and she's trying to think of something, some plausible reason to have it, when he closes the door without asking her.
She's surprised but as soon as they pull away from the curb her reprieve is over.
“That’s a sword.” He states and she almost smiles. It’s a strange sight for the 21st century and Davî yearns for the times past when such a thing was common. Now it’s all about guns and bombs and rockets…
“Yes.”
“Why do you have it?”
She notices the side glance in her direction before he's focused on the street once more. Davîla considers telling him the truth. All of it. Again … Just as quickly she decides against it because most Immortals won't hesitate to hurt him.
As before, Davîla doesn’t. She won't do that to him, not again and her fears are valid.
‘What if he doesn’t believe me? If he thinks I'm crazy?’
She knows first hand what people are capable of …
“Show and tell.” Davîla answers, resigned to more lies. Her arm surreptitiously presses on the wound hoping to stanch the flow of blood – she feels lightheaded.
“And the bruises on your face?” Dean questions, obviously not buying her story. And again Davî wants to smile. She's lied to him more than she would like.
“I feinted when I should've parried.” She shrugs carefully, eyes closing. “My fault.” She sits up, blinking to focus on where it is they are and looks at him. “Rehearsing, Dean.” She has a sudden bout of inspiration. “It’s a play, only I'm not feeling well. Guess that messed with my focus and …” she points at her face and the bruise.
“A play. You're …” Dean shakes his head and turns into her driveway. He parks in front of her house-
‘Our home.’
It had been theirs once….
“Come on, sweetheart.” Dean says. He's helping her out of the car, the sword safely tucked out of sight. “Let’s get you inside.”
H
“And what were you doing out there?” her voice is barely a whisper.
“Checking out the lightning.” He replies, the lie so easy he doesn’t even think twice.
Davîla smiles. She knows this Dean. She is sure this is a lie and doesn’t hide the little laugh at his attempt. Dean only shrugs.
“I’ll show you mine …”
Davî smirks. She slips out of his arms and heads to her own bedroom. She stops at the door and looks back at him.
“When you show me yours.”
He's mesmerized by her once again. Everything he knows of her is questioned and he can't help what he feels or the mistrust but he still wants her though it’s more … and Dean can't allow himself to explore those thoughts any further.
“This wasn’t anything like the drunk.” He calls to her as she steps into her room but she stops.
Davîla sighs. That first encounter … she had been so happy – he was there one more time! Her excitement got the best of her, to think it could be the same as it had been with Lucan and all those times he and Lomax had been involved in one brawl or another … Davîla had been part of quite a few in attempts to keep Lucan alive.
“I've had different teachers over the years.” Davîla closes her door, the soft click of the latch loud to Dean's ears.
She hasn’t exactly answered any of his questions but this is more than he had before.
H
The bar is loud, busy and full of University kids but even that is ok with him because it'll mean easy pickings. He's on his own- for the next couple of hours at least. No Dad and no Sam … Dean's smile is wide. He's gotten more than a few admiring glances so far and he winks in return. A little further into the bar there is a group of girls, all five in good spirits and loudly cheering on a sixth. Dean pauses in mid-step, watches the brunette down shot after shot after shot and they cheer on the last. He chuckles and moves on to the pool table but can't help glancing back at the dare-devil though she never turns his way.
Dean shrugs off his jacket and grabs a cue stick. There's a few college dorks already there and he makes the first offer; a round of beers and a game.
They accept.
Davîla is done with the drinking games when the uproar at the pool tables gets her attention. She doesn’t think much of it but watches as the brawl is broken up. Her brow furrows; those Frat boys always ruin everyone else’s fun…
Sounds shift, fades to silence as she watches the young men. For a moment it feels as though her heart stops and she can't breathe past the band tightening across her chest.
He's staring back at her, equally immobile and it is him.
‘He's here.’
The Frat boys get his attention and the moment is broken. For both the sounds and their surroundings undoes the moment of recognition.
Davîla draws a steadying breath. She struggles to contain her tears, to put away the pain in her heart of loosing him and hesitates to take this opportunity to love once again.
‘He promised…’
Davîla can't think of anything else, that he has come back to her and her smile is bright. It’s dampened by the knowledge that it will only be temporary, and to put herself through the same pain… she isn't sure of surviving the loss one more time because it’s been harder.
‘I love him.’
