"I think I need a new suit." Dean said as he closed the driver's door behind him and looked either way for possible witnesses before delicately readjusting his junk in the form fitting slacks. "Or just have 'em let it out in the crotch area. Again." He smirked at Sam across the top of the Impala, who turned and walked towards the steepled building, refusing to react to the poorly constructed joke.

"Wait up, Sammy!" He jogged to catch up, straightening his suit jacket and tightening the knot in his tie. "Can we even go in there right now, or are we gonna walk in on some group hymn sing along…. Thing?"

Sam laughed quietly, glancing sideways at him as they crossed the spongy, healthy green lawn. "You don't know a lot about catholic churches, do you?"

"I know that the things nuns wear on their heads are called cowls." He said impressively.

"…No. They're called 'habits'.

"Well excuse me for not having been born of the cloth."

"That's not what that means. Or how you use it."

"Thanks, Professor." Dean slowed just enough to let Sam's long legs out pace him, stepping down on the heel of one of his dress shoes as he proceeded forward.

"Jerk!" Sam hissed, hopping a step while he worked his foot back inside his shoe. "You're so immature." He chastised as Dean passed him and he threw a hand out, hitting him lightly on the gut. He smiled at the surprised grunt the soft backhand elicited from Dean.

"Yeah, I'm the immature one. Oh holy shit." They both came to a stop before they reached the entrance; staring in surprise at the huge window in front of them.

The glass was covered in tiny, hairline cracks all spiraling outward from a central break. The lines intertwined with each other, dancing smoothly around the window. It didn't resemble Leonardo da Vinci's last supper. It was Leonardo da Vinci's last supper; or a near perfect replica. Once inside, it was clear where the original impact had been; the indented scraps of glass held together only by what must be really good weather proofing now formed Jesus' face.

A few minutes later, they found themselves admitted into a spartan office by an excited nun. The door clicked behind them, and the man on the other side of the desk smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! I understand you wish to speak to me about our recent run of… Extraordinary events. Please sit down, Agents…?"

"Murphy. Mike Murphy." Dean said, clearing his throat and flipping open a masterfully counterfeited FBI badge with the matching name. "This is my partner, Marion Morrison."

Sam, who hadn't even looked at the badge Dean had handed him, coughed delicately as he sat down, caught momentarily off guard by the effeminate alias.

"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Agents Murphy and Morrison, I'm Father Mckenzie." He was tall and stately, his dark hair speckled with salt and pepper bits of gray. He was the picture of a diplomatic priest; if they ever did reprints of the bible with full color covers, this guy belonged right on the front. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"We just wanted to ask you some routine questions; I know these all seem like blessings to you, but when people get injured we have to poke around. I hope you understand." Sam turned on his nice guy voice, leaning forward in his seat and looking concerned.

"Oh of course, my son. You won't offend me, I assure you I am quite as concerned by the rising number of physical injuries as you are."

"What was the first… Extraordinary event, as you put it?"

His chair creaked somberly as he leaned back. "Tuesday last week. Sister Christian was-"

"I'm sorry," Dean interrupted. "Sister who?"

"Sister Christian."

With a serious amount of self control, Dean kept an earnest face, one single dimple the only display of amusement. "Just making sure, please continue."

"Sister Christian was locking up late last Friday, she said she heard noises inside the confessional that sounded like someone speaking to her when the entire building was empty. She ran down the hall and got… Pushed into that window, I'm sure you saw the results on your way in."

"Yes we did, it's… It's amazing." Sam said, nodding. "How badly was she injured?"

The priest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Her nose and her jaw were both severely shattered. She was released from the hospital the day before yesterday, but I'm afraid her jaw is still wired shut."
Sam nodded thoughtfully. "I see. And the thing with the candles?"

"During mass on Sunday, the candles just… Floated up, clear as day, in front of over three hundred people attending the service. They started spinning, almost everyone got hit with hot wax, and then they dropped to the ground. The carpet lit up like it was soaked in kerosene. After we evacuated everyone, the fire just… Went out, simple as that. The burn marks left behind form what is unarguably our lord and savior's depiction."

