Author's Note: Reading Point of Know Return and No One Together before reading Fight Fire With Fire is required.

Supernatural Season 5, Criminal Minds Season 12

Spencer wasn't happy.

One might think his sour disposition had something to do with his job, but one would be wrong. Sure, hunting wasn't the most uplifting of jobs, but neither was profiling; both jobs still made him feel content and accomplished at the end of the day. That was good, because an unhappy Spencer was not to be trifled with.

And Spencer wasn't happy.

"What did you just say?"

"Uh—"

"Don't. Think." Spencer put his hands on the arms of the chair, gripping the demon's wrists as he ground out a low demand. "Tell me what you just said."

"I said… word on the metaphorical street is… it won't be long before the big battle so…" the demon swallowed, tongue flashing over his split lip as half-bloody, blue-gray eyes scanned Spencer's face, "…so what you're asking… doesn't… matter."

"So, there are demons who seem to think Sam and Dean are going to say yes to Lucifer and Michael." Spencer pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out, calming himself. He wasn't mad at the demon, after all; unlike some people, the demon was being relatively cooperative and helpful. "How fact-based is the word on your metaphorical street?"

"Uh—" Eyes darted to the left, starting at the top and moving down before shooting back to

Spencer again. "I don't know." He leaned back as soon as he said the words, anticipating a blow. "I—I swear, I really don't. I know the demons are pretty sure about Dean." His vessel's young age showed when he hunched his shoulders and retreated into himself, reminding Spencer of a turtle. "There was a town with all these faked exorcisms and demonic activity and stuff, and I guess the Winchesters showed up, and Dean killed the Whore of Babylon, which only—"

"—a true servant of Heaven can do." Spencer heaved a sigh and let go of the chair, straightening up and looking, ironically, to the sky for help.

If it weren't for the blatant body language, Spencer would have been inclined to think the demon was lying, but Spencer had quickly learned that demons weren't used to being in vessels that subconsciously responded to truthfulness with their eyes.

"They're dead," Spencer muttered.

"No, I think they both made—"

Spencer glared down at the demon. "When I find them, they're dead."

"Ah." Nodding, the demon let his eyes wander to the floor and stay there. "Yes."

I have to call Garcia. Spencer ran a hand through his hair and turned his gaze upward again, still thinking. I can't risk confronting them over the phone—they might run or make a stupid move even sooner.

"Um…"

Spencer looked down again, watching the demon squirm and remembering there was another line of questioning he had to pursue before he could make his next move.

"You said… if I answered all your questions… I could go, so… can—"

"I never said you could go." Spencer smirked, folding his arms over his chest. "I said I wouldn't exorcise you. Besides, you haven't answered all my questions. Technically, I won't have asked all my questions until I'm dead, because only then will I neither have nor create any more questions. I can keep you in this trap until then without going back on my word."

The demon stared for a moment, surprised, but then a childish sort of anger twisted his features. "That's—that's cheating!"

"No, that's genius." Spencer tapped his temple and wagged the digit before turning toward a nearby table. He used the moonlight streaming in through the battered roof to navigate the broken-down warehouse, and once he got to his bag, he pulled out a thin case file. "Besides, I still have questions right now, so we aren't done either way."

Grumbling, the demon squirmed in his bonds, the struggle more for show than an actual attempt at escape. "You're still a cheater…"

Spencer laughed, dragging an old, collapsible chair over to the edge of the demon trap and sitting down. "I can live with that." He put his ankle on his knee and opened the file, supporting its weight with his legs. "There's one more thing I have to ask you about."

"Okay…" the demon replied cautiously, giving the file a suspicious look. "What is it?"

Spencer didn't need to read the file—sometimes he really loved his eidetic memory—so he was able to watch as every word made the demon tense a little more. "May 4th, 2007, a nineteen-year-old by the name of Adam Stallworth was in a bad car accident. He was on life support for a four days, and when they determined that, even if he did wake up, which was highly unlikely, he would be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life, the family opted to take him off."

The demon wearing Adam Stallworth's skin wouldn't meet Spencer's eyes—wouldn't even look in his general direction—and he was starting to dig his feet into the floor, like he thought he could scoot his chair out of the trap if he wanted it bad enough.

"Just as the hospital staff were about to pull the plug, Adam miraculously recovered. This all happened less than a week after the Hell Gate in Wyoming opened." Spencer felt himself smirk a little as the demon began to mutter curses under his breath. "Adam was non-violent, but his personality was different, something they attributed to the brain damage from the accident. He lived at home for about three months, and then went off to 'find himself,' demanding he not be followed."

