I can explain. No really, I can.

I have been at all-day camps for the last two weeks. Also, I do most of my writing at night, and my dad has banned me from using my laptop in bed.

Yay.

Anyway, that's an adequate excuse, right?

Well, I did write you guys a chapter. The title for it is a line from Fall Out Boy's Centuries, which you should imagine playing over the last part of this chapter.

About the last part...it is, by far, the darkest thing in this story yet. And boy, did it feel good to write. Does that make me a bad person?

Me: Crowley, love, it's you again.

Crowley: Really?

Me: Yes.

Crowley: No.

Me: YES.

Crowley: ...

Me: Fine. Different Crowley, then.

Crowley: There is only one Crowley.

Me: Nope.

Me: I'll ease us into the other Crowley, though. Let's bring in his buddy.

Me: Aziraphale!

Aziraphale: Hello, dear. Can I help you?

Crowley: Who's that?

Aziraphale: I'm an angel. It's odd, you remind me of a friend of mine.

Me: He's from 'Good Omens' by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Best book EVER, by the way.

Aziraphale: I'm sorry...I'm a book?

Me: Hush now and the say the disclaimer, would you?

Aziraphale: Certainly. Bianca Valdez does not own...what's it?

Me: Supernatural. And you'd better add the song and your book too.

Aziraphale: Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural, Good Omens, or Centuries. Now, may I return to my book shop? Crowley and I were about to do lunch at the Ritz.

Me: Of course. SPN people? THAT is how you do it.


Then

It was at that moment that the phone rang.

"Bobby, it's me. I need your help. I still haven't found Sam."

It was the voice of John Winchester.

"Bobby?" said John. "You still there?"

Heart beating fiercely, Sam slammed the phone down, effectively hanging up on his father.

"Sam? That you?"

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me. Where are you?"

"On my way inta town. Why? Ya need somethin'?"

"It's my dad. He called about younger me."

"Hang tight, I'm comin'. Don't answer the phone."

"Right. Thanks, Bobby."

A click and the line went dead. Sam sighed again, then jumped when the phone started to ring in his hand. "Son of a—" he slammed it back into its holster and sat back down.

"You called Dad?"

Past-Dean avoided his younger brother's gaze.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "And I assume he kicked my Sam out?"

"Well…after he slammed him into the wall and threatened to kill him."

"Awesome," repeated Dean. "Really, just awesome."

"Where would Sam go in a situation like this?"

"Why don't we ask our resident Sam expert?"

"Well, I'd go to Dad first. But, if I couldn't get to Dad for some reason, I guess I'd go to Uncle Bobby's."

All right. Bobby's it is then. First thing's first though. You take Sammy back to the motel. You tell Dad whatever crappy story you can come up with, and you forget this ever happened. Got it?"

Now

The scenery flashed by in a blur, the road stretching ahead and behind beneath the darkening sky.

Dean missed his baby.

He'd taken the clerk's car, which he felt only mildly bad about. He sure wasn't taking the minivan.

Taking his right hand off of the steering wheel, Dean flicked on the radio. As a rock song began to blast through the car's speakers, Dean closed his eyes for a brief moment and imagined that he was in the Impala, her leathery smell surrounding him, the purr of her engine filling him with pleasure, Sam beside him poring over the papers for a case.

The illusion was so real that he had to glance to his left to check if his brother was really there.

He was rewarded with the sight of Cas, slumped awkwardly against the window, looking very unhappy.

Dean turned down the radio.

"Hey, you okay? Do we need to find a motel?"

Cas shook his head drowsily. "I'll be fine. We should find—" he was cut off by a series of hacking, wet-sounding coughs. Blood dribbled down his chin, and his blue eyes looked frighteningly dull.

"—Find Sam," he finished weakly.

Then his eyes rolled back and his head hit the window.

"Awesome." Dean swung the car brutally off the next exit. "We're stopping, I don't care what you say."

The angel was unconscious, and thus Dean received no reply.


They'd appeared on the road in front of him.

He'd been staring into the distance, eyes unfocused, forehead knotted in an all to familiar combination of stress, worry, and frustration, when he'd seen his boys walking towards him, hands in their pockets, for all the world looking as if they were merely on a casual stroll.

At first he thought he was imagining them. Then they saw him and the smaller of the two figures broke into a run.

John had realized that no, he was not imagining it, that was his Sam and he was back and all right.

And John had run to meet him. The happy cry—Dad!—had filled him with unspeakable joy, and he'd swung grabbed his son and lifted him up and squeezed him close.

He hadn't done that in years.

Dean had stood off to the side, a silly smile on his face. John had looked up, eyes shining, and had pulled his eldest towards him. He'd wrapped his arms around his boys and had never wanted to let them go.

Now he sat on his bed, cleaning his weapons. In the boys' shared bed beside him, Sammy slept peacefully. Dean sat in the kitchenette eating a sandwich, a happy look of his face.

John had tried to ask Sam what had happened, but the poor kid was exhausted. After the sixth yawn and the third time repeating his slurred words ("What?" "Uhthuthuh…"), John had given up and put him down to bed.

Then he'd turned to Dean, who'd said he'd simply found Sammy in the convenience store, buying food for himself.

