Archive of Our Own

Shawn's never been the type to put his nose where it doesn't belong.

Not with hunting, that is. He's probably the most unique hunter he's ever met, really—he doesn't have any kind of tragic backstory. Both of his parents are alive and well, as far as he knows, and he's never seen anyone he cared about get killed, by a monster or otherwise.

He doesn't hunt because of some heroic sense of duty, but because it's just... cool. Because his abilities make him really good at it. And most importantly, because it pays. Literally.

It's hardly ever that Shawn looks into a case that no one has paid him to do. Partially because he doesn't feel up to risking his life without a reward (altruistic hunting doesn't pay the bills, after all) and partially because most of the time, the monsters he comes across don't really deserve to die. Generally they're just trying to survive like everyone else.

And demons—well, there are too many demons around these days. There's no way he's gonna get involved with one that doesn't have some kind of bounty on them.

So he keeps to himself when it comes to hunting. Himself and the money.

But with pure, human curiosity? That's another thing.

Shawn is on a post-hunt snack run in the tiny village of Sardinia, Ohio when he first senses it. It's strong, and it's dark but far moreso just strange—unlike anything he's ever come across. When he glances around, he sees a middle aged man all the way down the freezer aisle on the other side of the store.

God, he'd thought that the man—or whatever he is—must have been right behind him.

Just looking at him strengthens the connection, as well as Shawn's curiosity. He's always been able to tell when he's nearby someone who isn't human (it's what started him off hunting in the first place), and he's always been able to get a good idea of which thing was which—but this guy doesn't fit into any of his mental categories. It's not a demon, he knows that for sure. There's definitely no bloodsucker vibe, or any kind of skinwalker, and he doesn't feel a Pagan aura or any other kind of minor god...

The man notices him staring and walks out of the aisle almost immediately, at which Shawn still isn't deterred.

As he hurries to grab the energy drink he came for and to get to the front to pay for it, it occurs to him how dangerous it is to pursue this, but how can he give it up? He's Shawn Spencer. And regardless of whether he belongs here, he's going to stick his nose in it. He's going to rub his nose aaaaallllll over it.

The man is already at his truck with an armful of groceries by the time Shawn gets outside. His back is turned, so Shawn takes the second to hide around the corner of the building and watch him from there, hopefully get some kind of specific reading on him, or at least see which direction he drives off in so he can follow him—

But in the next moment he's being slammed up against the brick wall and here he is, right in front of him, holding him by the collar of his shirt and glaring.

"Who are you, how did you find me, and if you're smart enough to find me, how have I not heard of you?"

He's hearing the words, but they feel like thunder. And he sees the physical form of this man before him: salt and pepper hair, an old-timey sort of beard, oddly kind eyes and deep worry lines—really, he's a silver fox—but on another level there's just a shadow that fills up not only his outline but everything around him, too. Now that he's this close, the lines are gone altogether. He feels like if he reached forward, his hand would get lost.

Is this the Devil? he can't help but wonder as his breath escapes him—he's never quite believed in all that, despite all the demons, but it's one of the only things he could possibly imagine would have this effect on him.

...Is this God?

"Well?" the man growls, shaking him a bit.

The imminent danger forces him to adapt quickly, to blink away the intense images he's getting and to breathe.

"I wasn't gonna try to kill you, I swear," he says quickly, and it's a miracle he managed to string even that much together. Coupled with his dyslexia, his brain is fucking swimming from trying to separate himself from his own supernatural senses. It takes him a couple more seconds to focus on the man in front of him right—not the shadow, but the man. "I just—I saw you from across the store and I couldn't help myself—and now the vibes I'm getting from you are crazy, holy shit—"

Shawn reaches out without thinking, and as his fingers brush the man's chest, his hand doesn't even get slapped away. The glare directed at him just gets deeper.

But then it softens, and the man simply gives him a confused frown.

"...What the hell are you?"

"I'd like to ask you the same thing," he laughs nervously. While touching him has made it easier to not feel and act like he was high, but rather to get a slightly more stable reading, he's only more confused.

"I think you'll find it wise to answer my question first, seeing as I've got you against a wall," he tells him gruffly. If Shawn wasn't trying so hard to stay focused, he'd be pretty turned on.

"I'm a psychic—which... considering whatever you are, shouldn't be hard to believe." The man glares again at that, but somehow Shawn doesn't find himself too intimidated anymore. "I wasn't looking for you or anything, I don't even know who you are, I just... felt you."

"Felt me?"

"That's what I do, I feel people. I feel energies. And yours..." Shawn moves his hand closer, more consciously this time, so that his palm is actually on the man's chest, and god, he feels electricity going up his arm—"Are you God?"

The man looks, for a moment, like he wants to laugh, but then he looks down at the hand on his chest and pushes it away, clearly annoyed.

"No, I'm not God."

"No, I guess you can't be," Shawn mutters, a bit outside of himself. He's not opposed to the idea of God being such a dark presence, but all the mass of emotions and insecurity he's getting from him? No. "So what are you?"

"I'm someone you're lucky to be able to walk away from. I take it you're at least intelligent enough to not have told other hunters about me?"

"'S'not like I'd have anything to tell them, other than that you're not human. Can't even say you're a monster, or that you deserve to get hunted—" And then he feels it, pretty much the one thing he can pinpoint for sure—and slowly, Shawn frowns up at him. "But no, you haven't killed anyone in a long time, have you. Not in—oh." He doesn't even need to touch him to know how long. "How old are you?"

The man's eyes widen, and for the first time in their little interaction, Shawn feels fear coming off of him.

At once, the hand that's been holding his shirt collar this whole time is gone, and the man steps back to glance around. Shawn glances with him, and sees no one.

"Listen, psychic—for your own safety, I suggest you hop on your motorcycle and leave. Do not attempt to follow me, understand?"

Before he can make any motion to indicate that he does, the man disappears from sight. A second later, Shawn can hear a truck engine starting and driving away, and the energy withdrawal keeps him stuck against the brick wall for a whole minute afterward.

If he wasn't so sure that the psychic isn't a threat to him, Cain would already be packing up shop to move.

Exactly how he knows the psychic isn't a threat, though, is a mystery to him. The boy seemed innocent enough, but what hunter doesn't want to take a crack at a monster like him? What hunter wouldn't lie to his face about whether or not they were going to get backup?

Though that psychic was far unlike any hunter he'd ever met before. Cain hesitates to even allow the thought to come to the front of his mind, but no human with the slightest idea of who or what he was has offered him this much respect since Colette.

He tries to forget about it. To just return to house and tend to his bees and treat what happened today as an isolated incident. And if it does end up biting him in the ass, he'll just cross that bridge later because he's not going through the trouble of uprooting his life for what seems like such a small risk.

The rest of his week is quiet, just the way he likes it. Just like it always is.

During his next trip to town, however, when he stops at the Sardinia Perk for coffee, he spots a familiar face in a booth by the window.

Cain hardly goes through any cycle of emotions or thought—he simply waits for his steaming mug to be ready and then goes and takes the seat across from the psychic, as though he was the one who planned this second meeting.

"I told you to leave," he says as he sits, sounding ironically polite.

The psychic just smiles at him and takes a drink of his own coffee. "But did you really expect me to?"

Did you even want me to? Cain imagines him thinking. He frowns.

"Seeing as you're psychic and all, I thought you might have some common sense."

"I normally do," the psychic shrugs, with a bit of a laugh. "But when something like you walks away without putting a scratch on me, or even threatening to kill me, well—I can't possibly leave that alone."
"Keep your voice down," he warns, noticing that other customers have been glancing oddly at them. "...So how did you know I would be here, is it a psychic thing?"

"Nah, my abilities don't work like that—I just did it the old-fashioned way. You know, asked around. I asked the lady at the counter if she knew a guy in his mid-forties with a nice beard who had a nineteenth-century kinda look and she said you came here every Sunday morning. Pretty convenient—though I did get really impatient. She also said your name was Adam Smith... and I'm guessing that's not actually it."

"You guess right," is all he says, though he keeps eye contact while taking a drink of his coffee and then wiping the stray drops off his beard.

As oddly comfortable as he finds himself sitting here, having a real conversation with a human for the first time in... shit, he doesn't even remember how long—he knows better than to reveal his identity unless he has a fucking good reason to.

That, and he can't help but be just as curious about this psychic as he is about him.

"Come on, you gotta give me more than that," he finally says, sounding desperate.

"I don't have to give you anything. Not when I don't even know your name."