Spencer folded his arms over his chest and let silence hang for several moments before clearing his throat to indicate the desire for eye contact. Once the demon looked up, Spencer pressed him with a simple fact and question combo. "In a couple months, you'll be coming up on three years of not causing trouble on Earth. Wanna tell me why that is?"

"Not really," the demon replied, shifting in the chair and pushing against the ground again. "I would much prefer you just let me go so I can keep being non-troublesome somewhere far, far away from here."

Spencer didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink.

"I…" Sighing, the demon sagged in the chair, fingers scratching at the paint on the arms. "The last time I got out of Hell was over 800 years ago, and I was on the outside for 227 years. I managed that because I kept to myself, and I liked it that way." He spoke a little faster, a note of desperation slipping into his voice, as if pleading with Spencer to understand. "If you don't cause trouble, there's no signs for hunters to spot and track; if no hunters find you, you stay out of Hell. I want to stay out of Hell, so I don't cause trouble. I just…" He shook his head, his voice shaking as he continued. "I just want to be left alone. Please. I swear, I've never hurt anyone topside. I won't hurt anyone topside, just… just let me go."

Spencer pursed his lips and gave a sideways sort of nod. "I could do that. But… I want you on speed dial in case I need more information, and I don't see that happening if I let you go."

Frowning, the demon tilted his head, confused and suspicious but a little bit hopeful. "You… want me on speed dial?"

Spencer smirked and gestured to the file again. "I interviewed Adam's family. Apparently, even though he fell off the grid, Adam writes them once a month. He even has Instagram and Snapchat accounts so they can see what he's up to. He doesn't talk to them daily, but even though he told them not to follow or look for him, they, and I quote, 'feel like he didn't cut them off, he's just on a long vacation.'"

The demon in Adam's body dropped his head, seeming ashamed more than anything, and he heaved a sigh. "I…"

"You didn't think it was fair to bring their loved one back with a fake miracle and then take him away again. That was kind, which is weird enough on its own, but it's not just that." Spencer drummed his fingers on the papers and then snapped the folder shut, standing up. "If you wanted to stay off the hunter radar, you couldn't just avoid trouble, you had to avoid other demons and monsters, as well. You only had humans and animals for company, and the Stallworths were right there, needing Adam in their lives, so you took advantage. But you didn't expect to get so attached, did you? You thought they would be a conversational fix, something to take off the edge of being alone, not family."

The demon started to squirm again, gritting his teeth, seeming almost frantic; like he would have preferred Spencer confront him about burning down a church or school full of people. "That's not… it wasn't… I didn't—"

"I think you like being out of Hell for more than the obvious reasons. I think you don't want the Stallworths to get hurt, and that means you don't want this Apocalypse." Spencer put his chair back and dropped his file on the table. "You didn't hear anything on the metaphorical street. You've been out there, looking for any way you can help, because you know the Stallworths are very unlikely to survive the apocalypse and the prizefight that ends it."

"I…" the demon trailed off and heaved a sigh. "What do you want me for?"

"Easy." Spencer approached the circle again, stepping within the boundaries of the trap and leaning on the arms of the chair again. "I've talked to a lot of demons over the past three weeks, and I know there's a deal you can make with me where all I have to do is put my own blood on a sigil, which the deal will put on my skin, and it will summon you."

The demon's mouth dropped open slightly. "I…" He shook his head, flabbergasted. "That's a deal very few demons can make. How did you…? Have you been… following me?"

Spencer smiled a little. "Make the deal, and information sharing goes both ways. Until then, you're the one tied to a chair, so…" He trailed off, pursing his lips and raising his brows. "What do you say?"

The demon held out for a moment or two, but then he slumped. "Like you said, I'm the one tied to a chair." He sighed and shook his head. "You have to say exactly what you want while the mark is being made, and it's going to hurt."

"I know." Spencer unstrapped the demon's right hand and held onto the wrist. "I also know that I need your name to make this work, so you might want to give me that."

The demon snorted, but there was an impressed kind of fear in his eyes. "You really did your homework, huh?"

"There's a sweater vest under this denim jacket." Spencer smiled amicably, and the demon scrutinized that smile for a long time before relenting.

"It's Xochiquetzal. Everybody calls me Xal."

