DISCLAIMER: Supernatural, in all its glory, doesn't belong to me.

A/N: This follows Crossroad Blues in the timeline, but has a very heavy emphasis on Faith.

Short Summary: What happens when faith is lost, and the devil comes around, instead?

Long Summary: Dean returns to Nebraska to find his faith again…only to have it tested even further as he comes face-to-face with the powerful Hekataia, Demon of the Crossroads again. This time, he tries to make a bargain for his soul, to right a wrong from the past. Who can save Dean this time?

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CHAPTER ONE: Miracles

"Here you go," the waitress slid his plate in front of him, and Dean Winchester smiled at the pretty redhead.

"Thanks."

She—Hannah, as her nametag told him—smiled invitingly at him, her green eyes appreciative. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Dean smiled at her, but knew that it didn't reach his eyes. On any other day, he might have just taken up Hannah on her offer. But tonight, he couldn't muster the desire. It wasn't that she wasn't beautiful. She was cute, had all the right curves, and legs for days.

No, it wasn't Hannah. It was him.

He was tired.

Soul-tired. Heavy inside, dulled all around, and hard like ice. Cold-tired. Untouchable.

"No, thanks," he replied with a half-hearted attempt at a friendly smirk. "Maybe some other time, Hannah,"

The little spark in Hannah's eyes doused itself, and she smiled regretfully at Dean. "All right, then. Enjoy your meal."

He nodded briskly, then turned to look at his food.

Suddenly, his stomach churned at the sight of his meal. It wasn't that the food looked unappetizing. It was steak: medium-rare, still bloody on the inside, lightly browned outside, soft and juicy—just the way he liked it.

No, it wasn't his food. It was him.

He was too unsettled—like a raging storm was inside of him, and it made his stomach toss and turn. It made everything taste like ash in his mouth. He put down his fork and knife, and stared at his food. He wondered if he should ask for a refund.

"Dean…"

The woman's voice sang out his name. It was soft, slightly lilting, very sweet. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a voice he would recognize even in his dreams.

"Layla," he whispered in disbelief, long before he looked up to see her standing in front of him.

She smiled widely. It was the smile that he remembered from his dreams: red lips that curved prettily, eyes that crinkled at the corners. The blue of those eyes so dark they were almost black, but sparkled with genuine interest. He remembered the tilt of her head that was so disarming, yet artless.

He had labeled all of that long ago in his mind: Layla's smile.

He blinked rapidly, afraid that he was envisioning something that shouldn't be there.

"Hi," she said softly, and approached his table tentatively, her gloves and scarf dangling from her hands.

He still couldn't say anything.

Layla had had a brain tumor. She had been dying. Should have been dead, as far as the doctors had told her. But she was standing before him, looking as real as could be.

He stood up briskly, as if suddenly just remembering his manners. "Layla," he said again, her name sounding unreal to his ears. He hadn't spoken her name out loud since they had said goodbye. But he had whispered her name in his heart as he prayed for her—just like he had promised.

She was the only person he ever even glanced at a church reverently for.

His lips curved to a tentative smile as he gestured for her to sit across the table from him. "Hi!" he said, his voice sounding slightly high-pitched and awkward, "What…uh, what are you doing here?"

He almost slapped his palm onto his face in exasperation. It sounded like he was asking her why the hell she was alive when she was supposed to have died a year ago. It was why he had left Sam to go on this road trip alone. He had wanted to just…well, it was sentimental, but he had wanted to pay his respects.

She smiled even more, the kindness that he had always remembered about her still hung around her like a protective cloak. "I live here, remember?" she joked lightly, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

She slid into the booth, and Dean plopped back onto his seat, still feeling slightly awkward. In a way, he had a right to be awkward. He had come back to put flowers on her grave, not see her alive. "Uh…yeah, I remember." Only too well.

She looked at him as if reading his thoughts, then shrugged lightly, "Go ahead, ask it," she encouraged, her lips twisted into an amused smile. "Ask, Layla, how are you doing?"

Dean half-snorted, half-chuckled, but he asked her anyway. "Layla, how are you doing?"

"I got my miracle."

Dean blinked once. Twice. Then a smile worked its way onto his lips, until his whole face followed. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand in his, and squeezed. "I'm glad."

And he was. He really was.

Something eased inside his heart, like ice shackles finally melting. He realized how hungry he was all of a sudden. His stomach growled, and Layla laughed.