But she can’t just go up to him as though they’ve already met, as if they’ve had years-lifetimes- together… He won't know her.
H
He is different again.
Dean's hair is darker than Tallen’s blond locks, darker than Galen’s sandy blond and lighter than Kincade’s darker brown. Dean isn't as tall as her Viking but neither had Galen or Lucan. They have all been different and yet … she knows him each time. She feels it, like a current whenever he is there … his eyes never change, darker-lighter, it doesn’t matter because it’s always the same.
Its Tallen …
Its Galen …
And Kincade ….
Its Lucan …
Dean projects a gruff exterior but she knows that’s not all of him. Even in this life she sees he has some of the same preferences, behaviors … But he's different too. There is another side and he hides it. Dean hasn’t opened up to her as he has done in the past and Davîla can't help feeling hurt. Galen and Lucan had been the most patient, whom she’d felt closest to.
With Dean … It’s all different.
With him there are things she doesn’t know … about Dean and seeing them together- with his brother … if at one time she had thought their bond unique she sees this time it is not because Sam has as strong a bond with Dean as Davîla.
She lets him be for now and hopes that he will take the next step – open up and confide in her because she knows there is something he is hiding, Davîla just doesn’t know why.
She isn't being fair. How can she expect him to be honest if she continues to hide her own truths? It’s a double edged sword and she is afraid of it.
Telling Dean is out of the question. He isn't as understanding as Lucan, nor is there any modern person who would think her a Goddess as Galen had … No. She can't tell Dean. As old as she is, Davîla still doesn’t have an acceptable answer, nothing that makes any sort of sense or can explain what she is – why or why they must play The Game.
Davîla turns over, frustrated with the thoughts going through her head. Those green-gold eyes flick to the door… It’s been eleven years and yet she feels that same intense need to be with him.
He is only a few feet away… She thinks of how easy it would be to get up and walk to his door. Dean has never minded her assertiveness- she thinks he might enjoy it, that side of her…
Davîla sits up, intent on going to him when she hears the soft knock on her door. She didn’t hear him approach and thinks Dean likely tested his footing on the old boards. She knows there are two in particular that screech loud enough to wake the dead and smiles.
“Come in.”
Her door opens slowly and all she can see is a shadow. He walks in further and is faintly outlined by moonlight coming through the sheer curtains at her window.
Dean closes the door, aware of Davî curled up in the middle of the huge bed. This one is different- not the four poster he remembers. This one has three carved panels. The white sheets put him in mind of clouds and Davîla is the angel among them.
He couldn’t sleep. Not with Davîla so close. There's a million questions going through his mind and he’ll ask them. He will…
Davîla draws the covers aside.
He knows exactly what they are doing.
‘Always have.’
H
Dean forces himself to focus on where he is. He's got another idiot willing to hand over some cash and why shouldn’t Dean take it? He knows there are plenty of girls in the bar to pick from once he's done collecting money…
Green eyes wander back to the bar but he doesn’t see her again. He straightens, the shot postponed, eyes sharp and searching; college boy complains. Dean takes the shot and reminds himself there are other girls available…
Davîla takes the beers and heads over, watching the pool table. He makes the next three shots and game over.
Dean tosses the cue stick on the table and grabs his cash. He feels … someone at his back and turns. It’s her; she's smiling and hands him a beer.
Dean's grin is slow to appear but he accepts the bottle and drinks. His eyes never leave her face and it’s the brunette downing shots.
Davîla takes time to study him; the difference is obvious. The shape of his nose, his mouth … but his eyes, they are always the same.
‘It’s him.’
Frat boy isn't happy and he wants another go. Dean is stalled from the instinctual response to being grabbed by an annoying drunk. The second beer is held out to Frat boy. A sandy eyebrow is raised in question but Davîla ignores it and urges Frat boy to take the beer and go.
He's drunk and slow and though she says it nicely and with a smile on her full lips Frat boy still gets the point and he doesn’t like the brush off. He knocks the beer from her hand; refused.
Dean shoves Frat boy, he doesn’t expect the small fist sliding past his shoulder. Frat boy grabs his nose, blood slipping through his fingers-
“Come on!”
Davîla grins. She grabs Dean's arm and pulls him towards the back exit.
She's laughing; can't help but feel as though time has stood still and it’s the three of them hauling ass out of another scrape…
Dean glances back and Frat boys’ friends aren't looking happy.