For a second, the psychic looks as if he didn't expect Cain to care about his name, but then he rights himself.

"It's Shawn."

"What, no surname?"

"Shawn Spencer," he smirks. "Born to Henry and Madeleine Spencer in Santa Barbara, California. February 8th, 1977. Am I allowed to know your name now?"

"Mm..." He has to say, the boy is determined. Most hunters aren't so willing to give out information about themselves like that. "Ask me something less personal."

The psychic frowns, clearly annoyed, but then seems to take a moment to think.

"Why do you come here for coffee every week when you're obviously not a fan of being in public?"

Well, color me impressed.

"I generally just make my own, but I particularly like the way the Perk does it," he tells him, considering the half-empty mug in his hand. "So I treat myself. What do you think of it?"

"What, the coffee?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'm not exactly a huge fan of coffee unless it's got a shitload of cream and sugar anyway, but I like their scones. I ate like, three before you got here... This is getting kind of Twin Peaks-ish, isn't it?"

Cain can only assume that's some reference he doesn't understand, and he just raises an eyebrow.

"Uh—nevermind. Are you ever going to tell me a single thing about who and what you are, or are we just gonna keep talking about coffee?"

"Haven't decided yet," Cain admits. "But you are a psychic. I would have assumed that you just knew by now, after sitting with me for so long."

This is crazy. He had revealed so much about himself simply by standing near the psychic last time, and that had terrified him in the moment, but now here he is. Just... giving himself up, for the sake of his own curiosity.

"Well, being whatever you are, I would've assumed you'd expect that I don't." Shawn leans forward then seems to give him a once-over, and Cain vaguely wonders if he's being checked out. "I gotta tell you, it's never been nearly this difficult to read someone. Not even from when I first started hunting and getting used to recognizing specific non-human vibes."

It's easy enough to understand what he means, considering how overwhelmed the psychic clearly was a week ago. And it only draws Cain's curiosity out further.

"So what's it feel like, being around me? Is it too much?"

"It's kind of intense, yeah," Shawn tells him, clearly catching on to his intentions with this with the way he smiles. "But I get used to things like this quickly. Except, you know, I've never actually been around anything like you. It's weird, actually—if you're about, say, forty feet away, it's like being in the eye of a hurricane. But being right next to you is... it's like being in a pitch-black room. Which I think might actually be just what normal people are like around people they don't know, but I'd have no way to tell. But anyway... it's just dark. And I know if I want to know anything, I have to set the room on fire. So I do. And some things, really vague things, make their way out... But then if I want to know more, I have to stick my hand right into the fire."

How poetic, he thinks privately. Shawn doesn't seem like the kind of man to whom that sort of thing comes naturally. It must be quite the trial, constantly feeling things that are so difficult to put into words.

"And have you?" Cain asks with a controlled frown. "Have you pulled anything out of that fire?"

Shawn just stares at him for a moment, and there's an odd glint in his eyes.

"I guess I can't really help myself."

"What do you feel, then."

It's more of a challenge than a question.

"Something... I want to say primordial? but that's not it. I wasn't so sure before, but now I'm positive that if you aren't human, you definitely were at some point. Almost everything points to you being a demon, except that can't be it."

His expression softens in genuine surprise. Really?

"What makes you say that?"

"You don't look like one," Shawn says like it should be obvious. "No horns, or... disgusting, mutilated skeleton face, or anything. Freaked me the fuck out the first time I saw one—I'm probably the only human who can. But no, you look... like a person, I guess. Which is what makes this so confusing."

"Hm." That's somehow comforting to know. "What else?"

"You're ancient." He looks like he's in a sort of awe, at that. "At least... six thousand years old. I've seen lore about each species of monster stemming off from some... alpha, or something, are you—?"

"Keep guessing," he tells him.

Shawn raises an eyebrow. "So this is a guessing game now?"

The edges of Cain's lips twitch upward. "If that's what you want to call it."

"...Hold on."

And then Shawn just stares and frowns, and maybe it's just because he knows what the psychic must be doing, and that he can even tell that he's in a bit of pain now, but Cain swears he can feel him... poking at his soul. He can feel him reaching further into the fire.

But it seems that the owner of the Sardinia Perk has taken his extended stay to mean that, despite the fact that he's never done so before, Cain might want to order more coffee. And she's taken the silence at their table as an opportunity to butt in.

"Excuse me, Adam—would either of you like a refill?"

We've been here too long, he thinks at once.

"Actually, we were both just leaving," he tells her politely.

In the next moment he finishes off the very last bit of his coffee and hands the empty mug to her, and then stands up and grabs Shawn before the poor man has any idea what's going on.

"We were?—oh, we were, yeah. Have a good day, ma'am." Shawn waits until they're outside the building to question it. "Where are we going?"

"I can't believe it, but—my home, I suppose," he sighs reluctantly. "Get in the truck."

"But my motorcycle—"

"Don't make a scene, and get in the truck."

The psychic obeys, but once he's in the passenger seat he turns and says, "If you're worried about the townsfolk getting suspicious of you, I'm sure that at the worst they just think we're gay together. And Ohio's kinda liberal, isn't it? So—"

Cain promptly puts two fingers to Shawn's temple and hushes him, making him fall quickly into unconsciousness. Not to shut him up, but rather just to make sure he isn't able to see the way to his house; he may have reasons to trust him, but he lives in a secluded place for a reason.

...Shutting him up is also a bonus.

Shawn returns to consciousness propped up against the arm of an unfamiliar couch and feeling disoriented. If he didn't know better—if the man who did this to him wasn't sitting in an armchair across from him, that is—he'd think he was in an old lady's home. Floral printed wallpaper, quilts draped over almost every piece of furniture, display cases of China along one wall... there's even a tea set out on the coffee table.

Meanwhile Cain is still internally fighting with himself over whether this is a mistake, especially as the psychic blinks furiously and looks around his home.

"What—how did you do that?"

"It's just a little trick I've picked up," he tells him honestly. "You learn a lot when you're alive for six thousand years."

And that's what gets to Shawn—he's being open as long as it's stuff I already know, he's giving me hints. He really is holding off just until I can guess right. But why?

"You know, you don't seem like the type to like to play games," he starts, considering him with a wary frown, now. It's getting exhausting to read him like this.

"And you do," Cain counters.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"I decided I'm not done with you yet."

"What do you want from me, then?"

Cain doesn't answer that. As much as he hates to admit it even to himself, he wouldn't know how. And he knows that the psychic probably senses his inner confusion, but he plays it off as merely being stoic and mysterious, anyway.

At this point Shawn is far beyond his initial goal of simply finding out what the fresh hell this man is—he actually feels connected. And now he thinks he understands.

"Whatever you are... you're ashamed of it, aren't you?"

He'll be damned if he actually answers that one, either telling the truth or otherwise.

"Excuse me, I just remembered that I haven't watered my windowboxes yet today," Cain says casually, standing up and retreating to the kitchen.

And Shawn is almost immediately on his feet, following him.

"Oh, no. You're not doing that."

You're pretty cocky, kid, he wants to say—to threaten him, because no one talks to him like that and expects to live—but he just leaves it alone and gestures for Shawn to come and see his flowers.

"These ones are firewheels. They're still fairly small, but the bees really love them, so come later this summer I'll—"

"Okay, as adorable as it is that you like flowers and bees and all that—and I mean, that's really adorable—all this changing the subject is getting unattractive. You didn't bring me here to talk about your hobbies."

Cain can't tell if Shawn's serious or if he's just talking like that to make him uncomfortable, but either way he ignores it and simply turns to his flowers again.

"Seriously?" Shawn folds his arms and glares.

"I actually do have to water them, you know," Cain shoots back.

So the psychic sighs and resigns to just watching him tend to his plants for the next couple minutes (which may or may not include a bit of not-so-secretive staring at his ass), attempting once again to get a deeper read of that mess.

And as it turns out, this might actually be exactly what he needed: a little distance. As well as, perhaps, to watch the man at his most peaceful—at his most human state; to focus on the fire from a few steps away, see where the source is.

"You are human, aren't you?" he wonders aloud, not entirely conscious of it in the moment.

Slightly startled, Cain turns around.

"There's just... something in you. Attached to you." Shawn can't say his feet are moving of their own accord, but he definitely feels some kind of pull. Every fiber in his body is screaming against it, but here he is, walking right into the hottest part of the fire.

It's... his right arm.

He doesn't even ask permission, but Cain isn't stopping him. He has no room to think about how rude Shawn is when the psychic is wrapping a gentle hand around his wrist, and pushing the sleeve up until that angry red scar is showing.