It was a sound that warmed him, melting more of the ice inside. He realized that he still held her hand in his—he was no longer untouchable, either. Her fingers were long and thin, soft and warm. She made no move to take her hand from his, and he held fast.

For a moment, Dean felt his cynicism melt away. For a moment, he just let himself believe in her miracle. For a moment, Dean forgave himself for being alive—for not being able to save Layla.

She had never once questioned Dean's right to be cured. She had accepted it all with her trademark smile, a small nod, and wished him well for the rest of his life. In fact, she had cherished the fact that he had been cured far more than he ever did.

Dean looked away, as he remembered how she had tried to reassure him that he was going to be okay. Even when it had been she who had been dying.

He cleared his throat, and slipped his hand off of hers. "Join me?" he invited, already trying to catch the waitress's attention.

"Sure," she replied easily. "I haven't had anything most of the day."

Hannah approached the table. "Hey, Layla, the usual?"

"Yes, thanks, Hannah."

"Come here often?" he asked of her.

"All the time," she smiled.

Dean noticed Hannah looking back and forth between the two of them. "So, you two know each other?" the waitress asked, tapping her pen on her notepad thoughtfully.

He cleared his throat, unsure how to explain exactly what they were. Layla was someone who had passed through his life once, and he in hers. She had touched him in that quiet way of hers—changed him, just a little bit. What did that make her to him? What was he to her? A stranger you come across once or twice in your life?

But Layla smiled at his discomfort, and introduced him. "This is Dean. He's an old friend."

An old friend.

Dean accepted that. "Yeah, yeah," he acknowledged with a slow, but genuine smile now. Hannah smiled warmly at him, "Nice to meet you, Dean." After a light squeeze on Layla's shoulder, she left to put in the order.

"So, how is Sam?" asked Layla.

"You remember him, too," he remarked with a small grin.

She rolled her eyes, "Dean, I doubt that you and your brother are on anyone's 'easy-to-forget-list'."

Dean scratched his head lightly and shrugged. "Thanks, I guess," he chuckled. Then he looked at her suspiciously, "Wait, is that a good thing?"

She laughed. "Definitely a good thing."

He nodded amiably and shrugged. "Sam…he's all right. Still…Sam."

"He's a good kid, Dean," she remarked. "Loves you a lot. Least, enough to believe in something he considered unbelievable."

Dean ducked his head and sniffled self-consciously. In Layla's eyes, he was still the walking, breathing miraculous result of Roy Le Grange's faith. She never knew about the Reaper. She would never know about the Reaper.

But she still had a point there. Sam hadn't known about the Reaper until after Dean had been healed. Sam had believed, if only for a fleeting moment. "Yeah," he croaked uneasily, hating the reminder of his brush with Death. "He's a good kid."

Her smile broke a bit, as she noticed his discomfort. This time it was she who reached across the table and touched his sleeve. "Everything good?"

Dean felt like ice inside again. No matter how bright and warm Layla was, she would never understand that nothing in his life was ever just good.

Nothing.

He looked into her concerned midnight eyes, and forced himself to nod once. "Course," he lied blandly.

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push either. He felt a gentle squeeze on his wrist before she let go.

Her food arrived, giving Dean the moment to recover. He shoved food into his mouth, even when they tasted like ash all over again. What was he doing back here? What right did he have to come back to her? What brought him back?

The answer was simple: his encounter with the Crossroads Demon had shaken him. It had shaken him so badly that he had needed a reminder that there were people who had faith enough to weather through the evils in their lives.

He had needed to remember that. He had wanted to remember her. He had desperately needed her strength.

"Dean?"

Her lilting voice brought him back out of his reverie. "Oh, uh…hmm?"

Her lips quirked, "I said that you look like you're having an attack of a guilty conscience for eating a cow,"

He chuckled in surprise, allowing himself to the warmth of the present. He grinned at her appreciatively, a small spark back inside of him. "You know…I never pegged you as being a comedian. Ha. Ha." He drawled sarcastically.

"Well, that's okay. I initially wrote you off as a chauvinistic jack-ass. Never pegged you as a sensitive, prayerful type."

He gave her the slow, appreciative smile again. It was the same smile he had flashed at her the first time they met, outside of Roy Le Grange's tent. It was a smile that told her that she wasn't very far-off from her initial assessment.