"Then that's what I'll call you." Spencer smirked. "But not while making this deal, because that would make it invalid."

Xal sighed again. "Yeah, I figured. Worth a shot."

"At least you were smart enough not to try and give me a fake name." That was partly a bluff, but Spencer was still confident in the information he had been given—confident enough to carve a deal into his arm—so he wasn't about to risk tipping his hand by pressing for a definitive answer.

Xal said nothing. He flexed his fingers, and purple flames flared at the tips, traveling over the rest of the hand as Spencer released the wrist. "Shake the hand, speak the terms, and I'll be in Scotland before you."

Spencer grabbed it confidently, offering no more than a quiet hiss at the tingling, burning sensation in his hand. He looked at Xal, whose eyes were blazing purple like the fire on their hands, and he started to speak smoothly. "When this evidence of agreement is activated according to its own rules, Xochiquetzal will be summoned to my location with or without their consent, and—" he saw the demon tense at the unexpected addition, fear creeping into his eyes, "—when Xochiquetzal is in a situation they desire to be away from, this evidence of agreement will cause painful stimulation with or without my consent, and it will continue until Xochiquetzel has been summoned to my location with or without my consent. Summoning will always override local sigils, wards, and every relevant form of demon exclusion or expulsion."

Xal stared at him, shocked and confused, but there was no time to question the addendum. Purple fire shot up both arms and stopped just below the elbows, and then Spencer was shouting through clenched teeth as the marks dug their way into his flesh, muscling his way through the sensation of a burn and a cut combined. Xal was accustomed to the pain, so he did little more than screw his eyes shut and grit his teeth.

Both ends of fire surged back toward the center and disappeared between their palms, both of them withdrawing their hands as soon as the light was gone.

"Whew." Spencer took a deep breath and blinked away the tears in his eyes. "That was painful." He pulled his right arm out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, looking at the intricate pattern of circles, symbols, and lines woven up and down his forearm and hand. "I think Morgan would approve."

"Who?"

Spencer looked up and saw Xal in the process of taking off the final restraint, freeing his leg and holding up the leather strap with a mildly impressed expression.

"These are nice."

"That's for your benefit." Spencer took the leather and then scuffed out the edge of the circle, crouching down and gathering the remaining straps. "Doesn't cut into your skin like ropes do."

Xal scoffed, but he kept a good distance between himself and Spencer at all times, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "I dunno if you got the memo, but we're pretty much invincible."

"I got the memo, I just don't believe it." Spencer took the restraints to his bag and stuffed them in, followed by Adam Stallworth's file. "I think that after Hell, nothing on Earth can make you show pain if you don't want to, and it's safer for the general population—especially hunters—to think you don't feel any. It allows you to control how much pain they try to cause you, because you control what weapons they think they can use." He zipped up his bag and threw it over one shoulder, turning to look at Xal. "You headed out, or are you coming with me?"

Xal looked at him for a moment, a combination of wary, confused, and angry crossing his features, and then he snorted. "You chewing out the Winchesters is something I gotta see."

Spencer laughed softly and shook his head, turning around and making his way toward the broken door. "Then come on. I'm going to get their location from a friend, and I can tell you all about my intensive investigation of you and demonic contracts on the way."

Xal blew his bangs out of his eyes and jogged after Spencer, emitting an angry huff that once again made Spencer think of a temperamental child. "Good, 'cause I wanna know how you know all this. We've been running this show for centuries, and we've never—you just—" he threw his hands up, stopping outside the passenger door to Spencer's car. "You used gender-neutral terms in your contract so I can't use a female host body as a loophole, you figured out the pain thing when no one else has, you somehow found me when I don't do anything that makes me, y'know, findable, just—seriously, how?"

Spencer tossed his bag in the back and leaned against the driver's side, folding his arms on the roof and smiling over at Xal. "It's because I'm not a hunter."

"Well, what are you then?" the demon shot back, scowling.

Spencer grinned. "I'm a profiler. I just happen to be a profiler who hunts."

Spencer threw the door open and pulled his knife from his pocket, nicking the tip of his finger and smearing the blood over the center of the opposite palm.

"Ooh, that felt weird." Xal rubbed his stomach. "Haven't been summoned with that deal since the last time I was topside."

"You alright?"

Xal gave him a sideways look and a nod.