H
She fits to him perfectly.
Dean feels it again; a connection, just as strong as that first night and it still scares the krap out of him. He can't explain this attraction, it just is.
He takes his time, he doesn’t want to rush through to the end and she lies among the sheets patiently, her eyes following his. He skims his fingers down the length of white cotton. It ends at half thigh where he slowly pulls it up. She arches off the bed and Dean uses both hands to pluck the cotton off her body. She takes it from his hand, carelessly tossing it aside. The tip of his finger trails over her collar and down her breast where the dusky nipple puckers. He circles it once, twice…his eyes on hers and the slightly parted lips.
He does nothing more than trace the curves of her body with light touches, their eyes locked. It doesn’t take long before Davîla pushes him over. Dean has that same grin, he's getting what he wants and for now Davîla won’t call him out for teasing her.
Davîla places her hand over his and their fingers lace together. The gentle pressure of her lips feels right. It’s been eleven years and yet there isn't any awkwardness. There never was and he wonders at how easy it is to make love to her.
He draws her hand out of the way and rolls again, the sheets rustling and rests his body over hers. She doesn’t protest his weight and Dean feels her legs slide up his sides.
There is no difference.
Time hasn’t changed his feelings for her though he'd hoped it would be less, hoped he wouldn’t look in her eyes and know …
‘Home.’
Yes, that’s how it feels. Each time … and right now, in this moment Dean feels he can finally breathe.
Nothing else matters; there aren't any pressing issues right this moment. Nothing outside of their haven exists.
She can feel it as well, the pain in those familiar green eyes isn't there, not now… and she wonders yet again what has happened to him.
She lays in his arms, listening to the beating of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body beside hers and while Davîla only wants to enjoy the moment the thought of what has been and of how short her time with him will be casts its shadow on this perfect moment. It’s difficult but Davîla manages to stop her tears before they spill, snuggling in his arms as if to banish a bad dream.
H
Sam is up and on his way downstairs. He isn't exactly happy to find his brother out of his room and though he wants to believe Dean is out the reality is very different. But Sam is going to the kitchen first and then he’ll look outside before admitting Dean has once again gotten the girl. It never fails and Sam questions what his brother is thinking to just fall into bed with Davîla. The brothers have no idea what she was doing out in the woods and Sam is considering going back out there to see exactly what the pyre consists of. It’s the only thing to do and he’ll drag his brother along because there are questions he needs to answer.
He's at the bottom of the stairs when the front door opens and a dark haired man walks in as though he owns the place. For a second, Sam wonders if they’ve been played and glances up the stairs…
The front door closes.
“Hello.”
Sam looks the stranger over noting the scruffy appearance. He removes his shades, absently slipping them into a pocket of the leather jacket. It’s cut simply to drape nicely over the wide shoulders. The dark jeans sport a snag on one knee while the cuffs are splattered with mud and the dirty boots leaving tracks in the foyer elicit a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Uh, hi.” Sam stamps down the urge to look over his shoulder again. The stranger is very obviously at ease, more so than Sam feels.
“You are?” the accent is difficult to place, a soft brogue, Sam thinks but he doesn’t know for sure. He's not an expert.
Sam frowns. He's not sure how to respond when the stairs creak. They both look up and find Davîla hurrying down. She wears a silvery silk robe hastily belted, barefoot-
“Lomax.” She exhales, clearly relieved and Sam takes a second look at Lomax.
“Vouz avez l’air …” the gray eyes wander over her disheveled state then to Sam. “… ravi.” He chuckles.
“Its not-.” Davîla bites her tongue on the denial and glances at Sam who is curious. She sweeps past him and forcibly grabs Lomax, pulling him into the salon. Her eyes flash annoyance because she doesn’t find anything amusing in his comments, let alone the implication that she has spent the night with Sam. Because Lomax can always find something to tease her about. And if Lomax finds Dean…
“Vous avez quitté et, apparemment, a eu une rencontre différente de celle que je suppose.” Lomax keeps his tone light, very much relieved to see she has kept her head once again. He's glad to see that Davîla is not mourning Lucan if the mortal still in the foyer is any indication. Mourning Lucan did her no good and it wasn’t what he wanted for her.
“You're an idiot.” Davîla states. She frowns. “Quant á l’immortel, il est fait. Avez-vous pris soin d'elle?"
Of course though now that he knows why she didn’t clean up her mess he thinks she owes him for the favor. He’ll play up on the pity, for being out in the rain all night cleaning up the headless immortal she left behind.
“Il a été un avertissement.”
Lomax doesn’t like what he's hearing. He sees Davîla shift uncomfortably, her arms crossing over her chest protectively and he knows there is more to the ‘warning’ she says this was. His good humor vanishes and the classic features settle into a serious frown.
“Dites-moi.”
“Vedic.” Davîla's eyes stay on the floor. She can't look anywhere else and that is not at all the Immortal he has known for over too many centuries. There's an air of vulnerability to her with just the mention of his name. It’s a clue and Lomax wants the story.
“Qui est-il?”
But Davîla doesn’t want to talk about him, of the one Immortal who has managed to live as long if not longer than she. There is shame for what he's done, a fear of the monster she has not completely mastered…
“Davîla-.”
“I’ll take care of this.” And then she glances to the doorway because Sam could very well be listening. “C’est moi qu’ill veut.”
Though she can't see him, Sam has moved closer and shamelessly listens to their conversation. He manages to translate some bits but none of what they’ve said so far makes sense. He is almost sure they mention a warning and something about the night before. He wonders if it had anything to do with her being in that weird storm.
‘I should've paid more attention in French class.’
“Možná to je nejlepší čas pro vás přemřstit.” Lomax glances towards the foyer and though he doesn’t see the mortal assumes he's listening. Lomax doesn’t see the need for Davîla to stay and spending a few years on holy ground is not a bad way to pass the time. They’ve done it before…
“I máma už neběží.” She doesn’t want to run and hide. She's had more than enough of that and nothing changes. Hiding has only served to anger the immortal hunting her and she risked loosing Lucan because of it. “To bude konec. Hlavu nebu dolu … ale bude to konec.”
It’s the headless part that bothers Lomax. She can see it, there on his face as his expression shifts just slightly. She tries to sound certain, to hide the fear slowly clamping her chest.
“You're crazy.” He's worried … angry-
Davîla shushes him, glancing over her shoulder again and hoping they haven't heard. So far that is the only thing Sam has clearly understood and he is more curious than he had been.
“Nechci je slyšet-.” Davîla bites her lip, cursing herself for the slip. She still glances at the foyer, she can't help it-
“Je?” those gray eyes flick towards the foyer wondering where the second overnight guest could be. “Nevěděl jsem, že jste měl tyto sklony.”
This time his comment is not in fun.
“Don’t.” she warns because Lomax is no saint no matter what he was when he became an Immortal. She clearly remembers the ‘party’ he had with Lucan at their ranch. Davîla hasn’t been able to forget the sight of them with all those whores-
“I made him a promise, Davîla.”
She flinches inwardly.
“But, you're going to do what you want either way.” He says it in anger, afraid this will be the one promise he can never keep for his dead friend. He heads to the foyer knowing the problem with this is that he can not interfere. No one can and the challenge has been presented to her. Those are the rules they must live by and all will abide.
Lomax doesn’t acknowledge Sam but he turns to the stairs as Dean calls for Davîla. The voice lacks the accent and nonetheless sounds familiar enough to slow him down. He pauses in mid stride, the light streaming through the windows plays over the figure and Lomax has the strangest feeling of déjà vu. His eyes see while his brain says it is not possible.
“Lucan…”
Dean frowns. He recognizes the guy from the bar Davîla had been sitting with. He automatically searches for her and finds Davî frozen opposite Sam.
Lomax takes another step towards Dean. He's shocked because he hadn't truly believed Davîla- that Lucan had lived before … it isn't possible but he figures there is no reasonable explanation for an Immortals existence either.
Now he is face to face with his old friend only it is not Lucan. Yes, he has that unmistakable swagger and it’s strange. He focuses on the eyes, moss green … there's a little of Lucan in the strong set of his jaw-
“You're-.”
“Dean.” Davîla cuts in with a strong grip on Lomax’ arm. Her tone has a certain thread of warning mixed with a plea and he remembers well how Lucan reacted at discovering they were Immortals. “His brother, Sam.”
She's introducing them as friends and Lomax turns a stormy glare to her.
“I'm not blind.” He's not exactly happy at finding his old friend cozy in Davî's home because he remembers very well how she grieved for him. Though Davîla has never mentioned Tallen or Galen to him the depth of her feelings for Lucan was obvious to any blind person. “Xérete pós aftó tha teleiósei.” And she knows this. She doesn’t care because there is no guarantee he will come back to her, no way to know when or where they will see each other again and each time he dies Davîla fears it will be for good. All she wants is what little time they are given, to enjoy being with him again…
Lomax knows little of Davîla's past, had believed her to be a Saracen as all of the invaders had been described. It wasn’t until she returned to the colonies that he learned of her true origin.
Davîla stares after Lomax. The door closes harshly and she's left to deal with the inevitable questions from the Winchesters. She composes herself, remaining outwardly calm-
“Who was that?” Dean is at her side, green eyes slightly narrowed, impatiently waiting on an answer he doesn’t think will be the truth. Too much of what he knows leaves him feeling as though he's walking into a hunt unprepared.
He doesn’t like the feeling.
“Lomax.” She answers truthfully, trying to make her tone as light and careless as possible.
“What did he want?” there's just a hint of jealousy in Dean's tone but he can't help it. She's standing in the foyer wearing nothing under the silk robe she pulled on before rushing out of their bedroom-
‘Ours?’
“Breakfast, I guess.” She shrugs and heads towards the kitchen while Dean tries to figure out his wording. It’s happening again-
“The door. It wasn’t locked-?”
“He has a key.” She winces because Dean will certainly read more into that than there really is but the truth will not set her free.
Sam glances to where Dean is scowling at her back.
“What was he saying?” Sam walks past his brother. “I thought it was French…” he trails off at her over the shoulder glance. He's a little embarrassed to admit having listened in but they know nothing about her. Dean isn't talking, not verbally though his jaw is clenched so tight Sam worries it'll crack if he doesn’t ease up.
“It was.” Davîla assures. She steps around the island moving to the coffee pot. “And Czech, Portuguese.” She doesn’t sound surprised or upset and Sam realizes she had expected him to eavesdrop. “Lomax is a Professor.”
Dean scoffs and while Sam isn't vocal in his disbelief the expression on his face agrees with his brother.
“He has a Doctorate in languages, speaks them all fluently- he could help with your Latin, Dean.” Davîla is pushing it, teasing him but this she is not lying about. They are Immortals, both having lived very long lives, each of them passing the time in different endeavors, learning from each experience, each era…
“Dean says you met in New Orleans?” Sam comes up to the counter where she is setting three mugs. “Is that where you went to school?”
Davîla smiles softly, her eyes skip over Sam and the questions he hasn’t worked up to asking her. He's trying to figure her out; they always do and being evasive has become second nature, as easy as breathing…
“Yes. I studied medicine.” She did it to quiet Lomax, to keep from tirelessly thinking of Lucan and the life she’d had… what she lost. But it also kept her linked to who she had been long ago, when she’d been among her people.
“So…you're a doctor?” Sam is fishing and he's getting frustrated with the lack of answers. It’s almost as though she's purposely being vague in her responses.
“Mmmm.” Davîla’s shoulder rises in a careless shrug and pours them coffee. She turns to the refrigerator and Dean nudges his brother, gives a negative shake of his head that Sam ignores.
“You studied medicine. You speak French, Portuguese- you carry around a sword- and your ‘friend’ is a professor…” the last is said with a derisive snort that gets Davîla's attention.
“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Sam.” Davîla sets out the bread and jam, braces her hands on the counter, her eyes on Sam and the mulish expression. She thinks Dean was right; ‘Bitchface.’ She finally gets what he means.
“I know what Lomax looks like; scruffy biker, tats and tough exterior, very likely trouble you think I can't handle or need….” And she knows full well the trouble Lomax can bring. The same kind that eventually catches up to her, the kind they are both more than capable of handling and half the fun of Lomax is ‘trouble’ in the human sense. “There's more to Lomax than just what you see on the surface.” More than they would believe and the Knight’s Hospitaller is fully capable of showing them just for the hell of it-
“Like you.” Sam states leaning his tall frame towards her and Davîla frowns. She has walked into that too easily.
“I'm just me.” She retreats while Dean can see she isn't as comfortable as she pretends. “Enjoy breakfast.” She looks at Dean; the smile on her full lips is forced. “Bacon…?” she tilts her head towards the refrigerator and quietly leaves them.
H