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Disclaimer:

I do not own Supernatural.

Though, if I did there would be a serious shirt-shortage

and I'd be living in Dean's jacket.

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Warning:

This chapter contains quite a bit of foul language

and several bad attempts at humor.

Consider yourself warned.

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- Prologue -

The pub was rowdy. It was to be expected considering that one of the most important football games of all time—or at least of that week—was underway. There was a large mass of men with a few women sprinkled throughout, gathered around a TV that barely fit between the floor and ceiling it was so huge, it was pretty much the only modern amenity in the entire place.

In the corner of the room, as far as physically possible from the crazed sports fanatics, sat a lone girl busily typing out a report. Writing in a diary wasn't really her bag of chips, journaling bored her to death, but typing up case reports worked; and it made referencing her past jobs a hell of a lot easier.

A cacophony of groans and bellowed curses bounced off the worn wood walls. Angie figured that the Chadbury Chickens had gotten another penal foul. Not that Angela cared, but the noise almost drowned out the sound of her cell phone's shrill ring. Looking around for a quiet place to take the call, she decided that the loo would be the best choice. Sending a glance to the bartender, a friend of sorts, she left her laptop and work related materials where they lay—knowing Seamus wouldn't let anyone take anything—and dashed into the bathroom.

Flipping open the communication device and sticking a finger in her other ear Angie uttered a flustered, "yeah?" into the receiver. The voice she heard wasn't one she was expecting; actually, on the list of people she'd have guessed, this person was in the bottom five—right down there with her mom, dad, and Jesus.

"Ellen?" Shock colored her voice, and her reflection in the ancient mirror wore the emotion like a mask—eyes wide open, eyebrows comically high on her forehead. A voice rough like the aftertaste of whiskey muttered a few pleasantries before getting to the point of the call.

He was dead, shit.

Her heart stuttered and her throat was suddenly blocked. Harnessing every last drop of strength in her body, Angela pushed the pain down into her stomach; letting the anguish fill up the previously empty organ. She felt seriously nauseous.

"I'll be on the next flight out." Ellen tried to be soothing, but it was a wasted effort, the words sounded hollow coming across thousands of miles. A quick goodbye and the sound of a dial tone later and Angie was leaning against the worn tile wall, tears slipping from her eyes with ease that belied the fact that she hadn't cried since she was sixteen.

"Fuck." Her head slammed into the cheap beige ceramic, eyes clenching tight, lids fighting against the flood rising up. Feeling out of control, Angie sobbed and tried to grab the reigns, but they were so far out of her reach.

Sinking to the floor, oblivious to the questionable cleanliness, a sister mourned the loss of her brother.

- Chapter 1 -

- The Land of the Morning Star -

The wise man said just find your place
In the eye of the storm
Seek the roses along the way
Just beware of the thorns

I don't get why people are afraid of flying, it doesn't make sense. Statistically a person is more likely to die in a car wreck than a plane crash. The only thing scary about planes is the massive amount of boredom that accompanies them. Transatlantic flights are the breeding grounds of choice for boredom. Some tired popular culture fueled movie is playing in a loop—some crap action flick with the same overdone storyline as a hundred others—and the guy sitting in front of me must think my lap looks comfy, considering the fact that he's practically sleeping in it. Reclining seats are not a good idea when there's less than two feet of space between rows.

Cursing the Wright brothers because I have no idea who designed this jet, I close my book—which lasted only the first three hours and has been read twice, it wasn't all that good the first time. I look around at the rest of the people packed into this tin can, stopping to watch as a little blonde boy smeared something sticky and purple across his mother's cheek.

The guy in front of me, probably an insurance salesman with no consideration for the living breathing person seated beneath him, is snoring and I sincerely wish all my batteries weren't dead—even though I bought like eight packages—including the one in my laptop. I was gonna kill that fuzzy pink bunny if I ever caught his ass.

I'm contemplating Mr. Insurance's bald spot—it kinda looks like an apple, stem and all—when I decide the Captain is my favorite person in the entire world. The flight is finally fucking over! I resist the urge to jump up and shout Hallelujah, but only because the 'Fasten your Seatbelts' sign is on and I'd like to get off as soon as physically possible (is it weird that the unintentional sexual innuendo in my own mind makes me laugh?).

I'm considering whether or not to rent a car and drive to South Dakota, or risk insanity by taking another plane—I was leaning heavily on the car idea—when I catch sight of an old guy holding a sign with my last name on it. It's possible he's a hitchhiker, in an airport, bound West; but considering the fact that I'd know that mustache and redneck-trucker look anywhere, I'm thinking he's my ride.

I smile widely and rush over to likely the only man wearing camo within a fifty mile radius that actually knows how to shoot a gun--Chicago isn't exactly the hunting capital of the world—catching the seasoned hunter off guard with a bear hug that would put Elmira to shame.

"Hey, long time no see," Bobby isn't exactly a small-talk kind of guy, so I let the awkward attempt slide.

"Yeah, been a few years, huh? Elle send you?" His worn trucker cap, which likely sported the name of his salvage yard twenty years ago, bobs in agreement.

"We'll, ah, grab your baggage and head on out to the truck." We begin to follow a series of arrows that we hope lead to the baggage claim area.

"You still driving the same beater?" I get a glare for my insult but really, he deserves it. Who in their right mind drives a Ford?

"You suggestin' that you wanna walk to my house?" I smile at the threat and shake my head.

"Nah, just making conversation, Mr. Singer."

I get the familiar, 'you make me feel old' huff and headshake.

I shift my messenger bag on my shoulder before I reach down to grab the duffel sliding my way. A rough callused hand snakes out and grabs the worn bag before it makes it within grabbing distance on the carousel. I consider arguing about my ability to carry my own crap, but remember that Bobby's as old as Gramps and thus has a weird Code of Honor—which includes things like manners and proper courting etiquette. Okay, he's not quite as old as Gramps, but he acts like he is. Gramps had an old coon dog, Copper, that reminds me of Bobby; dog was fierce, smart as a fox and twice as tricky, but loyal to a fault.

Seeing Bobby's rusted tow-truck parked amongst all the large shiny sedans and SUV's drives home the fact that I'm back, the change from scooters and compact cars that I could probably fit in my bag makes it all too apparent. I'm fucking back in the United States. It's weird, I expected that coming home would feel…different somehow.

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It's a short trip across Illinois, through northern Nebraska, into South Dakota. Only takes about six or seven hours before the worn out "Singer Auto Salvage" sign is passing overhead and Bobby's house comes into view. The only things that've changed about the place are the new cars scattered around and the presence of a large dog on the beat up old porch. Last time I was here, that thing was barely a ball of fur.

I hop off the bench seat that made my bum go numb hours ago and stagger to the door, heading with single-minded intent to the bathroom only to be impeded by someone who wanted a hug. Great, squeeze the girl who has to pee.

I let Ellen wrap me in a hug that smells like cedar, sweet and musky. She pulls me back by my shoulders and does a thorough inspection of my body, starting with my mass of tangled curls and ending with the worn leather boots on my feet—been meaning to get a new pair, but it takes time to find just the right pair (not that I'd been looking particularly hard anyways).

"How are yah, darlin'?" It's said casually but warily, like she expects me to fall apart in her arms and sob like a seven year old who just lost their dog. Thanks, but I've already moved past that stage. At least I'm pretty sure I have. I idly wonder if I'm allergic to airplane peanuts because I don't remember my tongue being quite this big.

I clear my throat forcefully and shift my gaze so that I'm looking at a freckle just left of her eyebrow. "Fine."

I get the 'I understand nod' and another hug. I clear my throat and tell myself that I'm playing this cool.

"So, uh, can I go to the restroom now, or do I have to drink some holy water first?" Ellen chuckles and I'm sure Bobby is grinning, but unfortunately I don't have eyes in the back of my head. Even if I did it wouldn't help though, wouldn't be able to see anything past my hair—or at least what I refer to as hair, but speculate is probably something along the lines of Devil's Snare.

I find the bathroom, which just like the rest of Bobby's bachelor pad, is clean, but in need of some redecorating. Redecorating which would include the demolition of three walls, new paint, new tile, and well…new everything.

I stroll out of the bathroom feeling immensely relieved, and head in the direction the murmur of voices is coming from.

"I don't think that's a good idea, she's—" Ellen stops speaking when I walk in the room and neither of them is willing to look at me, great. I just love it when people talk about me.

"So…how was your flight?" I decide to play along because I really need a nap before I start any grave—serious conversations

"You mean flights, plural, and they were boring in the extreme. I'd have rather drove; but well, that transatlantic road is still in the planning phase." They nod and an Elle smiles like it's fascinating and funny.

"Angie, why don' you go 'head and catch some shut eye. We can catch up later."