"Good." Spencer started for the panic room, already able to hear Sam and Dean arguing downstairs. "Stay close, or they might kill you." If they're arguing outside the panic room, one of them definitely did something. Xal's information is looking more reliable by the minute.

Spencer started down the stairs, his temper already burning from the hours of driving spent in angry contemplation, and he found Sam with Castiel outside the panic room. "Oh, good. That saves time."

Sam startled and turned on the spot. "Spencer?"

Spencer ignored him and stormed up to the panic room, beginning the process of unlocking the door.

"Uh, Spencer, I can explain—" overlapped with, "Please don't smite me, I'm with him."

Spencer whirled, halfway through his task. "Castiel! You touch him, you die. And Sam, I am counting on an explanation, believe me, but not about this." He jerked the door open. "Dean! Get out here now, and everybody get upstairs."

Spencer stormed away from the door and grabbed Xal by the arm, pushing him up the stairs and following right behind him.

"Is there time to make popcorn?" the demon asked, his tone chipper.

"No, there is not time to make popcorn." Spencer grumbled and rolled his eyes, making a beeline for the library. "Hey, Bobby. I'm ticked off."

Bobby looked up from his desk and slowly arched a brow. "I can see that. You wanna tell me why there's a demon in my living room?"

Spencer gave him an exasperated look the older gentleman knew meant Spencer was almost out of patience and all explanations would come in due time. Bobby let it drop for the time being, and Spencer waited impatiently for the three occupants down below to make their way up above.

"Hey, Poindexter, long time no see," Dean greeted casually, clearly trying to calm the wrong waters.

"I know about hunting," Spencer deadpanned. "I know about monsters, and angels, and the Apocalypse." He put his hand on Xal's head just as Sam and Castiel entered. "This is my demon. He stays. Bobby, he got past your wards based on a summoning agreement I can explain later."

Xal raised his hand slightly. "Hi. I'm just here to see the most terrifying hunter I've ever met lay into the Winchseters. I wanted popcorn but—"

"Xal."

"Shutting up." Xal sat on the end of the couch immediately.

"Hunter?" was echoed by Dean. "Hunter?"

"Terrifying?" was echoed by Castiel, his voice thick with confusion.

"Uh, why are you laying into us?" Sam hesitantly asked.

Spencer folded his arms over his chest, tapping his finger on his bicep, hair messy—both from driving with the windows down and repeatedly running his hands through it—and cheeks flushed. "You know, Sam, that is a great question, but we're gonna address mine first. Dean, did you kill the Whore of Babylon?"

"Uh—" Dean slowly held up a finger. "That's a long story."

"So, that's a yes." Spencer glared at each of them in turn. "What is wrong with you? Seriously, what is wrong with you? I don't know what you think you're doing, but this—" he gestured wildly to everyone in the room, "—this is not a team, this is a train wreck, and this is definitely not how you kill Satan!"

"We can't kill Satan," Castiel intoned.

Sam stuttered, his mouth only half-open.

"Wait… so, you're a hunter?" Dean squinted. "When did that happen?"

Focus, Dean. Focus. Spencer ran his hands through his hair, gripping the tangled strands and letting out a heavy sigh. "I met up with Sam back when you first split up—also known as Stupid Idea #218—and he told me about… everything, really. He left Bobby's number for me when he went to meet up with you."

Three heads turned to look at Bobby, one inquiring and two accusatory, but Bobby just held his hands up. "What? He's good. He's smart, he's got all the lore memorized, and he hooked me up with a hacker at the FBI who makes my job a whole lot easier." Bobby glanced Spencer's way. "She's a sweetheart, by the way."

"Yes. Yes, she is." Spencer gave him a brief, weak smile, but never really let his attention leave the trio on his left. "Bobby taught me some things, and I've been hunting for seven months and fourteen days."

"Spencer—" Sam didn't get very far.

"No. You want to lecture me on hunting, as if you have the right, you do that later. Right now, we're talking about the 'end of the world' stuff, and the 'we need a game plan that doesn't suck' stuff, and the 'what happened to the guys that helped me through one of the worst withdrawals of my life because you three are not them' stuff. That is the stuff that's getting talked about tonight." Spencer thought about maybe getting his temper under control, but then he decided it had been years since he let himself be truly angry—and actually express that anger—and he embraced the rage instead.

"Sit down. I'm going to make coffee, and then you're going to tell me everything that has happened since you reunited in August, and then I'm going to yell at you some more. No, this isn't optional." Spencer turned to walk into the kitchen but was stopped by Dean's voice.