And then he moves to touch it, at which Cain's eyes widen in alarm.

"Shawn, don't—"

But it's too late, and the fire has him. The storm that's suddenly raging inside of Shawn makes the electricity he felt when he first touched him seem like a harmless zap. He is the storm. All at once, he knows everything this man's soul has ever been through—every human he's ever killed, every creature he's ever smote, every demon he's ever... created? Everything this... this mark has done, to the world and to him... all the way back to the beginning.

And he knows.

He doesn't even realize how tight his grip has been until he feels his fingers being pried away, and hears distant calls of his name, getting closer and closer as he leaves the intense heat and the darkness—

"Shawn? Shawn! Shawn, you—I think you're having a seizure, I don't know how to stop this—"

He snaps out of it, though, just long enough to realize that there are arms around him, trying to keep him from falling because his legs are momentarily useless, and to look up and truly recognize the face above his.

"I—I never thought... you're real. Cain."

Then a dull sort of pain flushes through him, and Shawn passes out for the second time today.

"Morning, sunshine."

Cain stands above him with a plate in his hand, clearly having just woken him up with... that trick, or whatever.

And unlike the last time he actually feels like he had a full night's sleep and everything, rather than just blacking out and suddenly being somewhere else. But it still freaks him out a bit, remembering the intense visions and that Cain had said something about a seizure—and then looking out the window and seeing that it's morning.

"Holy shit, have I—how long was I out?"

"Whatever energy you must have absorbed from the Mark knocked you out pretty good. You gave me a bit of a scare, actually—I had to plug your nose up because it wouldn't stop bleeding for a while. And it's been about... eighteen hours. I didn't think I should let you sleep any longer, so."

"Thanks." For a moment he tries to wrap his head around this situation, but his body is more concerned with other things. "God—I'm fucking starving..."

"I thought you might be," Cain says with a slight smirk, handing him the plate. Which turns out to be full of eggs and sausage. "There's more if you need it."

Oh, wow.

As Cain briefly returns to the kitchen to get his own breakfast, they both half-expect Shawn to shout out and ask him why he's being so nice—but he doesn't. It's pretty simple; he values hospitality. That, and the poor boy had a seizure and passed out in his kitchen, so it's the least he could do.

It occurs to Shawn, though, while he's eating, that Cain carried him to the couch and even gave him a pillow and blanket. The Father of Murder wanted to make sure he was comfortable, and that's almost as adorable as his thing with the flowers.

"If you have the energy, come join me at the kitchen table," he calls out from the doorway after a minute. "I'd rather you not get grease on my couch."

"I'm assuming that's not the only reason?" Shawn says as he stands up, and when he sits down with him a few seconds later, he gets a look of reluctance.

"That was... stupid of you. What you did. You couldn't have possibly not known the Mark would do something like that to you, or worse—"

"I'm alive, aren't I? And now I know who you are. Fuck, I still can't believe it—Cain and Abel. The Bible was right all along, and dammit, now I owe Father Westley twenty bucks. Except I made the bet at least ten years ago, so factoring in inflation since then... yeah, I dunno. I'm bad at math."

Shawn returns his attention to the food on his plate, and Cain just frowns.

"The Bible was only right about some things," he corrects, mindlessly pushing the eggs around on his plate with his fork. "And everything after I killed my brother, almost no one has any idea."

"Oh, I know. I, uh..." Shawn briefly relives part of a vision and shivers at the thought. "I kind of saw and, well, felt everything."

It's only then that it truly occurs to him: this psychic doesn't just know his name, or the facts of his life. This man knows him. And for that, Cain feels some pity.

"...How much did it hurt?"

He wishes that he didn't understand why Shawn's immediate answer is to laugh.

"Don't worry about it."

Cain doesn't push it.

A casual silence sits between them just long enough for Cain to finish his breakfast, and then it's surprisingly him, rather than Shawn, who breaks it.

"So. When you said everything, you meant—"

"Yep, everything. I mean, I wouldn't know what you ate for dinner on your seven-hundredth birthday, or when you lost your v-card, but you know. Anything that ever affected your soul directly? It's in here," he tells him, tapping his temple somewhat proudly.

Meanwhile, Cain feels anything but pride.

"So you know all the evil I've ever done, all the bloodshed I've caused. You know that technically, I am a demon."

Oh. Shawn feels a surge of sympathy. now that all the guilt coming off of Cain has manifested. So that's what this is about.

"Yeah. And I know it's all just because of that mark that you got from Lucifer—shit, was that really the actual Devil, or did I interpret that wrong? Because if it was, then I have to fucking ask, what was he like?"

Cain frowns again, annoyed. "Shawn."

"Sorry—ADD. Go on with whatever self-loathing shit you were saying."

"I'm not—nevermind. So... you're not afraid of me at all? You're not even a little put-off by everything you saw?"

Shawn raises an eyebrow and quickly swallows a mouthful of sausage. "Do you want me to be? Because it's intimidating, sure. I can't even imagine living that long, especially not still being sane by this point."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Cain—damn, that feels cool to say—all the things you did... it's not you." He wants to reach out and give him a consoling pat, but for the time being he thinks he should avoid touching him. "And I know that sounds like some cliche bullshit from a movie, but I actually know, like, for sure. I know everything you did. I know how much of the terrifying shit on earth you're responsible for. But if you think I'm gonna blame you personally for any of it when the air around you is literally thick with guilt—you're wrong. I felt that mark, I know what it's like. Or maybe I only know half of it, but that's enough for me to say that you're not even a killer at heart. It's been like, what, a hundred and... forty years since your last time? You've stopped. That's all that matters to me. Do you have any juice, by the way? My throat is kinda dry. Water's fine too—anything but milk, milk is gross."

For the past eighteen hours or so, Cain has figured that this meal would be the end of their interaction—that the psychic would decide he had the answers he'd sought from the beginning, and that now he could leave and continue with his life. Whether or not he actually would have been happy with that conclusion is irrelevant to him.

And yet now, as he stands up to retrieve orange juice from the fridge, he feels oddly sure that his house guest will be staying for much longer.

Shawn is relieved to find that Cain took the time to go and retrieve his motorcycle from the parking lot of that coffee shop—not that he'd have expected it to get stolen in a town like this, but he feels more comfortable with it here. Especially considering that his change of clothes and extra weapons are in the storage space under the seat.

"Of course," Cain qualifies, "I still don't think I'm comfortable with you knowing exactly where I live or how to get here, so... whenever you feel up to leaving, I'll just put you to sleep again while I drive you back out to town."

Shawn pointedly does not say anything about "whenever he feels up to leaving," but rather just pouts.

"Aw, you don't trust me? Not even after our huge connection yesterday?"

"You get psychic connections from everything, so I don't think that counts."

As Cain dismisses him, Shawn makes a face. "Well, now that I know everything about the Mark, I could probably just resist your sleep thing if I tried hard enough."

He probably could, Cain thinks. In fact, he's now intensely curious as to exactly how powerful Shawn's psychic abilities are—he himself has minimal ability of that nature, so who knows what Shawn might be able to do. Maybe he'll find some time later to test that out.

But not now. Company or no company, he has a daily routine that he'd like to get to.

"I hope you realize that as long as you're staying here and eating my food, I'll expect you to do some chores. Cleaning up after yourself's a given—but if you could, while I'm out working with my bees, just... sweep up a bit, dust the shelves, wash a few dishes. Shouldn't take too long. Feel free to watch whatever few channels that thing gets, or read when you're done."

"Oh." Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that Cain wouldn't just be hanging out with him and answering his questions all day. "Yeah, sure, I can do that."

And then he's left standing by the window as Cain walks out the door, slightly reluctant to do chores but happy enough about the implications to make up for it.

He must be the first person in decades to be allowed into Cain's home like this.

But god, that man must be lonely. That's so sad.

He must be so desperate for someone who could understand him so completely, right down to the fibers of his soul.

Someone like Shawn.

Not that he'd say it. Though when Shawn steps outside to sweep the back porch and stops to wave at him, Cain doesn't hesitate much before waving back.

Later, Cain finds Shawn standing at his fireplace, one hand on the mantle. It only takes him a moment to realize exactly what he's looking at.

Considering all that he's learned about the psychic, he doesn't know why he's surprised that, rather than stepping away sheepishly and pretending he was never looking at that photograph, he simply turns to him and asks,

"What was Colette like?"

He can't find it in himself to get angry, or even to glare.