A blond, perfectly-arched eyebrow went up in response his smile. "Dean." There was playful reproof in her voice.

He shrugged and leaned back onto his seat, eyeing her appreciatively. "Let's put it this way, Layla, this chauvinistic jack-ass only ever prays for you."

She burst out laughing. But it was an appreciative laugh, her eyes never leaving his, dancing happily. "That's the most original pick-up line I've ever heard. You just might get points for that."

"I was a little proud of it myself," he grinned.

She nodded, a small, comfortable silence descending between them. "I'm glad you're here, Dean." She said honestly. "What brings you to Nebraska? Work?"

Dean looked away for a moment and licked his lips before answering. "No…uh…not really."

She looked expectantly at him, but Dean didn't say anything else. He smiled feebly at her, then shoved a piece of steak into his mouth, effectively excusing himself from having to say anything more. She smiled that smile. And again, she didn't push. But she told him well enough with her eyes that she knew he wasn't being very forthcoming.

"How's your mom?" he asked changing the subject. He grimaced slightly as he remembered the fierce older lady. She had been the one who had unflinchingly voiced out his biggest fears. Right to his face.

Why? Why is your life worth saving more than my daughter's?

Dean honestly didn't know back then. He still didn't know now. And it wasn't just Layla's life. There was the other guy whose life had been taken in exchange for his. And then there was…his father.

He was so caught up in his own dismal thoughts that he almost missed the flash of sorrow that passed over Layla's face. He leaned forward, a concerned frown knitting his brows. "Layla? What is it?"

"She died."

Dean felt himself shut down briefly. The mention of death always did that to him. He mentally shook himself. He licked his suddenly-dry lips. "I'm sorry," he whispered, even knowing that his words were mostly ineffectual to ease the kind of grief she must have felt.

"Yeah. Me, too."

His eyes flickered at the regret he heard in her voice. "Tell me," he urged.

She looked away from him again, her face taking on a far-away, almost confused look. "She never knew I got better. They said she died just a few moments after I was healed. Nobody could explain it. She just fell dead—her heart just stopped."

A cold hand clutched Dean's heart. He closed his eyes, but his mind was already acknowledging what his heart still refused to. No…no, no, no, no! he thought frantically. Just no.

He opened his eyes, and saw her looking away from him, trying to hold back tears, a tremulous smile on her face. It was the same smile that she wore when she had told him about her brain tumor. Wobbly, valiant, so very brave.

"Layla…how…how did you get healed?" he asked in a low, almost hushed whisper.

Her dark blue eyes slowly slid sideways to meet his. "Nobody knows. One moment, I had gone brain dead, in the next, I just woke up…like from a bad dream. And I was completely healed. No trace of a tumor, nothing."

Dean bit his lip, fury washing over him. He knew that he was shaking, his jaw clenched so tight, it was near-shattering.

"It was like a miracle."

"Don't say that," he bit out hoarsely, harsher than he had intended.

"Dean…?" she asked tentatively, reaching for his hand, her fingers brushing his clenched knuckles. "What's wrong?"

What's wrong? What's wrong? What's wrong was that Dean knew with every fiber of his being that everything was wrong.

There were no miracles after all.

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"Sam, I need you here, right now." Dean said harshly over the phone.

Sam Winchester rolled his shoulders and cracked his eyelid open, eyes searching for the clock. It was 3:20 in the morning.

"Where exactly are you, Dean?" he mumbled sleepily. "You left me here without much to go on, remember?" He couldn't quite stop the bitterness from seeping into his voice. What Dean had just done to him was too much like what their father had done to them.

He just left. Disappeared. Leaving only a vague trail, and even vaguer directions.

He heard the distinct sigh from the other end. "Sam, I just needed…"

Sam waited, holding his breath. But the rest of the statement never came. Instead, he heard a small irritated growl.

"Talk to me, Dean," he implored his brother.

Silence. The painful kind of silence that meant he was being shut out. "I'm worried about you!" he cried at his brother.

"And I'm touched. Really, I am." The tone was dripping with sarcasm.

His brother's deadpan voice irritated Sam, but he knew that nothing could make Dean talk if he didn't want to talk just yet. But he had to try. "Dean—"

He was cut off by Dean literally yelling in his ear, "Just get your ass up here in Nebraska!"

Sam had to flinch away from the phone in shocked surprise. Dean very rarely ever yelled. Something was really pushing his brother's buttons. "I'm up, okay," he said calmly on the phone, dropping the current subject and picking up the new one. "What's going on?"

He pushed his blankets off of him and almost groaned as the cold air made contact with his bare legs. His arms had goosebumps all over them, and his plain white shirt wasn't much protection against the cold. He stood up and looked around for his things, mentally checking off items he needed to re-pack into his duffel.

"Sam…it's the demon."

Dean's blunt voice made the statement even heavier. Sam dropped back onto the bed with the weight of the revelation. "Wait…wait," he whispered breathlessly on the phone. "The Demon?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know. Not sure. A demon. Something!"

Dean's voice was rose higher with every word that he spoke, still clearly disturbed. Sam stifled the disappointment inside of him. He slowly stood back up, and pushed any thoughts about The Demon away for the moment. "Well, can you tell me anything more about…this…thing? I mean, we can't go in guns blazing, not even knowing what we're shooting at."

"That's why I need you here, Sherlock," barked Dean, still agitated.

Sam was already half-done with his packing. He frowned heavily at his brother's uncharacteristic snappishness. "Look, I gotta go to the Greyhound Station; where exactly are you in Nebraska?"

"Why take the bus?" asked Dean, "Steal a car. It's much faster."

"Are you completely off your hinges, man?" asked Sam, his brows knitted together with irritation and concern. He laid his phone on his shoulder, and pulled on a pair of jeans. "I mean, you're already being closely monitored by the FBI, you wanna draw more attention?"

"Think of it this way, Sammy," drawled Dean, his tone a little more like the old Dean. "Maybe then, you can be as popular as me. I mean, we can't have all them folks thinking that you're just an innocent, harmless young man now, can we?"

"For the last time, I'm not jealous!" cried Sam, in frustration, as he pulled on a flannel shirt and a jacket. He stuck a black beanie onto his head and took a final look around the motel room he'd been staying in for the last couple of days. "Look, Dean, I'm not gonna…"

But his older brother cut him off. "Just get here. Now."

Sam stepped out into the cold night air and sighed, watching as a heavy gray puff of mist formed. He hiked his duffel over his shoulder and started walking the general direction of the parking lot. "Where exactly is here?"

"Webster, Nebraska."

Sam almost tripped over his own feet. "Web--," he choked. "Roy Le Grange, Webster, Nebraska?" he clarified.

"One and only."

"What are you doing there?" asked Sam incredulously. "I thought you said you wouldn't go anywhere near him and his flock again?"

"It's personal."

"Dean—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sam!" cried Dean over the phone. "Just haul your fat ass over here already."

But Sam had already drawn his own conclusions. "Layla."

There was silence on the other end, and he knew that he had hit the bull's eye on that one guess. Sometimes, his brother was too predictable in his unpredictability. But then again, there were very few people in this life that had truly mattered to Dean. And the only one in Webster, Nebraska was Layla Rourke.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," he whispered, knowing that she had had less than a year to live the last time they had seen her.

"She's alive." His brother's voice was blunt and emotionless. "But her mother's dead."

Sam clenched his jaw, beginning to see the pattern. But he refused to see the pattern. "Just because of that…coincidence, doesn't mean anything out of the ordinary is happening," he cautioned his brother. But he couldn't deny the warning bells that rang in his own head. He could only imagine how much louder they would be in Dean's head.

"You don't get it,"

"Explain it."

There was a pause, and Sam took the moment to look around the parking lot, looking for a ride. He glanced up towards the road, watching the occasional car pass by swiftly.

"Same MO. Unexplained death. Unexplained cure."

"Are you sure, Dean?" he asked, as he made his way towards the edge of the road.

"You think I'm calling you to come over here because I miss you?" Dean scoffed over the phone, "Be here in four hours."

"Fine." Sam sighed, "And my ass is not fat." He muttered just before he flipped his phone shut. He dropped his phone into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small Swiss army knife instead. He found an inconspicuous-looking, gray, Ford and headed straight for that one.

This is an emergency, he consoled himself, then he jacked the car. It wasn't like he'd never done this before. And besides, he had a hunt to attend.

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A/N2: Hope this is going well. It's my first Supernatural multi-chaptered fic. The goal is to have it done before Thursday, December 7, 2006. Here's to hoping. Because then, the storyline of the show might change by then…and I'd lose my motivation to finish this. Haha.