"Uh, actually—"

Spencer turned and met Dean's gaze evenly, growling out a single command in a low and even tone, pushing a kind of authority in his voice he hadn't even used when facing Miss .45. "Sit."

There was a moment of hesitation, but Dean and Sam and Castiel slowly started to follow instructions. Castiel sat next to Xal with a distasteful grimace that was returned in an exaggerated fashion with the addition of a stuck-out tongue. Sam sat next to Castiel, and Dean dragged a chair to the opposite side of the room and sat down.

Spencer heaved a sigh and rubbed his forehead.

This is going to be a long night.

"So… Boy Wonder made a deal with you?"

"Yup. He can summon me wherever, whenever, and I don't go back to Hell."

Spencer noted how Xal left out the part of the deal that was helpful for Xal, which was probably best considering the parties involved.

"I can still smite you without breaking that deal. You wouldn't—"

"Castiel!" Spencer barked over his shoulder, shoving the coffee and filter into its appropriate slot a moment later. "Keep your holy hands off my demon."

"I'm not your demon."

"My hands aren't holy."

Spencer only sighed again. A very, very long night.

"You are unbelievable." Spencer ran his hands through his hair as he paced, heart pounding in his chest, cheeks reddening a little more with every passing second. Getting them to explain the situation had done absolutely nothing to soothe his temper and an awful lot to make it burn hotter. "You're ridiculous, all three of you. You're complete and total idiots."

"Hey," Dean snapped and nursed his coffee. "Check yourself, Poindexter."

"Me?" Spencer whirled on him—on all three of them—and his voice rose about a half an octave. "I need to check myself? Dean, you are so far out of line it's a circle now! Sam lying to you and trying to do the right thing in a way everyone said was stupid and dangerous is how we got here in the first place. You've barely forgiven him, barely started trusting him, and now you're gonna turn around and make the same mistake? That's what we call hypocrisy, Dean."

Dean glanced away at that, at least having the decency to look ashamed of the obvious flaw in his logic; of how much it must have frustrated and hurt Sam.

Spencer grabbed the pot of coffee from Bobby's desk and poured himself a cup, continuing his lecture. "Castiel!"

Castiel looked up from where he leaned against the wall, silent and impassive.

"I know you trust Sam and Dean, and that's great, and I know Jacob is a big deal in Heaven, but—" he spread his arms, incredulous, "—did you really take Sam and Dean's word for it, when they took Jacob's word for it, when Jacob said God abandoned you? You didn't think maybe something got lost in translation?" Spencer drank half of his cup and set it back down, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not even saying God does care. Maybe He doesn't. I don't know. But if you're willing to take not second-hand, but third-hand information of that magnitude as fact, newsflash, you never had faith in the first place."

Castiel actually flinched at that, eyes averting. "I…"

Spencer wet his lips and turned to Sam, who he was least angry at but far from pleased with. "You should have called me. If for nothing but emotional support and someone to bounce ideas off of. You should have called me. You know you should have."

Sam looked down and offered a faint nod. "Yeah."

Dean inhaled and finished his coffee, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling with feigned disinterest. "Yeah, we all screwed up. I think we get it."

"I doubt that," Spencer snapped back. "But thank you for bringing up the next problem for me: you'll believe anything you hear. You agree to things faster than anybody I have ever known." He started to pace, stopped, and then started again. "Do any of you actually think for yourselves? Ever?"

Sam opened his mouth to object, but Spencer wasn't having it.

"First of all, what exactly—Bobby, help me with this." Spencer pointed to the man behind the desk, snapping his fingers. "Keep track of this for me."

Bobby arched a brow. "'Scuse me?"

Spencer dropped his arm and softened his voice. "Uh… sorry. Can you please keep track of the ideas I bring up? I want to review it later."

"Better." Bobby grabbed a legal pad and a pen, tearing off the first sheet. "Okay. Go."

"Where do I even start?" Spencer spread his arms, pacing again. "How about the obvious? You said you tried the Colt. You shot Lucifer once, he didn't die, and you've decided the Colt can't kill him."

Sam sighed softly. "We didn't just decide, Spencer. There are five things the Colt can't kill, and Lucifer is one of them."

"Mhm. Yeah." Spencer folded his arms over his chest. "Who told you that?"

Sam didn't say anything, but that was more than enough.