The office grew silent as the Winchesters digested this information.

"Shit."

Sam turned to Dean incredulously at the blatant swearing. He shrugged his shoulders at the glare. "Father, do you have any idea what's causing this run of… Miracles?" The word seemed so inappropriate when referring to the violent incidents that Sam actually cringed as he said it.

"Oh, yes. I know exactly what's causing them."

His answer was so openly positive that both of them simply stared in surprise before Dean finally spoke up. "Oh. Well, uh, what is it?"

"Well I brought it about, you understand."

They did not understand.

He leaned across the desk, speaking quietly as if he were revealing a great secret. "You see, agents, I prayed for this and the lord delivered it." A frown shadowed his previous enthusiasm. "Now that I have it, I can assure you I don't want it."

"Uh. Oh." Dean said, taken aback by the candid answer. "What exactly did you pray for?" 'And how?' He mouthed at Sam when the priest turned his head to the ceiling and rubbed his eyes.

"I asked for His assistance in bringing back my flock. Life is difficult for many of our members right now, with the economy the way it is and the like, our numbers were dwindling drastically. I believe these miracles were an answer to my prayers, something awe inspiring enough to draw his children back."

Dean's eyebrows were sitting a bit higher than normal, his lips pressed together a little bit too tight as he tried to keep himself from informing the man in front of him that his story was complete bullshit and that his God wasn't concerned with any of them in the least. And that everyone could tell his hair was dyed. "That's really… Something. I think that's all the questions we have for you, we'll keep in touch-"

"Actually, I have a few more questions for you, father." Sam interrupted, frowning at him questioningly.

"Okay, I'll just wait out in the car. Don't grill him too hard, Marion." The office felt like it was slowly closing in on him, and there was a painting behind Father Mckenzie of the Archangel Michael wielding his flaming sword that was making him more antsy than the threat of a committed relationship.

"Of course, Agent Murphy. Now if you'll just sign this waver before you leave..."

Halfway across the manicured grass, he caught sight of his beautiful car; there was someone sitting patiently in the passenger seat. The light tan of a rumpled trench coat was all the verification Dean needed. A faint smile readily replaced the concern on his face.

"How long have you been waiting?" He asked as he hauled the heavy door open and sat down, swinging the door closed behind him.

"Approximately one eighth of a second before you looked at your car and saw me."

"That's a neat party trick. I just finished talking to Father Mulcahy in there. Poor schmuck thinks he prayed this disaster into existence."

"He did pray it into existence."

Dean turned to him in disbelief. He'd expected him to scoff at the ridiculous suggestion and say something about foolish humans. "What."

"He did pray it into existence, Dean." The angel repeated.

"Cas, you told me less than a day ago that this was in no way miraculous-"

"It's not. It's a… Coincidence. He didn't pray for this, and god did not deliver this. His prayer in that building simply acted as a conduit of raw, Psychic energy and… Opened a hole in our existence wide enough for this being to slip through."

Dean realized his mouth was literally hanging open. He closed it and tilted his head, squinting his eyes in shock. "Nothing about that is simple! Ghosts, and demons and voodoo I can handle, I don't even know what you're talking about."

Castiel looked at him, straight faced as always. "It's not so abnormal. Well, to a life span as short as yours, I suppose it's quite extraordinary. But to someone who has lived as long as I have, it's hardly unusual."

"Is there anything that's unusual to someone who's lived that long?"

"Men like you are unusual."

Dean gaped at the unexpected compliment, but Cas kept talking as if this were completely normal.

"It might seem impossible to you, but our existence lives in between countless others, stretching on far beyond any number system can possibly record. The entity within that church is from one of these parallel dimensions, as that scientist that you're so familiar with, Doctor Spock would say."

Dean was so blindsided by this final comment that he couldn't help the explosion of laughter that it caused. "That's Mister Spock, Cas. But you're right, he would call them parallel dimensions, and we'd all be wearing beards."