"Don't you already know?" he asks, heading to the kitchen to wash up. As expected, Shawn follows.

"Sure, but only the basics. I mean, she had to be pretty special to get the Father of Murder to stop murdering," he offers, making Cain smile for a moment, though facing away. "But she wasn't psychic, like me—she was a normal human. So how did she understand?"

"I don't know," Cain admits, finding himself flooding with fond (and sad) memories. "But she did. She was extraordinarily kind and patient, and she was the first after thousands of years to prove to me that I was capable of real love." For a second he thinks of his affair with Abaddon, but a pang of pure disgust that drives that thought away. "She'd thank you, I think. For making the effort to understand me."

It's easier to say all that with his back mostly turned, so he takes a bit longer than he actually needs to wash his hands and forearms.

And then Shawn leans against the counter and beams at him, briefly placing a hand on his waist—and somehow, this time, Cain is more aware of the electricity he inadvertently sends through the psychic's arm.

"Does that hurt you?" he wonders aloud, finally turning the sink off and drying his hands. He'd keep his curiosity to himself, but he feels that it's fair it after what Shawn just asked.

"It's good to know you're concerned," Shawn laughs, leaning even further (and more flirtatiously) against the counter. "But I'm getting used to it. As this point the tingle's actually kinda thrilling—y'know, like when you're a kid and you put your tongue on a 9-volt battery—wait, nevermind, I guess you don't know. But it's really not that bad, especially not after the whole..." He makes some indiscriminate motions in the air with his hands before gesturing to Cain's arm. "...thing. Then again, other than that I have only touched you over the clothes. Now I'm kinda curious."

Without asking permission (and without even any of the fear that came with licking that 9-volt battery as a kid), Shawn reaches forward. And he could easily just go for the hands, but instead he goes for the face—and Cain doesn't even back away. He just stands there, stiffening up as Shawn's fingers graze his cheek.

There's no more fire to step into, but instead just open wires. The initial shock runs through him, makes his eyes light up and his heart beat twice as fast (and in his imagination, all his hairs stand on end)—and then he thinks that if he holds it any longer the intensity of it might make him start laughing uncontrollably, so his arm drops.

Cain lifts an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I'll have to get used to it," is all he tells him. "...Are you about to make lunch?"

The questions keep coming, the rest of the day and the next—and even the next after that.

It seems that neither of them are done with each other; Shawn is naturally determined to ask about every aspect of Cain's life that he can possibly think of, because who wouldn't be? And in all his days he'd never met any human quite like Shawn until now, so of course he has questions of his own.

Over meals and drinks (which they've taken to having each evening, and Cain has to admit, it feels better than drinking alone), they take turns. Three questions at a time, they've decided, since some are often loaded or have multiple parts.

"Really—what was the Devil like? I have to know."

"Beautiful." He hates that it's the first word to come out of his mouth, but it's true. "Terrible, but beautiful. That's how he gets you. You expect some monster, but... no, he was God's favorite once for a reason. Abel fell for it. I didn't."

"Damn, okay. Uh—the whole Adam and Eve thing, were they really—?"

"The first people on earth? Of course not—humanity existed all over the world and long before then, religion existed long before then... there had to be at least a few million people already. They were the first people to live in the Garden of Eden, but that's it. It was one bit of land on the Persian Gulf, and I suppose some of us did believe at the time we were the only ones—because it was paradise inside, and all around us as far as we could see was a wasteland... but that was naive of us. Looking back on it, I think the whole point of that paradise was to keep us naive."

It's almost too much for Shawn to wrap his head around—which is why the drinking part of this helps. He spent so long actively refusing to believe all of this stuff, and now he has no choice.

At least he can know for sure that the Bible got a lot of things wrong.

"...So what was the forbidden fruit, really? Since everyone's agreed lately that it wasn't an apple."

Cain smirks, amused. "A quince."

"Dammit, I had my money on it just being a metaphor for sex. Also, what the fuck is a quince?"

"It's a kind of pear. And you technically just asked four questions, so now I get four too."

"That wasn't—"

"Yes it was. Now, I want to know how you became a hunter."

"Oh. Well, that's a story I haven't told in a while—my dad was a cop, and I was a psychic little kid who could always tell if a person was guilty, and one day my dad realized it. And I guess he figured, 'oh, I can weaponize my kid's ability and turn him into a cop, too'—so he trained me up, taught me to fight and how to shoot and everything, and I probably could've become a fucking amazing cop. Except I didn't want to, because other than normal guilt and whatnot I could also sense monsters and demons, and hunting them seemed like a much more satisfying job. So I just... did that. My dad never believed in all the supernatural stuff I told him about as a kid, but once my best friend Gus found out there were monsters in the world, he started studying that stuff like crazy. He owns an apothecary back in Santa Barbara now, because of me.

"...Interesting." Shawn's even more unique of a hunter than he thought. "So... your first kill, as a hunter. Tell me about that."

It's no secret why he wants to know, but Shawn doesn't acknowledge it.

"Well, I can't technically call it a kill, but the first job I ever worked was an exorcism—some teenage girl with super religious parents. They paid me probably too much considering how sloppy it was, and how much stuff got broken in the process... But at least I sent the demon back to Hell."

"Your first real kill, then."

"Okay, but I'm considering that a separate question. It was a werewolf, and naturally since I was still kind of a beginner, it was also sloppy. I mean, I did get it—but I didn't know the bullet had to go in the heart, so I learned the hard way. Got it in the eye a couple times first, and I ended up getting a thick scar on my ass. My pants got ruined, but I have to say the scar is pretty cool—you wanna see it?"

"Maybe later," Cain says, unsure of whether or not he's joking. "...Have you ever killed an innocent human?"

"What hunter hasn't? It's kind of... heh, impossible to avoid," he adds breathily, taking a long drink afterward. "I've probably made less mistakes than most, being a psychic who only even hunts for pay and all, but... you know. Not everyone survives an exorcism. Sometimes the monster takes a hostage, and you just can't save them. And I know that failing to save someone isn't the same as killing them, but I'm still technically responsible. So yeah, I have."

"And you feel guilt for that, even though it wasn't your fault?"

Shawn and Cain share an odd look there—there's no regret in the question or unwillingness to answer, but neither of them were aware they'd be getting into this sort of emotional territory.

Part of him needs to be sure, though: Shawn isn't a killer, not at all. He has an obscure brand of ethics and an inconsistent sense of justice, but if there's anything he absolutely is not, it's a killer.

"I'm really not in it for the whole saving people thing—but yeah, I do. Not that I let it weigh on me, though. And that was technically five questions, but I'll just bump the questions-per-turn back down to three. So—what was life like six thousand years ago? Like, day-to-day life, and what you ate and what technology you had."

Quite a number of Shawn's questions are like that. Cain can't blame him; you can't get the information he has in any textbook these days. Even the college courses dedicated to ancient history don't know the half of it.

He isn't as sensitive about the whole Knight of Hell subject as he probably should be, but Cain doesn't find himself too bothered. As long as Shawn isn't actually treating him like a demon (or even really something to be feared, for the most part), he willingly recounts what he remembers of the Old Days.

While Shawn learns of Cain's extensive list of powers and how many languages he knows and his thousands of years' worth of history, however, Cain listens to the psychic talk about his mere thirty-two years of life.

Not to say, of course, that it bores him. Though as time goes on, it does become more difficult to think of new and original questions.

Upon request, Shawn talks about his childhood, about how he'd always been yearning to live on the road to be free, and how glad he is that he's actually living the life he wanted.

He talks about how he's never had a serious relationship, and he can't honestly say he's even been in love unless you count teenage infatuation, though he doesn't mind the idea of it so much anymore. And the look he gives Cain when he says that actually makes him blush—but only for a moment, and it's mostly hidden by his beard, anyway.

To change the subject quickly, Cain asks him what all he even carries with him (since all he has is a motorcycle), and so Shawn proudly lays out his weapons—including the knives he keeps strapped to his thigh, his exorcism kit, the spare potion ingredients he keeps on his person, and his phone charger.

"I also have this," he adds, pulling down his shirt collar proudly to show his various protective tattoos—"and of course, my phone. Anything I need to know I can research in a second, and anything I've ever learned before is already up here." He taps his temple and realizes—"Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you, I also have an eidetic memory. It's pretty useful."

He wouldn't even have to be a psychic to tell that Cain is impressed with him.

Eventually, finally, Shawn begins to come onto even ground with him. That is, his historical curiosity tapers off, and his questions venture more into modern, domestic territory. About how he got into beekeeping, and how many places he's lived since Colette, and his other hobbies—even about his recipes.