"Right. So, the Father of Lies tells you the gun in your hand can't kill him, and you immediately believe him and don't even attempt another bullet? You know, some humans can survive being shot in the head. Don't get me wrong, they wouldn't just walk it off like he did, and it's incredibly rare, but are you really telling me one attempted shooting is all you need to throw in the towel and say you can't get the job done?" He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Unbelievable."

"We didn't just throw in the towel," Castiel snapped, his arms coming up to cross over his chest in an unusually human kind of way. "Sam and I still believe there's a way out of this."

"Oh, really? How about you act like it?" Spencer looked between Castiel and Sam, arms folded over his chest, lips twisted int a scowl. "I already said you should have called me, and you'll admit that, but have you thought about other people you could be calling? How many angels have you talked to?"

Castiel, Sam, Dean, and even Bobby all stared back blankly. Xal grinned to himself, finding the entire exchange immensely gratifying.

"Think about how many angels you know for a fact are completely on board with Zachariah and Michael and Raphael. How many angels are there, Castiel? Thousands? Millions? How many have you asked for help?"

More staring, some jaws moving without words.

"How about demons? You've told me about Crowley, and he's not some dissident, he's the King of Hell. Xal over here doesn't want the Apocalypse. Did you try to get a list of contacts from Crowley? How about monsters? They might not like you, but I bet they like the thought of dying or losing their homes a lot less. If the whole world ends, that means the end for vampires, werewolves, shtriga, pagan deities—everything. They might be more inclined to cooperate than usual." Spencer barely took a breath. "How many other hunters have gotten involved in this? How many humans—churches, cults, environmentalist groups—have picked up on the signs of Apocalypse? Have they tried to do something about it? Have you reached out to them?" Spencer topped off his cup and downed the entire mug in one go, ignoring the brief blurring of his vision and the heat in his head. "Remember, Lucifer is powerful, but he's also out of practice; the newer something is, the less likely he'll be ready to deal with it, and humans and monsters and demons are the allies we need for that. There are literally dozens of options here, and I can tell from the looks on your faces that you haven't considered any of them."

Spencer ran his hand through his hair, still pacing, feeling an odd sensation as his temper simultaneously grew hotter and faded, his body too tired to keep up with his emotions. "Let's talk Lucifer for a moment. What's keeping the angels from killing him in his current vessel? He's not at full power because he's not in the body he was supposed to be in; from what you've said about his current level of maintenance, you should be able to destroy his body just by cutting off his access to demon blood.

Castiel let out a patronizing sigh, leaning against the wall to Spencer's right with a slow headshake. "He would simply seek out another vessel."

"Yeah, and?" Spencer looked at him expectantly, arms spread to indicate how thoroughly he welcomed an argument. "It would slow him down, it would give us time to find a permanent solution, and it would be a lot better than a worldwide ground zero." He started to pace again as he spoke, hands gesticulating out of habit. "Or maybe the angels could just kill him in his current vessel, like I said earlier. What about an exorcism? Sam once mentioned Castiel almost getting exorcised, so clearly it can be done to angels. Is there such a thing as an angel trap? Could we invent an angel trap? Holy fire worked on Gabriel, and he's an archangel, could it work on Lucifer? Everyone has a weakness, we just have to find Satan's."

Castiel furrowed his brow, lips moving somewhat disjointedly. "That is… not… necessarily a bad idea, but the chances of—"

"I'm the math nerd, I'll figure out the chances. Right now, all that matters is that there is a chance." Spencer fell back against the desk with a sigh, the fatigue of the past several days catching up with him as his temper struggled to keep him going. "Have you looked into the timeline for all of this? Because, if I recall correctly, and of course I do, Lilith had to be killed at a specific point in a chain of events prior to the Apocalypse even starting, or the whole thing would have fallen apart. She had to be last seal, right? Maybe if Lucifer doesn't get a permanent vessel by a certain time, or maybe if this prizefight doesn't happen before a certain event, it falls apart the same way. If we can manipulate the surrounding events, we might be able to stop them without actually stopping them directly."

Dean rubbed his face and drank some more coffee. "What are the chances of it being that easy?"

"It already was that easy, Dean!" Spencer blew his bangs out of his eyes, zeroing in on the infuriatingly apathetic hunter. "If Lilith had been killed before the correct number of seals were opened, we wouldn't even be in this mess! Lucifer, Michael, Heaven, Hell, the Apocalypse, the Horsemen—all of it would have been stopped in its tracks with just a little bit of jiggery-pokery in the schedule. So, yeah, actually, I think the chances are pretty good that there is at least a way to slow things down hidden in the foretold chain of events."

