Author's Note: This took far longer than I anticipated. Editing was the main reason, because there's a couple of scenes happening at once and I had to find a way to make that work... hopefully you like it.

Posting it in two parts; half today, half on Friday. Sorry for the angst... I promise to make it up to you. Please don't kill me.

~ Imogen

Insert obligatory disclaimer re: non ownership of characters. These lovelies are all Kripke's, all the time.

From the moment Bobby spoke, time lost all meaning.

It hung as if the whole world was stuck, waiting for a single tick of the old clock on Bobby's kitchen wall, then sped up, disappearing so rapidly that it was a wonder that the sun was still visible.

Dean and Castiel bolted up the stairs to throw on some clothes, and Bobby, who had slept fully dressed on the couch, leaned against the wall by the front door, pulling on his boots.

By the time they left the house, all three men racing down the stairs toward the Impala, barely ten minutes had passed. Castiel felt certain it had been hours. Time was running out, yet at the same time it dragged. It was wrong, all wrong.

Outside, the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue. The bright sun mocked them; it's warmth a bitter lie on a day this dark.

As Dean threw open the trunk of the Impala to shove in a pile of weapons that would most likely be useless against the devil, Bobby paused at the passenger door, his brow wrinkled in concern.

"Wait," he said, "should I... is there a chance this is going down some place else?"

Dean slammed the trunk and looked at Bobby, frowning as he made his way to the drivers side.

"Like where?"

"You said that he told you it would happen in Detroit."

"I don't know... maybe, but-"

"I'll head to Detroit then. Just in case."

Dean stared at him.

"There's no way you'll get there fast enough."

Even as Dean said it, a little voice in the back of his mind told him it was probably too late already, and he clenched his teeth. Bobby just shrugged, trying to disguise the fear in eyes and failing.

"I know a guy with a Cessna. Might as well cash in the favor he owes me."

"And what if Sam..." Dean clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly before he continued, "what if Lucifer is there? What are you going to do?"

"Probably about as much as we were going to do in Lawrence."

Bobby was right. No matter what happened, it was not likely that there was going to be a good outcome. Either Sam would end up in the pit, or Lucifer would overpower him. There were no other options. All he knew was that they couldn't let Sam do this on his own. No matter what, Dean had to let him know that he wasn't alone.

With a nod, Dean climbed into the Impala, and Bobby leaned down, looking through the window at him as Castiel slipped into the passenger seat. He rested his hand on the roof.

"If I don't see you two-"

"We'll see you," Dean said, his voice tight as he turned the key, "just... we'll see you later, alright?"

"Yeah," Bobby smiled in at him, "Yeah, I'll see you later."

Bobby stood back and watched as the Impala tore down the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. With a heavy breath he made his way to his car, digging a set of keys from his pocket.

As he pulled out into the road, he spared a glace back at his house in the rear-view. There were a lot of memories in that house, and while he drove they flashed through his head. He'd been looking after Sam and Dean for years, watching them while John was off on a hunt, teaching them the practical things that John never seemed to have time for and letting them just be kids.

One Fall, when Sam was twelve, John had taken off after what he had thought was Yellow Eyes and Bobby had the boys with him at the house for two weeks.

A few days in, while Dean had been watching Bobby dismantle the engine of a worn out '72 Mustang, Sam had gone exploring in the nearby woods. He came back two hours later, covered in mud, and carrying a dog. It was a little runt of a thing, a Rottweiler pup that some lowlife had left to die in a cardboard box half-submerged in the river. Sam had come running into the garage, the dog squirming and whining in his arms, it's paws too big for its skinny frame, and asked Do you reckon Dad will let me keep him?

Dean pointed out that they couldn't exactly take a dog with them on the road, and Sam looked crushed. He begged Bobby to let him look after it, just until John came back, and, big softy that he was, he'd agreed. Though he had planned to take the pup to the pound once John collected the kids, he went and got attached to the damn thing. He had that dog for years.

Eventually, Rumsfeld grew into his paws. He'd been good company, that dog, lazy as he was, and he never failed to remind Bobby of the big-hearted kid that had, even then, been set on helping the weak and needy.

He might have been the one feeding him and walking him and tossing a ratty old tennis ball for him in the yard, but as far as he was concerned, Rumsfeld was a family dog, and he belonged to Sam and Dean just as much as Bobby. Even when he hadn't seen the Winchesters for years, when too much time had passed between visits, that dog had been his connection to them.

Now, Rumsfeld was gone. But Dean was okay, and Sam... there was still hope for Sam.

With what he was fairly sure was a heavy dose of unrealistic optimism, he told himself he'd reach Sam in time and somehow, somehow, things would turn out alright. Squinting in the bright sun, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressing his foot down onto the accelerator.

"Hold on, kid," he said under his breath, "we're comin' for ya."

Dean drove all day, straight down the I-29 through Omaha, hooking through Topeka around 4:30pm. For the most part, traffic was thin, and he drove recklessly, making the six and a half hour trip in a little under five.