Part of him is just so thrilled that someone actually, truly wants to just get to know him, and yet... it's now that he begins to fear the day that Shawn's questions inevitably run out. Because they will, and his curiosity will be fulfilled—and perhaps the psychic will never quite stop finding him interesting, but he can't stay forever.

On Shawn's side of it, there is a moment of fear for the day that Cain will kick him out, but it's short-lived. He isn't nearly insecure enough to doubt that the man is just as drawn to him as the other way around.

He even mentions it aloud, once, when Cain comments upon the fact that he's never gotten to know any human other than Colette so well—

To which all he can say is a quiet, muttered agreement that maybe—"Maybe I am, if only because of all your... psychic energy."

The Mark thinks you'd make a fine demon, he considers afterward but certainly doesn't say—and he can't even decide for sure if that had anything to do with it.

The Mark knew that you were out there, that... you were someone who could potentially understand it?

Possible, but he doesn't have enough optimism to consider that even a relatively dormant curse might help him like this.

Cain eventually pushes those thoughts away and instead tells Shawn about all the literature he's collected in the past few centuries.

Apparently, he's read Crime and Punishment over thirty times. A lot of the classics that Shawn merely pretended to read in high school are on his shelf: Lord of the Flies, Fahrenheit 451, Great Gatsby, most of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde... he's got the same taste as his English teacher from freshman year: almost nothing written past 1970. At least he can agree that most "classics" are way overrated.

"Though I still read them—even the objectively terrible ones," he admits. "For nostalgia, I suppose. That, and I never was able to move onto contemporary works very quickly. I've lived so long that I just... I'm so tired of things changing all the time. That's why I live right on the edge of the sticks."

To him it must feel like the world is moving too fast, Shawn thinks. A year to Cain is like... well, he's not good at math, but he expects the ratio is something around just a few days to him.

So it makes sense that the guy is still stuck on 17th-century music and has an aversion to almost any kind of entertainment behind a screen, but Shawn still feels the need to introduce him to at least some of the pop culture he was raised on.

"At least the music," he insists when Cain is hesitant to even accept a list of movies he needs to see someday. "I swear, it'll give you a better idea of why I am the way I am."

Perhaps it's a bad idea that he does this in the evening while they're drinking, as he ends up making quite an idiot of himself, dancing to Head Over Heels ("to give you the full effect!").

And while Cain doesn't listen to this stuff, he hasn't actually been living under a rock—he knows about Tears for Fears. But he is enjoying this, even with all the secondhand embarrassment, so he keeps that little fact to himself until Shawn is finished.

On the fourth day of his stay (or fifth, depending on how you're counting), while Cain is outside, Shawn gets a call.

Damn, I didn't even think I'd get a signal out here.

It's Gus, and it's been a while since they've talked, so Shawn answers without hesitation.

"Hey, man—you're not in trouble, are you?"

"Nah, I'm fine. Actually, I think I found a job for you."

"In Santa Barbara?"

"Close by, yeah. Some trophy hunter-type dude wants a Rougaru pelt, doesn't want to do the dirty work himself—but he knows the general area that the thing lives in. The guy seemed like he was loaded, and there's just enough ethical ambiguity that I figured it might be your thing."

"Oh, wow. The pelt? The fuck's he want that for?"

"He's a creepy, rich trophy hunter, Shawn—he's probably gonna turn it into a rug like people do with bears, or something. Eugh—I don't wanna think about it. Point is, I told him I knew a guy, so are you up for it or not?"

"It sounds pretty risky. So naturally, yeah—but, uh. I'm actually with someone right now, so I'll have to check up on something and then call you back."

He hears Gus's familiar sigh on the other end.

"So what kind of fling is it this time—fellow hunter, grateful rescuee, your infamous three-night-stand, or my personal favorite: literally one of the things that you hunt for a living?"

"Okay, first of all, you know not all 'monsters' hurt people, so you can dial back that attitude, Gus. And second—um, technically I'll have to get back to you on that. It might be a whole new category, actually."

"Oh. Damn."

"Yeah, so I'll call you back."

In the next minute he's stepping outside and waving Cain over (that is, getting his attention so he'll teleport to the porch and take off that weird bee mask), and then feeling oddly nervous about telling him the news.

"Hey, so... there's apparently a guy who wants to pay me to hunt a Rougaru for him, and—"

"You're leaving?"

Cain's heart drops, and they both feel it. Moreso, Shawn sees it.

"No!" he assures him quickly, bringing relief flooding into his eyes. "No, of course not—I could get the job done in probably just a few hours and then I'd be able to buy us steak dinners for a week. The only problem is that it's in California, and, I mean, I'd have to be gone a few days just to get there and back... so."

The idea of steak dinners is tempting, but letting Shawn leave for some hunt? He does trust him much more after the past few days... except that's really not his problem with this. He's just grown possessive and doesn't want him gone for so long.

"I could just... teleport you there," he suggests, finally relenting to the idea.

Shawn's eyes light up. "I could even be home before dinnertime! I mean—you would also teleport me back, right?"

"Of course."

Risking his secrecy by teleporting that far seems much less unappealing once he hears Shawn call his house "home."

So he tells Gus that he'll be there in a couple hours. He can't tell him about Cain, so it's better to just lie and wait until a reasonable time it could take him to get there. Good thing Gus has no way of knowing where he actually is.

It's nothing like Shawn expected it would feel—that is to say, it's nothing. He senses the energy when Cain grabs him and his bike, of course (and it's unbelievably strong and unmatched), but he'd figured that essentially breaking through the dimensions of time and space to travel over 2,000 miles in the span of less than a second might do something to him physically.

"Oh, wow," he says in awe at once, blinking rapidly to get used to the sudden change of scenery. "I don't even feel off-balance, or anything!"

"A normal human probably would," Cain says, vaguely amused at how impressed Shawn is. "Or perhaps not—I've hardly tested it out. Now, you're sure that you can get this done quickly?"

"Yes, sir."

Cain considers it a success that he manages not to blush after that, but merely pause.

"Then I'll be back in this exact spot to pick you up in exactly six hours. I expect you'll have plenty of time to do the job, get paid, and spend some time with your friend."

"Yes, sir," Shawn repeats with a grin, and he gives Cain a brief goodbye pat on the arm.

And then the man is gone from sight, leaving Shawn alone on the roadside with his bike. He doesn't hesitate to head straight into town and to Gus's apothecary—and fuck, it's only been a few days but he's missed having the wind in his hair like this. He can't remember the last time he went even a day without getting on the road at all.

Gus is so excited to see him that he almost forgets to do the holy water test before hugging him—and Shawn has half a mind to lecture him about that, but who could really blame him?

"So where's the guy?" Shawn asks when he pulls away. He doesn't sense anyone else in the shop, so he doesn't bother glancing around.

"Oh—I called him and he said he'll just meet up with us whenever you catch it."

"...And that doesn't sound shady to you at all, Gus?"

"I thought we already agreed he was creepy anyway. And either way he sent like, two hundred bucks in advance to my—"

"Good enough for me! Except,—I don't have to skin the thing myself, do I?"

They end up calling the guy again, this time so Shawn can make sure he knows whether or not he's even supposed to kill it, and the answer comes in a raspy British accent:

"Of course I don't want it killed—you can't do that without burning the skin to a crisp. Just catch and subdue it. Though... if you take initiative and collect the pelt on your own then I will add a bonus to your pay."

Yeah, he's gonna be missing out on that bonus.

And dammit, he probably should have thought about this more before he came here. Shawn's never even heard of someone trying to subdue a Rougaru instead of just killing it, and they pretty much only have one weakness anyway—he'll just have to accept the risk and formulate a more specific plan as he goes.

"Alright, there's no time to lose," he starts almost immediately after hanging up with the British guy. "Gus, we're gonna need—"

"Hold on—we?"

Damn, if he had a nickel for every time Gus has given him that look of incredulousness. (He wouldn't have to hunt in the first place.)

"Well, I gotta bring the whole body back, so I'm gonna need your car," he says in mild exasperation. "And those things are basically the mini-version of Wendigos—I mean, I'm good, but I could always use some help."

"Okay—first of all,you know I'm superstitious, Shawn! There's literally a sign on the window that says to only refer to... you-know-whats as 'the W-word' in my shop. And you also know I'm terrifiedof that shit. There's a reason I run this place instead of hunt, like you."

Shawn couldn't stop himself from exaggeratedly rolling his eyes if he wanted to.