John had to admit that he was proud his son was self-sufficient enough at age ten to gather supplies.

He was also sad that they'd had to grow up so quickly.

John looked down at the phone in his hands. He should call Singer and tell him he needn't worry anymore; Sam was back where he belonged, safe and sound with his family.

Then he remembered the failed calls from earlier and his heart rose in his throat. What if something had happened to the old geezer?

John punched in the number and waited anxiously as it rang in his ear. Dean watched him curiously, still munching on the sandwich.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click!

"Yeah?"

A wave of relief washed over John as he heard the familiar gruff tones. "Bobby," he said. "It's me, John."

At the table, Dean sat up straight and stared at him, sandwich hanging forgotten in his hand. John raised an eyebrow at him and he slowly began to eat again.

There was a moment of extended silence on the line. Then, "I haven't found yer kid, if that's what yer wondering."

John smiled and glanced at the sleeping Sam. "That's actually why I called. Dean found him wandering around by himself in a convenience store."

"By himself?"

John's brow furrowed confusedly at the question. "Out of all the things to ask, that's what you go with?"

Bobby was quiet.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"What was that about earlier?"

"What?"

Dean was watching him again, so John stood, covering the speaker with his hand momentarily. "Eat your food," he said, and walked outside.

"You picked up earlier but didn't say anything. And then you wouldn't answer. Did something happen?"

Bobby cleared his throat on the other end. "There's somethin' wrong with the answer machine," he said. "Damn thing keeps pickin' up the call on it's own."

John frowned. That sounded awfully suspicious. "Where were you?"

"Gettin' beer. Dammit, John, I'm not always gonna be at home when you call me!"

"Bobby, I've never heard of a phone doing something like that."

"Well, you don't know everythin', do you?"

John breathed out slowly. The old man was definitely hiding something. "You mind if I leave the boys with you for a little while? I don't want to bring them into any action after what just happened."

"Sorry, John, I can't take 'em right now. I'm busy."

"Busy?" said John incredulously. "With what?"

"None a yer damn business!" exploded Bobby. "Congratulations on finding Sam!"

The line went dead.

John lowered the phone from his ear slowly. He didn't care what Bobby said. There was no reason for the other hunter to be busy. No reason at all.

Something was going on, and John intended to figure out what.


Bobby looked at the phone as it rested in its holster, lip pursed together in a tight line.

John was stubborn. And he wasn't stupid either. Bobby knew that John would be suspicious. And that meant that was coming to find out what was up.

"Sam!" Bobby called into the living room. "We've got a problem!"


Dean watched his father exit the room, eyes wide. He'd called Bobby. Why was he calling Bobby?

His gaze switched from Sammy on the bed to the closed door of the motel room.

He got up and pried to window open slightly to eavesdrop on Dad's half of the conversation.

He ran back to the table just as John reentered the room.

And he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat at the look on his father's face.

"Dean," said Dad slowly. "Pack your things and get Sam into the car. We're going to Uncle Bobby's."

Dean swallowed again. Why? he wanted to ask. He'd heard Dad's input on the phone, and he could guess the other end. Bobby didn't want them there. That meant that Sammy had to be right: his older self was there. Did Dad know?

He opened his mouth to question his father, but years and years of careful obedience took over, and what came out was a muffled, "Yes sir."

John nodded curtly. "Good. Finish that sandwich and get moving."

"Yes sir."


Approximately fifteen minutes later, the motel receptionist watched as the sleek black muscle car pulled out of the parking lot. He heaved a sigh of relief; the gruff older fellow had rather terrified him.

The bell attached to the door jingled merrily as it swung open to admit a new guest. The receptionist turned with a smile on his face to greet the newcomer.

It was a woman. She was of average height with a round face and tangled black hair. Her eyebrows arched above dark eyes, and her mouth curved upwards at the corners in a know-something-you-don't kind of smirk.

"Hi, I'm Fred," said the receptionist with a gulp. "Can I help you?"

The woman grinned at him. "Yes, I think so. I'm looking for the Winchesters. You seen them?"

Fred frowned, confused. "Uh….ma'am….I'm just the receptionist, I don't know—"

She shook her head sadly. "Of course you don't, sugar. Why don't you check your books for me?"

"I—" Fred looked down nervously at the register. "Well, that would be—"

He wasn't sure how it happened. One moment the woman was standing three feet away from him, and the next she was right in front of the desk, hands grabbing his shirt collar.

She glanced down at the book and smiled. "They were here. Thanks, Freddie."

"Uh….uh….ma'am…."

She pulled him into a kiss, lips pressed into his, eyes gazing intently into his.

And then the pupils expanded, and her already dark eyes turned an undeniable shade of midnight black.

That was the last thing Fred was aware of before she slit his throat.


She looked down at the body slumped over the desk and smiled.

Lovingly she stirred her fingers through the pool of blood gathered in the ancient-looking cup. Light began to shine through it.

"They were here. The Winchesters."

She listened for a moment. "Yes, of course."

Muffled whispers.

"No, I know. I'll get him. But are you certain…."

A pause.

"Yes. Of course, you're right. You're always right. Thank you, father."

She exited the motel, pouring the blood into the bushes beside her. The cup disappeared into thin air.

A storm collected on the horizon as Meg stalked off into the fading light.