The day was sunny and bright. Sun glimmered off the water, and a few families had gone out in boats to enjoy the late summer day. She and Bobby had arrived early, but the park was large and Sinclair hadn't specified precisely where to meet—no doubt a purposeful tactic on his part. Cass and Bobby stood by the water, watching the path and waiting. Forrest sat peacefully at their feet, because Bobby couldn't exactly let a dog sitter into his house and Cass hadn't liked the idea of leaving him home alone for so long.

Cuthbert Sinclair strolled up at precisely 10 am. He looked just as Cass remembered, with tidy dark hark, gray three piece suit, and a bowtie, looking completely out of place in the park. On seeing them, his face lit with a charismatic smile.

"C.H., I take it." He slowed to a halt in front of Bobby, his hands in his suit pockets as he gave him a once-over. Bobby raised his eyebrows. "You're a few years younger than I expected."

Cass cleared her throat pointedly. "I'm C.H."

"Well, then, you're many years younger than I expected," Sinclair said, though he didn't look surprised for more than a second. "Who's this, then, your father?"

"I'm security." Bobby pulled back his flannel shirt just enough to show the gun holstered at his hip.

"Consider me intimidated," said Sinclair, looking anything but.

"You're looking rather spry yourself, for a man your age," Cass said, hoping that her hint as to his age and origins would get the meeting back on track.

"I try," said Sinclair. He gave Cass a once-over now, and she got the feeling he wasn't impressed. "But I do hope I didn't come all this way to indulge an aging woman's desire for beauty secrets."

Cass blinked, "You know, Mr. Sinclair, I expected less misogyny from someone so radical he was kicked out of the Men of Letters."

Sinclair went very still for a moment. Then the charming smile was back, sharper this time. "Yes, well, the institution wasn't called the Men of Letters for nothing, Miss…"

"Holmes."

"Miss Holmes, then. Not a surname I'm familiar with outside of fiction." He raised his eyebrows. "Tell me, how do you know about the Men of Letters and, more importantly, about me?"

Now came the time where she had to be cautious. She and Bobby had deliberated over how much to tell him to get him to believe them versus how much to withhold to prevent Sinclair from trying to collect her.

"I'm something of a seer," Cass said carefully. "I've seen a bit about your work, and how you were forced out shortly before Abaddon killed the rest of the order."

Sinclair did not blink. His smile widened a fraction. "Have you really?"

Cass wasn't sure if he was buying it, but had no choice but to press on. "I saw your work on the Werther Box. You said the Men of Letters should be out fighting evil, not moldering in the stacks like librarians—do you still stand by that?"

"It's a bit of a moot point," said Sinclair. "Considering they're all dead."

"Not all of them."

Sinclair chuckled incredulously. "You can't possibly be talking about yourself."

"Not me," Cass agreed. "You. And, about five years from now, Henry Winchester."

"Henry?" For the first time Sinclair appeared truly off-balance. "Henry's dead. Abaddon killed him with all the others."

"No." Cass shook her head. "He performed a spell to escape her, to keep her from taking the key to the Men of Letters' bunker. One that calls to his own blood. He meant to find his son, but John is dead, so he finds his grandsons instead."

"I know which spell you're talking about," Sinclair said, frowning. His gaze was distant. "I taught it to him. Though I'd hoped I'd taught him better than that." His gaze sharpened again, locking back on Cass with startling clarity. "Well. You are a woman of your word, aren't you? I did think he was lost, and you're quite right that I'm interested in recovering him. Which means we should now be coming to the part about that small problem you want me to work my magic on. I believe you mentioned something about fighting evil?" His expression was more than a little condescending as he waved her on. "Go on, then. Tell me what sort of 'evil' we're dealing with."

"Lucifer," she said flatly, relishing in the slight widening of his eyes. "Or we will be, if we can't stop the seals holding him in his cage from breaking. The first dozen or so have already been broken." She was betting he was lore-savvy enough to know what that meant.

Sinclair stared at her. Then, slowly, he said, "The Apocalypse. You want my help to stop the Apocalypse."

"Yes."

"What about that, to you, sounds like a 'small problem'?" He said, voice rising. "And just what exactly do you expect me to do about it? There are six hundred and sixty six seals. I'm just one man. An exceptional one, granted, but still just one. Even with Henry's help…"

"We don't need you to stop the seals," Cass said quickly. "We're trying to 'break the lock', so to speak. If we can break the final seal before 65 others break, then we should be able to stop the cage from opening."

Sinclair frowned thoughtfully. "The first demon shall be the final seal," he murmured, in the tone of one reciting something he'd read. "You want my help to kill Lilith."

Cass shook her head. "We just need you to find her."

Sinclair laughed once, shortly, although the sound had little humor. "If you can't even find her, what makes you think you can kill her?"

Cas hesitated. "I'm actually hoping we can cure her."

"You're mad," Sinclair said immediately. "That ritual worked once, and that was on a regular demon."

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?" It was a sincere question. They'd been operating on hope, but Sinclair was a spell expert—if he didn't think it would work, then all of this might be for nothing. "The first demon can't be the final seal if she's not a demon anymore, can she?"

"We've tried every tracking spell I know of, but none of them are working," Bobby interjected. "Whatever spells she's using to hide herself, they're good. Plus, she's got angels working with her."

Sinclair's eyebrows rose. "Angels?"

"There's… kind of a civil war going on in heaven right now between pro-Apocalypse Lucifer supporters, pro-Apocalypse Michael supporters, and anti-Apocalypse human sympathizers," Cass said, then carefully summarized the current situation while omitting any mention of herself being a Prophet. Sinclair listened intently.

When the tale was done he said, "And you've seen that I can help you with this?"

"Not… exactly," Cass admitted. "I've only seen one version of events, and I've meddled with fate quite a bit already."

"Meddling with fate," Sinclair mused aloud. "You're quite the rulebreaker, aren't you, Miss Holmes? You don't seem to be like any seer I've ever heard of before."

She did not care for that course of conversation. "Will you help us, or not?"

"You know what?" