The colors began to coalesce and Dean found himself in a run-down cabin. In front of him were three familiar figures. Himself, several years ago, Sam-looking so much like a little kid, and…the hairs stood on the back of his neck…his father. It was the moment, frozen in time. He barely felt Andraste's presence next to him. Slowly the scene came alive and he was forced once again to hear Azazel's lies through his father's voice.

"Sam is clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, he shows him much more concern than he's ever shown you."

"Dad, don't you let it kill me!" Dean winced at his younger self's pain…though he'd been through what most would have considered worse since this, he knew how wrong they were. And Bobby…good old Bobby…Dean barely felt the tears rolling down his cheeks…lifted the colt and sent the demon back to Hell where it belonged. Andraste took Dean's hand into hers, squeezing lightly, and he squeezed back.

The scene melted away and now they stood in a place surrounded by rocks and trees, near what, for all intents and purposes, Dean could only describe as a hole in the ground. The figure of a woman, covered in sweat and dirt suddenly emerged from that hole. She looked up at the sun. Her eyes, a bright blue, did not squint, but instead, reflected the light. To Dean, it was as if the entire cosmos was reflected in those eyes, and he could go all the way back to the Big Bang, if he wanted to. Her lips were curved into a Mona Lisa smile…he almost didn't recognize her.

She stood against the large boulder nearby, humming and swaying—staring into the hole as if waiting for someone. A moment later, a tall man emerged. Dean tensed, for he could see a dark aura swirling around him. There was something sinister about him that reminded Dean of the demons he had fought over the years. He unconsciously stepped forward, but was stopped by Andraste's arm.

"These are mere shadows. Memories. We can't affect what has already come to pass. I—WE—have to see it through." Dean felt a wave of nausea hit him as he looked at the man again. He could literally see the depth of his evil. And the young woman was entirely oblivious to it all—wrapped up in whatever visions were swirling through her head.

Faster than Dean could follow, she suddenly snapped to attention, and barely missed the big man's psychic assault. It was a battle between two equally powerful witches—waves of pure energy blasted back and forth. And where hers was like light emanating from a prism, his was more like purple-black smoke. As his attack pounded against hers, her colors swirled and changed to blood-red—swirling and whipping against his attack again and again. It reminded Dean of a prairie fire he had seen just a few years ago. The light show would have been beautiful if it weren't so deadly serious.

Then it happened. Two equally powerful psychic blasts hit, and pushed them both back to the ground—rendering them both unconscious. Dean heard a muttering beside him. "Wake up, you fool. Kill him while you still can." He could feel her rage, but his attention was on the woman who now lay on the hard ground. A flapping of wings caused him to jerk his head up. A crow landed on a low branch on a nearby pine, and stared at the two figures on the ground.

The first to wake up was the man—Dean was pleased to see he looked like he'd just had a date with a prize fighter's fists. The man gave a predatory grin when he saw the woman, still unconscious. But another fluttering, this time louder, caught his attention…and Dean's. Now, thousands of crows were perched on every available tree overlooking the scene. A weak groan caused a rustling among them. The man glared over at the figure of the younger Andraste, where there was finally some movement. Her eyes popped open—the pupils dilated. Some of the more brazen crows landed near her, cawing loudly. This seemed to bring her vision into focus. Slowly, carefully, she rose—just as badly bruised and beaten as the man—but seeming to have just gotten her second wind.

But then, the man, who suddenly seemed to have grown a brain, for the fear was showing clearly on his face, staggered back. He stopped for a moment, some of the old swagger back. "We're not finished." Not so smart after all. But at least he finally left. The younger Andraste wavered, as if on a teeter-totter, then collapsed to the ground.

Dean felt a shift in the energy as it warped around them both, and he was once more sitting on the floor of the cabin, facing Andraste—who stared blankly into space, tears rolling down her cheeks. He wanted to comfort her, but thought better of it. She didn't seem like someone who sought sympathy—not from her own coven, and most definitely not from strangers. Like him, she covered her pain, and if that wasn't possible, deal with it in private.

Her gaze eventually came back into focus, and she became aware of her own tears. Dean fumbled through his pockets until he pulled out an old bandana, handing it to her without a word. She wiped her face, and responded with just two words: "Thank you."