"Gus, don't be the Paris-themed sequel to An American Werewolf in London. I'm not gonna let anything hurt you—I just want you there so you can hold the flamethrower."

"I thought you weren't supposed to kill it, though."

"Well, yeah—it's just in case the tear gas and tranqs don't work and we get cornered."

Gus's eyes widen. "Tear gas?"

"And tranqs. Which I actually have with me already, but we're gonna need to go to the storage garage I have downtown for the other stuff. Oh—and rope, of course, so we can tie it up."

After a minute of intense reluctance, Gus finally agrees just like he always does. Though not before threatening to haunt Shawn if he ends up dying.

"You know what, Gus, I'm proud of you. You only cried two times, and you didn't even accidentally set anything on fire."

"My crying attracted the monster to us, Shawn!"

"Dude, that's kinda why I wanted you to come."

They leave the Dick Smith Wilderness with a successfully subdued Rougaru in the trunk and still a couple hours to spare before Shawn has to make his way back to the spot where Cain will pick him up. So he decides that once they get to the crossroads that British guy agreed to meet at, they'll grab some drinks together.

And he already seems to be there, waiting by his own car, while they're driving up.

The moment Shawn sees him, tiny though he may be in the distance, he notices something off—and suddenly everything makes sense.

"Hey Gus, where'd you meet this guy?"

"Um. At that hunter bar. The one we're going to later. Why?"

"Just making sure that you haven't gotten rid of the devil's trap under the rug in your store. Because we just worked a job for a fucking demon, Gus."

"What?" his friend nearly screams. "I didn't know, I can't see things like you, oh God, I—-"

"Don't ruin this, man—I don't think he knows that we have any idea he's a demon. So if we can keep it that way, we can still get the money and I'm about ninety-five percent sure we'll walk away from this alive."

"That's a one-in-twenty chance we'll die, Shawn, are you seriously—"

"It's too late to turn around. Just stay in the car, alright?"

Where Gus merely sees a short, scruffy man wearing a suit and a smug look, Shawn sees probably the most twisted-looking demonic face yet. As much time as he's had to get used to this kind of thing, it's pretty unsettling.

But he believes he's managing to keep his cool and not give any hint as to what he really sees.

"I hope you don't mind a couple holes in the... hide, or whatever," he tells the demon as he's followed to the trunk of Gus's car. "We had to tranq it."

The demon regards him and the unconscious Rougaru with a brief sneer, then clicks his tongue. "It'll do."

"So, uh. You want help carrying it to your car, or—?"

"You know I can just teleport it in there, right?"

The demon looks at him like that should have been obvious. Wait.

Shawn swallows. "You—"

"I was told you're a psychic who can track monsters, of course I bloody know you can see... this," he says, gesturing to his face. "I have no plan to kill you, if that's what you're worried about. I'm a man of my word. And this—" He pulls a wad of cash out of his breast pocket—"is nothing to me. That's one grand, and there's more where that came from if you ever want to do business again."

Holy shit, maybe I will, he can't help but think—if only because of the money. This guy is as despicable and sadistic as they come, but the money.

Rather than telling him that, though, he simply thanks him for his business and gets back in the car to drive away as soon as possible.

Both of them could really use those drinks now.

"Next time some stranger wants to tell you about a job," he advises a visibly shaken Gus, "you should really make sure that they're human first."

It's not that having the house to himself for six hours felt odd or uncomfortable—because why would it? That's how he's been living for over a century. All alone, the way he likes it.

But he feels so stupid for getting attached this quickly, no matter how special Shawn might be. He feels stupid for missing him and he feels stupid for how much he worries that Shawn won't even show up where he's meant to pick him up, and Cain feels especially stupid when Shawn is exactly where he'd said he'd be and the relief that crashes over him is almost painful.

"I got steeeeaaaks!" the psychic sings once he notices him, lifting up several wrapped slabs of meat. "Fresh from the butcher."

"Quickly, then, so they won't spoil," Cain says as he puts a hand on his shoulder—and then they're over two thousand miles away.

What Shawn senses from him initially seems like he's just disproportionately pleased about the steaks,but he quickly realizes. And now he knows he absolutely can't tell him about the demon he met, not when he's this happy. Not when ruining the mood could also mean ruining the best chance he can hope for.

Because thus far he's had vague notions, at best, of how exactly Cain feels about him, how far his fondness will reach. If he's a temporary cure for the man's loneliness or a real friend or more. If this connection truly is mutual like he suspects. If... the guilt attached to Colette will hold him back. If Cain's own stubbornness will hold himself back.

Now, however, he feels that their situation has been laid out on the table as clearly as their dinner. Perhaps not on purpose, but it's there. So what's a little lie of omission to keep it going?

Cain doesn't even ask much about the hunt, so really, it's not even that. He's just... passively avoiding the (technically) unnecessary truth.

As they talk, everything becomes steadily more obvious to Shawn—but only to Shawn:

He compliments Cain on the honey glaze he put on the steak, and the praise makes his chest so warm that Shawn can feel it from across the table. He tells him directly that "I like a man who can cook," and the man merely seems to take his flirting as a joke. He makes a point of smiling at him more than usual, and he may get a number of smiles in return, but still the most significant response is just... how warm the air is getting.

Especially when Cain brings out the drinks. Maybe the alcohol is easing up his feelings somehow, or it's just helping him accidentally project them, but Shawn just feels it so much—far deeper than any vibes he's ever caught from anyone else. It's a metaphysical sauna in here.

They stand up to move to the living room as per usual, but then find themselves leaning against either side of the doorway instead, remaining there simply because they don't feel like moving further.

"Stuck neither here nor there," Shawn thinks aloud after a moment.

"Like the rabbit hole?" Cain supplies.

"Yup, we're in the rabbit hole. Your living room is Wonderland."

"...There's no way you're already that drunk."

Shawn laughs, and takes a swig. "I'm not."

Standing this close, now, is actually making him sweat. And god, Cain seems to have no idea what he's doing, or how obvious each and every one of his emotions are becoming, how clear his desperation for companionship is shining through his eyes—but Shawn is certain that he at least feels this heat.

All at once, Shawn is finally sure that this is appropriate and not a mistake.

When there's a break in the conversation, he sets his beer aside and reaches out, puts his hand on Cain's neck, where his skin is searing. Cain himself thinks nothing of it in the moment; he's grown used to Shawn touching him just to test out how it feels and how his psychic senses will react, so he has every reason to assume that that's what he's doing.

But in the next moment Shawn is using his grip on Cain's neck to pull himself forward and upward. and to kiss him. He imagines, for a split second, that he just stuck his tongue in a wall socket, but then all he tastes is honey.

Cain's heart stops, but he makes no move to step away. At this point there's not a damn thing that could convince him he'd even want to—his brow furrows and his eyes close and he lets the firm press of Shawn's lips against his take him over.

Not enough that all his doubt melts away, though. Because when Shawn finally lets go, for just a second, it comes roaring back at full force.

"You're drunk," he accuses, grimacing into Shawn's lips.

Why else would you do this? You can't want me like this.

At this point the fact that Cain still doesn't get it is outrageous to him. Shawn feels a very real desire to slap some sense into him, but instead he just holds him a bit softer and argues,

"I'm really not."

Which is true. It takes so much more to get him properly drunk—and he thinks Cain believes that, because he isn't being pushed away.

Shawn can still feel the weight of his insecurity, though, so he shifts and peppers kisses over Cain's cheeks—like he's wanted to do ever since he touched the Mark, ever since he started to understand him.

Cain exhales sharply, almost painfully, and Shawn feels a pang of sadness. He isn't sure which of them it's coming from.

"When's the last time someone kissed you, Cain?"

Because somehow, he knows it wasn't Colette.

"Decades ago," he whispers.

No one like Shawn, though. Just a young man he'd allowed shelter in a storm, who had known nothing about him but merely found him attractive and wanted to offer some kind of payment. Nothing more than a brief reprieve from holding back his urges—because even after all this time, his libido hasn't disappeared.

Cain leaves his mouth hanging slightly open and Shawn kisses it, and this time Cain kisses back for real—a little awkward at first because of how long it's been, but he gets back into the hang of it.

He lets Shawn direct him. He lets Shawn take the bottle of scotch from him and press him against the threshold, and even as he lets Shawn kiss him until his lips are swollen, his touches are gentle, as though to consistently reassure him that this isn't about lust—that he truly, genuinely wants to take care of him.