Castiel was a quiet presence in the passenger seat. They drove without music, without conversation. There were no words that would help, no songs that seemed appropriate.

As they sped out of Topeka, nearing the tiny town of Stull, the tense atmosphere in the car became too much to bear. Castiel reached across the console to rest a hand on Dean's knee, hoping to give some form of comfort, even if words wouldn't allow it.

His touch had the opposite effect.

Dean's hands clenched around the wheel, and he jerked his knee away from Castiel's fingers, the car swerving slightly in the process.

"Don't," he said through clenched teeth, his voice terse, "don't touch me."

Castiel took his hand back, hurt. He looked at Dean, but the hunter's eyes were fixed firmly on the road. The only thing more apparent on his face than his fear was his anger, and Castiel didn't understand. He had thought, after last night, that physical comfort was something he could offer to the hunter. His brow wrinkled as he spoke quietly.

"I was just-"

"I don't give a damn what you were just doing, Castiel. Don't."

The words were blunt, cold, and Castiel felt them like a kick in the chest. Dean hadn't called him Castiel for years, and somehow it sounded hateful, as though he was being pushed away. He stared at his face, trying to comprehend the reason why Dean was suddenly acting as though he had done something wrong.

"Dean," his voice cracked, wavered, and he didn't even know what he wanted to say, only that he couldn't say nothing.

At the sound, Dean glanced away from the road, taking in the wounded, confused expression on Castiel's face. He let out a heavy breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension in them. He swallowed hard and turned back to face the road ahead.

"Dammit, Cas, he just left. I didn't even get to say..." he shook his head, voice growing quiet, "he left and I was fucking sleeping."

Castiel stared at him, the realization hitting him like a freight train.

Dean felt guilty; as irrational as it was, he thought if he'd been awake he could have stopped Sam from going on his own, and a part of him blamed Castiel for the fact that he had slept so late. A knot formed in Castiel's throat, and not knowing what to say, he stared down at his hands.

He opened his mouth to offer some platitude, but it wouldn't come.

When they arrived at Stull Cemetery twenty silent minutes later it was just in time to see Sam climbing to his feet, his arms outstretched and dripping blood like some obscene mockery of Christ as he tried to fight back against the force of Lucifer's grace.

Dean slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, the engine still running as he rushed toward Sam.

"Sam!" he yelled, "Sammy!"

He had barely taken three steps when the cracks began to form.

Bobby's old friend, the pilot, didn't need much convincing.

He found him where he'd expected to, midway through a game of cards down at the local watering hole and nursing a rum and coke, hold the rum.

Norm had given up drinking the week Bobby had met him. He'd been in his early thirties back then, and in a drunken stupor he'd let his temper get the better of him. A few poorly chosen words over a game of pool had led to a fight, and his heightened emotional state had been like a beacon. A demon on the prowl for a shiny new meatsuit spotted him from a mile off, and he'd been possessed.

If Bobby hadn't found him and exorcised the demon in time, Norm would've been facing a lot more than a drunk and disorderly charge.

Bobby ran in through the front door of the bar, spotted Norm at a table, and didn't even bother to say hello.

"Norm," he said breathlessly, "I need to cash in that favor."

"Why's that?"

"Gotta stop the apocalypse."

Norm narrowed his eyes, evidently trying to decide if Bobby had lost the plot.

"Now," said Bobby, and something in his voice convinced the pilot.

"Right," Norm said, laying his hand down on the table as he turned to the men he'd been playing, "I fold."

He got to his feet and followed Bobby, who filled him in as they drove. They were at the airstrip within a quarter of an hour, and when they took off the sky was still free of clouds; an endless azure, bright and clear to the horizon.

Now, though, the plane dipped, lurching violently to the left as lightning flashed across the sky ahead, and Bobby grabbed a hold of the side of his seat, cursing every version of God he could think of for the storm which had rolled in without warning barely ten minutes after they'd taken off.

"Norm?" he said, trying to stop himself from looking out the window at the too-close ground below them, "are we gonna need to land this thing?"

Norm glanced at Bobby and shook his head.

"We'll make it, don't you worry."

As if in direct disagreement with this statement, the Cessna lurched down again, its whole body shaking with the rapidly shifting air pressure outside.

"You sure about that?"

"I've flown in worse."

"Well that's comforting."

Norm shrugged, suddenly loose limbed. He let go of the yoke to stretch his hands up over his head, cracking the bones in his fingers.

"This storm is nothing compared to Hell."

Bobby jerked his head to the side, looking at Norm as the heavy stench of sulphur filled his nostrils. Norm's eyes flicked to black.

"Hi there Bobby," the demon said, its voice lilting and sweet, "you miss me?"

"Balls."

"Well, you're just as eloquent as ever."

Bobby weighed his options, and none of them seemed any good. As far as weapons went, he had a plastic bottle of holy oil and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds in a bag in the back, and a flask of holy water in his pocket. The gun was a no-go; if he could even get to it, it was too risky to fire that thing mid-flight, and he couldn't very well incapacitate the demon with holy water when it was flying the damn plane. He tensed in his seat and hoped he'd be able to keep it talking long enough to come up with a decent plan.