Ah, the considerate host routine. I know they just want me out of the way so they can finish arguing, or discussing, or whatever; and usually I'd stay just to spite them. However, after sitting upright for too many hours with a snoring insurance salesman whose name I don't know, nor do I want to, in my lap I think I deserve a decent catnap. In fact, I'm fairly certain I may need said nap.

Feeling like a kindergartener, and hoping for milk and graham crackers, I wander into the depths of Bobby's abode. Navigating the book-lined hallway (does the man not understand the concept of bookshelves?) carefully I make it to the guest room without disturbing a single dust mote.

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Old army surplus mattresses from, possibly, the first World War can't really be considered 'comfy.' They beat my worn out sleeping bag—which I kindly abandoned in a rubbish bin before I left—hands down, anyways. It's not like I'm unused to uncomfortable sleeping conditions. My definition of heaven was a King mattress that I sat on once in one of those furniture stores; okay, that's an exaggeration, I know there's more to heaven than comfy mattresses and chocolate sundaes, but those better be included.

My neck makes a popping noise when I turn my head to the left, it repeats the noise when I turn it to the right. The last doctor I talked to said it was normal that pretty much all my joints crack, but it still freaks me out. I stroll into the kitchen, where I find the adults—I'm supposed to be one too, but apparently there's a test I've yet to pass—seated on opposite sides of the kitchen table eating…something I'm not even remotely interested in. Did I mention that I hate liver; in fact, it may very well be my kryptonite. Wait, no, that's black licorice; my taste buds shudder at the thought.

Forgoing politeness, since I'm still being considered a child I might as well act like one, I head to the fridge. I pull the handle hoping to find something besides baked beans and beer; well I lucked out, there's both and mayonnaise. Deciding that I'm not really that hungry—airplane peanuts must expand—I close the door and lean back against it.

Bobby looks unapologetic as he says, "Haven't been to town to stock up in a while, sorry."

I shrug, "No big." Then turning to look at Ellen's profile. "So when's the…thing," vague gesture, it takes me a minute to remember the words. "You know, the funeral," I say the words to prove to them that I can say them, that I'm fine; but they come out a bit squeakier than I intended.

The look I get is a sympathetic one, but she keeps the feeling out of her response. "We'll have to go down tomorrow and do it, we weren't really planning anything big."

Figured, probably weren't many people coming, anyways. "Did you get ahold of—" I just giver her a look not even bothering to say the name. She nods puckering her lips in thought.

"He's busy in Tulsa." I snicker and ignore the anger that boils up every time I even think about my father or, rather, the donor. It's pretty much the same feeling I get when I think about the incubator.

"I talked to Gramps, he said he'll be there." She nods and looks thoughtful.

"I haven't seen Charles in years, how's he doin'?" Bobby's got that far-off look in his eyes, probably thinking back to the first time Gramps and him crossed paths. Gramps loves that story; probably because it stars a rookie by the name of Robbie Singer, who didn't know a .45 from a twelve gauge.

"He's good, retired. Well, mostly retired. About as retired as any of us'll ever be." We share a mutual chuckle, but it's mirthless. We're all lifers.

"Are you gonna stick around after the service?" Ellen is studying me. She has always been such a beautiful woman, pretty much the only woman I've ever known. When she was younger, and me too, I used to beg Gramps to go to The Roadhouse so I could run around with Jo and just be around Ellen. I guess she's the only mother I've ever known, even though I don't consider her to be mine.

"I was actually thinking about going back to the UK, why?" Bobby and Ellen share a look. So this is what they were talking about earlier.

"Well there's been a major spike in demon activity in the last week, and with all those hunters killed when the bar burnt down, we could really use you here." I consider what I know of the situation, that a demon destroyed Harvelle's and that Ash died in the attack, and decide that I need to be fully apprised of what's been going on, because A and B just aren't connecting.

"What'd I miss?" They share a look again and begin to explain, taking turns in their respective narrations. By the time they're done I'm wondering why the name Winchester sounds familiar—for more than the obvious reasons—and why they're sitting here around a beat up old table eating liver when there are demons out there needing a good ass kicking.

Then I remember, Ash.

"Alright, I'll stay, but there are a few things I'm gonna need to pick up." I pull out my cell phone, which has fewer functions than my EMF detector, and make a long distance call.

The surly British accent on the other end mutters a "'Ello?" and I smile because I obviously woke his lazy ass up.

"Will? I need a favor…" There's a deep rumbling chuckle.

"What else is new, love?" he stops, probably lighting up a death-stick, inhaling deeply. "What d'ya need?"