But Cain doesn't want pity, either. He doesn't feel that he needs to be taken care of. And so he makes sure that Shawn knows he's allowed to treat him like he's tougher than glass; he fists the lower back of Shawn's shirt and pulls him closer by the edge of his jaw. There's a soft noise of understanding in the psychic's throat.

And yet, when Cain feels his shirt being tugged out of his pants, it startles him.

"So this is how it goes?" he nearly growls, finding himself actually a little dizzy when he opens his eyes. "Even knowing all that I am—you buy me dinner, and then expect to fall into my bed."

Shawn is far too sure of himself to let his hopes fall, but he still lets go of Cain's shirt and eases away until their faces are at least an inch apart.

"If you'll let me," he says.

And Cain doesn't know what it is about that—if it's this connection Shawn's made with him, this understanding that Shawn is good for him and he deserves to be happy, or simply lust and desperation drawing him forward, or in fact something close to his dormant murderous drive—but he's the one who initiates a kiss next.

He bites at Shawn's lip, and then in quick succession at his jaw and his throat, and then before either of them can process it—for the first time in a long time, the Father of Murder is dropping to his knees.

"Cain, you—oh. Oh."

Shawn can't remember the last time he woke up feeling quite like this, especially not with beard burn in so many places.

It's too bad his morning-after bliss is ruined by not only the absence of Cain lying beside him, but that he senses three other beings in the house. All most likely demons. This isn't, however, the first time he's woken up to an immediate threat, so his panic quickly turns into the instinct to pull on underwear, grab a gun, and rush out of the bedroom.

He arrives in the kitchen just in time to see Cain with his palms pressed to the foreheads of two demons, and then a red flash of light from each of them before they fall. There's already a third on the other side of the floor.

Holy shit.

He can only stare breathlessly as Cain turns to him, very obviously angry, though no sign of having exerted any energy. Smiting those demons was so easy for him, and that's fucking terrifying.

It would also be pretty hot, if Shawn could at least tell whether or not the anger is directed at him.

"They tracked you here with this," Cain tells him, tossing something to him—he's almost in too much of a panic to catch it, but it turns out to be a coin with some ancient-looking runes on it. "Must've planted it on your bike in Santa Barbara."

Oh, god.

Shawn's heart drops into his stomach, and when he looks at Cain's face again, he feels physically sick.

"If you think I brought them here on purpose, I swear—"

"I know you didn't—they told me so. But it was still pretty careless of you."

His voice is actually somewhat softer with that, but it doesn't make Shawn feel any less like shit. Briefly, he remembers being a child and having to apologize for making his dad "worried sick" by accidentally putting himself in danger. That's what he feels like now: a child.

Quietly, and without even looking Cain in the face (he looks at the lifeless demons instead), he swallows and says, "Thank you. For... protecting me."

"Oh, they weren't here for you, Spencer." he growls. And he knows how terrible he sounds, but all the guilt in the world won't make him any less angry or frustrated or anxious. At the very least, it makes him fix his gaze on the demons, too. "They must have seen me, or sensed me somehow, when I dropped you off in California. And so they came to recruit me."

Shawn tries hard not to think about the British demon he met, or to wonder if that had anything to do with it. (And as harsh as the informality feels, it also gives him an odd sense of déjà vu.)

He does look up at him then, though.

"Recruit you for what?"

"I didn't listen long enough to find out. All I know is that they were following Lilith, and fuck if I'm going to have anything to do with her—and... shit. Shawn—" Cain snaps his head over to him and then finally approaches, still angry but now moreso terrified. "Shawn, you need to leave. Now."

His senses are on overload in the worst possible way, so he assumes the worst. It's a wonder that his eyes are dry.

"Okay, I know I was careless and I'm sorry but—"

"No, Shawn!" Cain yells, grabbing him. Grounding him. "I mean: You need. To leave. Do you know who Lilith is? I know you do, Shawn. If she or any of her followers find you, you'll be dead. You'll be worse than dead, Shawn, do you hear me?"

He's gripping Shawn's shoulders so tightly that it hurts both of them—though his own concern hurts more.

And Shawn wants to laugh, now, having just been relieved of one worry only to be given another. (God, his head is swimming. He can't believe this is happening, especially this soon.)

Immediately and unconsciously, he reaches out to clutch at Cain's shirt. "What about you?"

"I need to leave, too. And as soon as possible—who knows how many more demons are ready to follow if those don't come back." In spite of himself, he takes a moment to release Shawn. "Go on—go, get your clothes on, hurry!"

It's so strange, how this is the most Cain has managed to scare him in all the time he's known him. Though Shawn feels numb as he returns to the bedroom and dresses himself, including his thigh-strap full of knives and the gun holster around his chest. Possibly because it's the only way he can cope, other than making jokes.

When he goes back out he finds the kitchen empty but for the demons—and a carton of eggs sitting on the counter that he hadn't noticed before. God, he was out here to make me breakfast, and then—

He pushes that thought away, deciding that feeling sorry for himself (or Cain, either) isn't going to help.

And then he catches a glimpse of Cain out front through the window, holding both hands to his motorcycle.

"If there were any other spells attached to your bike, they're fried now," he says as Shawn walks out the front door, standing upright and turning to him. "You have everything?"

"Uhm—" God, his throat is so dry. "Yeah. Are you sure I wouldn't just be safer with you, since you can just... smite any demons that show up?"

Trust me, that's all I've been thinking about the past few minutes, he wants to say, but—

"It's better that you have no idea where I am. I can protect myself, but I can't be around you every minute of every day. Something could happen. You could—"

"I know." But I don't care.

"You're smart, you know how to protect yourself." It doesn't sound like a question, but they both know it is one. Shawn doesn't know how to answer. "...Promise me."

"What?"

"Promise me you can protect yourself, Shawn. And that you will. You understand that it's not just being around me—whatever storm's about to come, whatever Lilith does, you understand that I could become a danger—"

Shawn can't take it, he's too full of emotion and he can't leave without it anyway, so he grabs two handfuls of Cain's shirt and kisses him, hard and fast—and he feels all the anger in it, which somehow makes it more comforting. Unlike last night, Cain reciprocates without hesitation, and he clutches at Shawn's hair and his jaw like his life depends on it. Except more like Shawn's life depends on it.

"I'm so sorry this had to happen," Shawn whispers raggedly when he pulls away. The fact that he still isn't crying is a miracle.

"They would have come for me sooner or later," Cain assures him, his voice even more ragged, and possibly even more reluctant to let go. "I'm just sorry you had to be a part of it."

It seems that, just as readily as Shawn had forgiven all of his mistakes, Cain forgives Shawn's.

When he finally climbs on that motorcycle and prepares to just drive, as far as possible before stopping and finding some place to cover with warding sigils and shack up in, however, Cain only has five words to say to him:

"You better not fucking die."

Shawn revs his bike and smirks in spite of himself.

"I promise."

It's so hard to properly enjoy memories of a good fuck when you're also missing them like crazy, and when you know that you would have traded the sex for the chance to just stay in a heartbeat.

But Shawn supposes that since he couldn't have stopped it, he's glad that he took his chance when he did.

He definitely doesn't stop hunting (because what the fuck else is he supposed to do for money), but he stays out of Ohio. California too, since there's a pretty good chance that the demons who tracked him to Cain's place will be expecting him to return—though he makes sure to call Gus every week to check up on him.

He's careful about the jobs he takes. As hard as it is, now, with their quickly multiplying numbers, Shawn avoids demons altogether—no matter how good the pay might be to hunt one down.

Most of all he just keeps true to his promise: he tries very, very hard not to die, whereas he used to be far less concerned about his mortality.

In just a few months, it becomes evident that those demons had been attempting to recruit Cain for the literal apocalypse. Rumors are flying around the hunter community that not only are demons everywhere, but angels too—and that the Devil himself is walking the earth, building an army.

Of course, not everyone believes that, even as several hunters tell stories of demons they've exorcised who wasted their last words praising Lucifer and damning humankind. To many "it must be something else, angels aren't real and neither is the apocalypse"—but Shawn knows better.

And if Lucifer truly is out of his cage, then Shawn has more reason to be worried about Cain than himself these days. Nevermind that the world might turn into a sort of hellscape soon enough—what if Lucifer wants some kind of revenge for Cain killing all his Knights? What if he somehow takes the Mark back and kills him?

Worse than that, what if Cain's fear comes true, and Lucifer gets him to start killing again?

Shawn supposes that he'll have no way of knowing until it's too late, though, so it's better if he just avoids thinking about Cain altogether.