"Which bottom-feeding sonofabitch are you, then? I've met so many of you lately I've lost count."

With a click of its tongue, the demon shook its head.

"Wow, surprised I didn't make more of an impression on you," it said in mock offence, "though admittedly this meatsuit isn't my usual style. More parts than I'm used to."

Bobby narrowed his eyes, taking in the demon's snarky manner. After a moment it clicked.

"Meg," he said, and the demon smirked.

"Bingo! Got it in one, old man."

"What do you want?"

"To save my ass, which, as it turns out, depends on you and your merry little pack of misfits being... hmm," she pursed he lips, "how can I put this delicately? Dead."

Suddenly, Meg grinned, the expression bizarre on Norm's face, and pushed down on the yoke. The plane tipped into a nose dive, and Bobby felt his heart clenching in his chest as he tried desperately to remember the Latin he needed to cast the demon out.

Unsurprisingly, he found that incantations in archaic languages were a little difficult to recall when plummeting from 12,000 feet.

Before Dean could take another step toward his brother, Sam's fists clenched and his whole body tensed up as though trying to contain a hurricane. Cracks ran along his arms with a sound like a window slowly breaking, and light leaked out through the gaps that formed.

As the light intensified, Dean was knocked down from behind and pinned to the ground, Castiel's arms shielding his eyes from the terrible brightness of Lucifer's grace.

As soon as the light faded he felt Castiel move away, and pushed himself to his feet.

Where Sam had stood seconds before, the grass was wet with blood, scattered with shards of disintegrated bone. Dean screamed his brothers name, looking around helplessly, not allowing himself to believe that what he saw on the ground was real.

He tried to move forward, but Castiel grabbed hold of his arm, stopping him.

"Dean," he pointed ahead, "look."

Laying face down on the grass, about twenty feet from where Sam had been standing, was Lucifer. Or at least, his temporary vessel, Nick.

Nick's hand twitched, and after a moment he reached out, pressing his palms into the earth as he struggled to his feet. He groaned, and then he screamed. Roared. The sound was like metal scraping against metal, like wildfire and thunder and unlike anything a human voice should be capable of. As if suddenly aware of Dean and Castiel's presence, he turned his head, and if it hadn't been obvious before that Nick wasn't in the drivers seat, it was now.

Lucifer stared them down, skin crackling like a pig on a spit, the vessel barely containing his grace.

"Big mistake," he said, but he voice wavered as he stepped forward, stumbling slightly.

Instinctively, Castiel moved in front of Dean, and as they watched, the archangel swayed on his feet. Castiel frowned. This made no sense.

Suddenly Lucifer's head jerked to the side, and he tilted his face, recognition in his eyes as he looked beyond a row of graves.

"Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice..." he paused, smirking even as he struggled to remain upright, "and I'll turn your ribcage into a lampshade."

He took a faltering step toward the gravestones, which from where Castiel and Dean were standing, appeared to be utterly lacking in anyone for Lucifer to be addressing.

"Why are you hiding?" he asked, voice too-soft and barely masking the storm of hate that raged beneath it, "Afraid I'm going to-"

There was a sudden flash of white, and Lucifer looked down at the ground before his feet where four rings had landed, stuck together as if magnetized. The earth beneath them began to sink away immediately, revealing a twisting black pit, and he glanced up, looking toward the place where he still seemed to see someone. As he spoke, his expression was somehow smug and disappointed at the same time.

"Not today, brother."

With that, he was gone, lifted away on invisible wings.

Bobby wasn't sure how long it took for his vocal cords to kick in, but when they did the ground was getting so close he was damn near certain they weren't going to survive. He yelled the words, white knuckles gripping the wall beside him.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii-"

Meg reached across to grab at Bobby's throat, trying to stop him from speaking, and Bobby took the opportunity to pull the demon from its seat. It hit the floor and Bobby crouched over it. From his pocket he pulled the flask of holy water, splashing it onto the demons skin as he went on.

"-omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

The Cessna was shuddering. Thick black smoke began to snake from Meg's lips, and Bobby's voice got louder, more desperate as they plummeted toward the earth.

"Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire," he poured the rest of the holy water directly into the Meg's screaming mouth, "te rogamus, audi nos."

The last of the smoke curled out and Bobby half-crawled to the yoke, pulling it up as hard as he could. After a second, Norm came to his senses and scrambled to his feet, staggering forward to clutch at the controls. He hit buttons and pulled levers, and after a moment the horizon sank as the nose of the plane tilted slowly back up, engines roaring with the effort. Bobby fell back against his seat, panting.

"Jesus Christ," he said, turning to glare at Norm, "why the hell aren't you carrying your anti-possession charm?"

Norm looked at him, his face pale, and shrugged helplessly.

"Guess I left it in my other coat."