Dean glanced down at that, and he looked like he was considering the idea, but all he did was drink some more coffee.

"Spencer," Sam started, hesitating for a moment before he went on. "Spencer, this isn't just another demon or a vengeful spirit. It's Lucifer. It's—it's the Lucifer." He gestured to the space around them. "What are we supposed to do? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm with you on Dean saying no to Michael, but…"

Spencer arched his brows. "But?"

Sam buffered for a moment. "But it's not as easy as you're making it out to be."

Spencer shook his head. "No, what you meant to say was, 'but I know why Dean really wants to do this, and the last thing he needs it someone attacking him.' But sure, your answer works, too."

Sam seemed affronted, but Dean spoke before he had the chance to express his displeasure.

"What do you mean why I really want to do this?" the older hunter snapped.

"You're not thinking about doing this because you think it's right or wise, you're thinking about doing it because you're tired. You're tired of saying no, you're tired of being toyed with, you're tired of watching people die—you're exhausted and angry, and you just want it to be over." Spencer met Dean's gaze evenly. "And I get that, Dean. I really, really do get that. But that's what family is for. Family is there to say no when you can't anymore, and rather than letting your family do that for you, you're diving headfirst into surrender and insisting you have no choice."

Dean opened his mouth, but Spencer cut him off.

"I'm in no place to tell anybody what to do with their body." Spencer chuckled a bit nervously. "I'm not even a year sober." Hopefully no one did the math and realized Spencer had relapsed at least once after the motel incident. "But I will tell you no matter how much better you feel when you get high, you will come down again, and it will be worse when you do. You can get rid of the pain and the fatigue and the… emptiness… for a little while, but when you wake up, it's nothing but shame and self-loathing, and everything you dealt with before has been doubled, and all you want to do is give up all over again. Michael can't save you from that."

Dean swallowed hard and averted his eyes, examining his shoelaces.

Spencer let out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair for what had to be the millionth time. "You owe me, at the very least, an attempt to solve this problem with me as a part of the team."

"I don't owe you anything," Dean snarled, but his anger didn't last. "I didn't even know you were hunting."

Spencer said nothing, watching Dean, waiting for the inevitable continuation.

"I… I guess we can try some of those ideas." Dean heaved a sigh. "Beats being a hand puppet for Michael."

"Yeah, it kinda does." Spencer let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehead, the last bit of fight draining from his body. "Xal, how does Crowley feel about you?"

Xal shrugged his shoulders, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. "We have a relationship of mutual respect revolving around our shared, intense desire not to deal with other people." He looked at Spencer and shrugged again. "We don't like each other, but we don't like anyone, so we get along well enough."

"Can he be helpful without putting us at a huge disadvantage?" Spencer asked, still massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Not a clue, but I can find out." Xal got to his feet and stretched, cracking his back and neck. "I'll keep my ear to the metaphorical street." He moved toward the kitchen as if to leave, but he stopped short and gave Spencer a wry little grin. "What you said about the timeline, was that, uh… was that a technical term? Jiggery-pokery?"

Spencer's eyes widened slightly, and he cautiously replied. "Yeah, I came first in jiggery-pokery." He arched a brow. "What about you?"

Xal grinned a little wider. "Not me. I failed hullabaloo."

Spencer extended a hand slightly and whispered. "We have so much to talk about."

"Agreed." Xal slipped his hands into his pockets, pleased. "I'll Snapchat you when I know something."

Spencer gave a thumbs up. "Same."

"Snapchat?" Dean echoed, sounding disgusted.

Spencer ignored him, waving until Xal disappeared, and then he returned to the task at hand. "I need sleep before I can start sketching out some plans. I'm also waiting on a callback from the Black Queen." Garcia had asked him very nicely—begged him, really—to use her old hacker name when referring to her in a hunting setting. "If I don't pick up, she'll call you, Bobby."

Bobby gave a slight nod. "I can start looking into some of these ideas."

"We all can," Sam agreed, standing up and moving closer to the desk.

Castiel turned angry eyes to Dean. "Do we need to lock you up, or are you going to stay?"

Dean simply flipped him off and went into the kitchen, and if Spencer weren't so burnt out, he would have made more than a passing note of the hurt on both their faces.

Spencer nodded a few times and let out a long stream of air, turning away from the library. "Cool. I gotta get some stuff from my car." Mostly, he needed fresh air. "I'll see you guys in the morning." Because he was probably going to sneak in the back—or potentially climb up the outside of the house—in a desperate attempt to avoid further contact.

Spencer heard the storm door bang shut behind him, and he let his mask slip a little, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He knew his brain should have been buzzing, processing everything at the speed of light and filing it away for future reference, but he couldn't form a single coherent thought. His body was heavy, his chest was tight, he felt like he was drowning, and yet he had a thirst desperate to be quenched.

No, he thought. Not thirst. Craving.

Hunting might have given him a purpose and direction, but it didn't change the fact that his team—his family—was gone. Garcia knew what he did, because she could offer help from a distance and was most likely to believe him, but his conversations with everyone else on the team were riddled with lies. That was, of course, when he talked to them, which wasn't often.

Hotch was still in witness protection with Jack. Nobody knew where he was, what he was doing, or who he was pretending to be. In Spencer's limited free time, he tried to research the Mr. Scratch case and send leads to Garcia, but the case was far from closed, so Hotch was far from coming home.

Morgan and JJ were wrapped up in their lives as parents, which Spencer fully understood, and that left Rossi and Garcia as the two people who had the most contact with Spencer. He visited sometimes, but every time he saw them—and every time he said goodbye—it got harder, and he had a sinking feeling that one day he was going to leave Quantico behind and never come back. Honestly, part of him wondered if that was why he had been so fond of making a deal with Xal; if it was because he wanted someone who would show up whenever he needed them whether they liked it or not.

Spencer folded his arms on the trunk of his car and lowered his head, taking a few deep breaths to ease the muscles in his chest. He ran his hand through his hair a few times, idly tugging at the tangled locks until it caused enough pain to ground him.

I don't know what I'm even doing.

"Spencer?"

Spencer jumped and swore loudly, his face heating up as soon as he registered his own language. "Sorry," he muttered. "That's… not like me."

Sam pressed his lips together and offered a slight nod, looking worried. "Yeah, I know." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "You know, we never did talk about how you were doing."

Spencer glanced up, his brain shorting out when he made an attempt at comprehension. "Huh?"

"That night in the bar, you said you were having a hard time. We were supposed to talk about it, but then I…" Sam glanced away, a guilty expression contorting his features. "I got carried away."

Spencer shook his head slowly, his eyes wandering back to the trunk. "No, that was the plan." He leaned forward again, resting his chin on his folded arms and staring blankly through his rear windshield. "I knew if I made it about me, you would offer to help, and I could…" he sighed, exhausted. "It was just the plan. Don't feel bad."

Sam didn't say anything for a moment, but then Spencer felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey." Sam squeezed the joint. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

Spencer didn't react for several moments, but then he let out a sigh. "Nothing you can fix, Sam. Especially not with…" he gestured toward the house behind him.

"Well," Sam started, frustration slipping into his voice. "Can I try?"

Spencer turned his head to look at Sam, laying it on his arms and heaving another sigh. He saw the concern and guilt on Sam's face, and it made him feel a little guilt of his own. Hadn't he just lectured Sam on not calling when he needed help?

"Can you try tomorrow?" Spencer muttered, watching Sam's face carefully.

Sam gave him a tight smile and a nod, letting his hand fall from Spencer's shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, you look tired."

Spencer blinked slowly. "I'm not the kind of tired sleep can fix, Sam."

Sam's expression saddened, but there was clear understanding in his eyes. "That's okay. We'll figure it out."

Spencer blinked again and sighed, his body slouched against the back of his car. He was vaguely aware of Sam tugging on his shoulders, and then he was upright and moving toward the house. It took a moment for him to gain control over his limbs, but by the time they walked in the front door, Spencer was able to grapple with the staircase railing and stagger upstairs.

"Spencer?"

"M'fine."

Spencer didn't let Sam try again, turning into the guest room he often used when staying with Bobby. He stumbled to the bed and fell face-first into the mattress, shoes and jacket still on, cell phone in his pocket, gun on his hip. He was unconscious before he could figure out whether or not he was too uncomfortable to sleep.

"Today I found a message floating,

In the sea from you to me.

It said that when you could see it,

You cried with fear, the Point was near;

Was it you that said, 'How long, how long

To the Point of Know Return?'"

- Point of Know Return, Kansas