"Dean, I don't understand-"

"What that means, I know. It's okay, it wasn't that funny." Dean glanced at the other man, examining his furrowed brow. His eyes were so impossibly blue sometimes, Dean frequently felt like he was staring at a Kodak ad. His mussed up hair lay all about his head, on any other man it would look like bed head, but on Cas it was just him. Scruff shaded his jaw and his chin, and any unbiased observer would have to admit it was damn manly. Dean's eyes fell on the blue tie around his neck, it was still backwards. His hand actually twitched at the sudden, nearly irresistible urge he had to reach out and fix that tie. He fixed his eyes forward, instead. "So how do we get rid of it?"

"You have to find a way of opening another tear in our existence and force it back through. It's been done before, you should be able to find a ritual for it."

"So it's back to internet forums and begging Bobby for help? You wanna come back to the hotel with us? You obviously don't have to actually help with research, but you could just hang out. Have a brewski." Dean was definitely disturbed by the hopeful tone he heard in his own voice, but it didn't matter. With a sound in the back of his mind that was reminiscent of bird wings, the man in the passenger seat was gone.


"Well we're absolutely not doing that one, so keep 'em comin', Sammy." Dean sat at the desk against the far side of the dingy motel room; legs extended in front of him as he leaned over the low back of the chair. He stretched his arms out behind him, interlacing his fingers together and supporting his head with his hands. Dean waited while the lack of a reply stretched into indignant, annoyed silence that spelled out precisely what face his younger brother was directing at him.

He eased open one eye, peering across the seemingly upside down room and smirking faintly when Sam's expression matched the one he'd imagined perfectly. Right down to the deep, winding trenches etched across his furrowed brow. "What?"

Sammy scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, Dean, I'll tell you what. We've been searching the web for hours, digging through every tiny, vaguely related forum post-"

"You're saying this like I haven't spent the last three hours of my life staring at that screen and reading almost indecipherable comments from every whack job with a wi-fi connection." Dean interrupted, grumbling with malcontent. "I feel like I'm literally dumber after wading through that crap."

"Right, Dean, it's been about as much fun for me, too. Which is exactly my point-"

"Don't talk to me in that prissy tone." Dean interrupted again, sitting up and turning in his seat to give his little brother a pained grimace. "I hate that tone."

"We've been at this for hours, and this is the only text we've found that has any promise at all! You can't just dismiss it like that. We have to call Bobby and see what of it he can verify-"

"And why would we bother verifying hoodoo bullshit we can't perform, even if it does prove to be more than retarded internet babble or more god damn Buffy fanfiction?" He emphasized the last few words by slamming a fist down on the table and snapping the not exactly legally purchased laptop shut with a bang, making Sam roll his eyes.

Another man might jump at the noise, but Sam was more than used to his brother's propensity for loud, and sometimes violent, contributions to their arguments. He wasn't sure how the back and forth conversation had slipped into argument territory, but it had, and he could sense Dean's proverbial hackles raising ever higher. Standing up, Sam carried his own little notebook computer across the room, staring studiously at the screen as he sat down on the bed next to Dean's chair. "Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on! You had to of come across as much of it as I did!" Leaning forward, Dean rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. "If I have to skim over anymore Spike/Angel slash with the word 'clavicle' thrown in every few paragraphs, I'll-"

"That's not what I was talking about!" Sam hadn't intended to snap, but he could only suffer through Dean's dumb act for so long before it started to wear on him. "Dean, everything that this spell calls for is right within our reach, not even outside of our comfort zone. Are you wary about the blood shed?"

"Have I ever been wary of blood shed?" His deep voice sounded hallow, reverberating out from behind his hands.

"Then I don't know what your problem is!" Sam's voice cracked ever so slightly in his frustration. He started reading from the computer screen in front of him. "'The blood of one who has freely spilled the blood of others.' Either of us qualify for that. 'The tears of a first born son,' Easy, we'll give you a few beers and turn on Star Trek II-"

"Hey! I can't help that your heart has shriveled into organ shaped turds and is untouched by one of the most emotional scenes in cinematic history."