When he tells Gus about the apocalypse, his friend has a mental breakdown that takes several minutes to calm him down from before Shawn can even explain further:

"You need to pack up shop, alright? Don't even let anyone know you're leaving—just get as much money as you can, and all your essentials, and start driving."

"But I'm expecting a shipment tomorrow—"

"The road is the safest place to be right now, Gus!—especially since demons could already know you're affiliated with hunters and shit, you're honestly so lucky to not have been attacked yet, and just. Listen. I'll figure out some place to meet up—a gas station or something, and then we'll stick together. You'll be safe with me."

Gus agrees, but Shawn can tell that he's still holding back sobs.

The world is steadily becoming more and more of a nightmare, but Shawn continues to survive.

Even when he's forcing Cain out of his mind, it still feels like a duty. A responsibility. Because if he dies, what will Gus do? What will his parents do—assuming they're even still alive. He hasn't talked to them in years and it's probably for the best that he doesn't try to reconnect anytime soon.

Scratch that—Shawn doesn't just survive. He lives.

He enjoys himself, within certain limits. There's no reason not to, especially while every day could easily be his last (because despite his promise, there are inevitably some things he can't protect himself from).

He even manages to have a fling—though it lasts longer than most, so he isn't sure whether he can even call it that.

Her name is Juliet O'Hara and she's a fellow hunter, which Shawn knows the moment he first sees her because of the protective symbols she's got around her wrist. And as soon as he catches a glimpse of them, he approaches her with the line, "I'd heard rumors about angels being on earth theses days, but I didn't think I'd ever see one myself."

She raises an eyebrow the way women often do when men try to pick them up with stupid lines, and then she smirks.

"A cliche, but with a twist that's in context with current events. Nice."

"Looks like the apocalypse has its benefits."

Meanwhile, Gus is on the other side of the bar, still using that stupid Pluto line.

Juliet quickly becomes a part of his and Gus's team—though more like the leader of their team because as it turns out, she's the one with the most experience. She's got way more weapons, along with half a trunk full of books on lore and spells, plus another of just fake IDs and professional outfits for when she impersonates various members of the government.

Badassery all around. Looks like he has a type.

Though of course she isn't nearly as complicated as Cain. And at this point Shawn actually feels that this is what he needs: someone who he can just... have fun with. Someone who doesn't literally have intense, godlike power within them, or even takes a toll on his psychic senses at all. Someone who doesn't have a history behind them that matches the span of humanity itself—but instead, one closer to his own lifetime. Someone who gives him a relaxed sort of flutter anytime she touches him, rather than an electric surge.

Someone whom he doesn't put on any kind of pedestal, and who doesn't do that to him, either.

But that also makes her someone who can die, who can get hurt—someone who is susceptible to torture. Someone who, when faced with a demon, cannot simply smite it with her bare hands.

So when a pair of demons calling themselves Yin and Yang capture Juliet specifically to fuck with him, and (after he and Gus just barely manage to exorcise them) she comes out of it looking like she fell into a shredder, Shawn honestly regrets ever meeting her in the first place.

"God—Shawn—just kill me," she begs him, clearly in an unfathomable amount of pain.

This wouldn't have happened to her if she hadn't met me.

"I can't do that, Jules—listen, I'm taking you to a hospital, and once they fix you up you won't be any less beautiful, I promise."

"No, you don't understand, Shawn—just. I can't take it, I—"

If he just focused a bit he would, though—he would feel at least some of her agony and he would understand why she'd be better off dead, but in the moment it's better that he doesn't. Even a mercy killing would change him too much.

Luckily she blacks out from the pain before she can continue begging for death.

Gus helps carry her to the car and refrains from saying anything the whole ride to the hospital, even as they drop her off on the curb out front and wait in the parking lot to make sure someone finds her.

Once they drive off, though, Gus turns to him.

"What are we gonna do with her stuff while she recovers?"

"I'll put it in a storage unit," Shawn tells him without taking his eyes off the road. "And I'll mail the key to her hospital room so she can get to it once she's ready to leave."

"And then we'll meet back up with her, right?"

Shawn frowns and doesn't otherwise respond.

"...Right, Shawn? We're not just leaving her on her own."

"She probably won't even want to look at me when she's better, anyway."

"Come on, we both know that's bullshit. And besides, she's my friend too, you can't decide for the both of us that we're breaking it off with her just because you were the one sleeping with her—"

"Dammit, Gus!" he shouts, momentarily furious enough (mostly with himself) to slam his hands on the steering wheel. "If you want to track her down after all this shit is over, be my guest, but Juliet deserves better than me. And even if she does want to see me... I wouldn't want to be around her. Not when I know that everything that happened to her was my fault."

His friend is quiet after that, and for a while the only noise Shawn can hear is muffled music from other cars on the highway.

Eventually, though, Gus looks at him again and asks,

"How will she even know that you're staying away on purpose and that you haven't died?"

"...I'll add an apology letter when I send her the key to her stuff."

Possibly the roughest thing about the next few months is the guilt he feels over Juliet, but it passes. Once he officially learns that she's survived without too many horrific scars, his feelings for her move on swiftly and he merely hopes that she can find someone else to be happy with. Someone without all of his abilities and problems.

Not too long after, the pre-apocalyptic shitstorm seems to pass as well. One day there's a national-record high of missing persons in Detroit and the whole country is literally covered in storm clouds, and the next, it's all gone. All of a sudden people are saying that the infamous Winchesters have stopped the apocalypse somehow and now they're gone, and so is the Devil and most of the demons.

And as far as Shawn can tell, it's true.

Which means he did it. After all this mess, he's alive.

... And Gus still has no idea why he's even been so determined to live. Not that he's asked, but Shawn feels weird, keeping something like that from his best friend, especially after over a year of living the ride together, die together life.

Until he can make sure that it's safe to tell, though, some things just have to stay secret.

The very first thing Shawn does is check up on his parents to make sure they're still alive. As it turns out, his dad finally believes in demons, and only because his mom had a run-in with one and nearly got killed. She's taken up hunting a bit herself, these days.

And as long as it's been since he last saw either of them, he couldn't be more relieved that they're alive—and vice versa. Now that they know for sure that what he does is real, they make him promise to come visit regularly, just so they can be sure he hasn't been killed. Shawn agrees, though he's fairly sure that they don't need to worry about him now that the skies have cleared up.

After he takes Gus back home so he can resume his calm, suburban apothecary lifestyle (which he's naturally very excited for), he resumes his own life on the road.

It feels so fucking freeing to be back out—to be on his motorcycle again, riding alone with no obligations or responsibilities, and best of all with no dread in his heart. The demon population hasn't quite died down back to where it was a year ago, but the Big Bads certainly seem to be hibernating, if not actually dead. Meaning that there aren't at least two demons at every single restaurant, and that he doesn't have to be so selective about the jobs he takes anymore.

With most things back to normal, it seems that not even coincidence or probability is stopping him. Not for any longer than a month, anyway.

Shawn doesn't even go looking for him (because where would he even start)—it just happens. He's riding on a long, empty highway in Montana when he spots a dirt path off the side, leading into a huge field, and without thinking he just takes it.

It's only when he comes to a stop in front of an old, run-down ranch house and senses the familiar force inside that he even realizes whyhis instinct led him here.

Right as he steps off of his motorcycle, the front door of the house opens and an old, tired man steps out. And even though he's about twenty feet away, Shawn can still hear him mutter,

"I'll be damned."

Cain really isn't the type to enthusiastically run and meet someone in a reunion hug—but Shawn is, and he's relentless.

"How did you find me?" he asks, breathless as Shawn rams into him.

And unlike the first time Cain ever asked him that question, it's with a sob of relief and arms wrapping around him to return his hug with double the force. It would be painful if Shawn wasn't so overwhelmed already.

"I was just... drawn to you," he tells him, muffled slightly against Cain's chest. "It's over, isn't it? It's safe?"

"For now." That makes Shawn pull back and look at him questioningly, so he reassures him: "For a while, hopefully. We were... cut a bit short."

Shawn takes that as permission to resume what they had, and wastes no time in launching himself up to kiss him—so much so that he nearly knocks him over.

And Cain can't help but think of how he's had no way of knowing if Shawn was dead or alive these past months, and how he's been so afraid of Colette essentially happening all over again, but he tries so damn hard to just forget about all that for now and enjoy this kiss. He deserves it.

Seemingly too soon, Shawn breaks the kiss—but only just long enough to say, breathily and directly onto Cain's lips—

"Good thing I keep my promises."