I tell him I need him to send me the things I left behind as quickly as possible, with minimal questions asked. He asks where to send them and Bobby gives me a P.O. box number. I hang up after he tells me I'm too much bloody trouble, quipping that I love him too just before I flip the phone closed.

I don't realize I'm smiling until I register the speculative, calculating, looks on the faces of two people I'd rather not explain William to.

"What?" I ask before I stride off in search of a scalding shower and a ride to the closest McDonalds.

-

Ash wasn't really a religious person. Said that he believed in God but didn't see the point in church. It was one of the few things we disagreed on. Standing next to his grave listening to a local priest talking about green pastures and heaven I can feel the burden of his death on my faith. I try and shake it off, reminding myself that it's always easier to believe when things are all sunshine and daffodils; but that it's having faith when the water is rising and your car is buried in the mud that's the true measure of belief.

There are only a few people present. I don't recognize the blonde in the back or the guy with her, the guy standing near Ellen looks familiar though I can't place him, but the sobbing woman standing parallel to me is hard to miss. She wears the pain like a blanket, it's so blatant and considering her age, it's obvious that she's Ash's mom. Considering that I've met her only a handful of times since Ash was born, I'm not sure what exactly I should do. I follow my instincts and hug her, she collapses into the embrace and I'm glad that I did it. There isn't anything to say to make her feel better, so I just hug her tighter. When she pulls back her eyes are red rimmed but she's smiling at me sadly.

"You're so much taller now, I haven't seen you since…" she pauses trying to think, then just shrugging and continuing, "Ash told me about the summer you spent together. I'm glad you two got a chance to know each other." She pats my cheek with a hand that's cold and I can't imagine how much worse this has to be for her.

"We had such a good time, Susan." I smile in memory, fighting back tears. She nods.

With one last hug and a brief tearful smile she walks away, back to her car. Everyone is filing away slowly and I look at the small group, searching for a familiar head of thinning grey hair. Ellen moves to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Me an Bobby'll be at the truck. Okay, honey?"

She doesn't wait for an answer just squeezes and then strides away. I turn back to the hole in the ground. I've seen tons of graves, dug quite a few of them myself (mostly unburying bodies), but this grave looks different, or maybe it feels different. Trees, at the very edge of a small town cemetery, surround it; Ash would've scoffed and asked why he had to be buried in Nebraska of all places. Would've joked about being buried next to Ronnie Van Zant or at least put to rest somewhere a little cooler.

It's weird that I can still hear his voice.

He called me a couple weeks ago. I knew something was wrong because his jokes were even lamer than usual, but figured it was the usual problems; girls, hunting, or girls—it's surprising how many women actually like mullets, it's probably a residual effect from Joe Dirt. He didn't say anything about it; but then he never told me he was having problems when he was at MIT, either.

I stop myself before I can make myself feel guilty about his death, and trust me I'd have no trouble doing it. Pushing the 'what if's and 'I should have's away. Saying a quick goodbye and wiping away a few escaped tears I march away from the grave, my brother's grave.

If I was my brother's keeper, I guess I failed at that.

Notes: (because I don't expect everyone to know what I'm talking about)

As far as I know, the Chadbury Chickens are a purely fictional soccer team or football team, depending on culture.

Elmira is from Tiny Toons, she liked to hug/crush the cute fuzzy little animals. I send her my plot bunnies, but they multiply so fast…

Devil's Snare is a magical plant from Harry Potter—geek, yes, I know—that "is composed of a mass of soft, springy tendrils and vines that possess some sense of touch. Devil's Snare uses its creepers and tendrils to ensnare anyone who touches it, binding their arms and legs and eventually choking them." It's a magical plant, which probably doesn't have any basis in nonfiction, but this is fiction. So no holds barred…

Ronnie Van Zant was the lead vocalist of Lynard Skynard, but died in a plane crash.

Joe Dirt is a comedy movie about a redneck guy with a mullet, starring David Spade.

Both the title and the short excerpt before Chapter 1 come from the amazing song "Send Me an Angel" by the Scorpions, which I don't own.

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Don't worry, the boys will be showing up in the next chapter. Just thought I'd let you all know since that's what you came for.

And yes, this is that multi-chap OFC fic I've been promising, but have been too afraid to post. Blame feralpixc she never sent me the beta so I just figured it was crap.

Hugs beta I love you anyways.

I don't know how updates are gonna be, I'm not exactly known for my consistency, but I'll try to update at least once a week.

Unless everyone thinks it sucks, In which case I'll hide in my room and rewatch the first season until I feel better.

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Reviews are the gold at the end of my rainbow!