Sam continued, unperturbed. "The front hooves of a kid goat' that's no stress at all, there's more farms in this town than there are McDonalds in real civilization. 'Graveyard dirt from above the heart of one who died protecting others,' we don't even have to pull military records for that, just troll the cemetery and check epitaphs. We can get all of this together in a day, tops. It needs to be performed 'atop water during the sunset proceeding a full moon', which just happens to be two days from now. This all lines up perfectly! You just have to get a feather from Castiel, and-"

"Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Sammy." Dean gave him a small half smile and nod, standing up and walking to the mini fridge he'd crammed full of Guinness.

Sam hesitated, frowning in confusion. "The angel feather? That's what you're worried about?"

The tell tale crack and fizzing hiss of carbonation proceeded Dean's response; he tossed the bottle cap at the nearest trash can. "Not worried, little bro. I know we're not gonna do that, so we'll find another solution. We always do, it'll be fiiiiine." He gave a careless wave of his hand as an example of how fine they'd be.

That stupid scoff of Sam's again. "All you have to do is pray for him and ask. He'll do anything you ask, within reason. You know that as well as I-"

"I'm not gonna do that, Sam."

"Why not?"

Dean sat on the opposite bed, laying his forearms across his thighs and wrapping both hands loosely around the brown bottle he carried. "Listen, I've looked up a little bit of angel mythos recently," He picked thoughtlessly at the Guinness label as he spoke, avoiding eye contact lest Sam ask him the dreaded question of 'why?'

Why are you looking into angels, Dean? Why are you so consumed by the subject and the need to learn as much as you possibly can about the omnipotent soldiers when a year ago you would've gotten in a fist fight with anyone who said they existed? Why are you losing sleep, balls deep in wikipedia articles about the Angel of Thursday that you've read so many times you have them memorized? They were all questions he had no answer to, and would prefer they went unasked by his sometimes nosy brother. "For starters, they aren't just heavenly pigeons, alright? They don't leave a trail of cute white feathers everywhere they go. It has to be forcibly removed and everything I could find implies that it hurts like a bitch. I'm not gonna rip an extremity off of a friend for shady, black magic stationary."

Sam closed his laptop and stared at Dean; one of his patented 'how are you possibly being so stupid right now' looks. "You don't hesitate over me or you spilling blood."

"Yeah," Dean conceded, pursing his lips and tilting his head, elusive dimples appearing above his mouth. "But I wouldn't even ask you to cut off a finger."

"You can't possibly know that it's akin to cutting off a finger!" Sam rolled his eyes, giving a visual to match the tone of condescension now abundant in his voice.

"I'm not willing to risk that it is!" Dean slammed his bottle on the night stand and stood back up, heedless of the beer foaming out of the bottle mouth and spilling to the table top to pool dejectedly around the base of the drink.

"Cool your jets, Dean!" Sam matched the raised volume of Dean's voice, suddenly happy to give him the fight he seemed to want so bad before gritting his teeth and willfully calming himself down. "I don't know what you're so worked up about. You know he'll love to help out. If you asked him-"

"So, so what, Sam? Just because someone will do something if I ask means I should just go right ahead and abuse that... That trust? Not trust, that's not what I mean. I just mean I don't want to take advantage of his… Friendship." For some reason, the whole conversation was strangely upsetting for Dean. He felt angry and anxious and he wasn't entirely sure why. He paced around the room, fiddling with the switchblade he'd snagged off the desk as he talked.

"What are you talking about?" Sam's face was twisted in a mix of serious confusion and growing annoyance. "You're blowing this way out of proportion. I think you're also forgetting that we're nothing but expendable to him."

Dean stopped pacing, turning to the younger man with a stormy glare. "He's saved our lives almost more times than you've endangered them by farting around at the time of truth."

The insult closed the conversation with the abruptness of a sucker punch.

"You can be a real dick when you're mad."

"Yeah? Well you can be a real dick. Period." Dean snatched his coat off the hook on the wall and opened the door. "I need some air."

Sam had returned to his computer; pointedly not reacting to Dean's antagonizing behavior. "Don't choke on it. That'd be a real shame."

Dean had already stepped outside, but Winchesters don't just give away the last word. Leaning casually against wooden door frame, he stuck an arm inside, flipping Sam the bird before extracting his hand and slamming the door behind him.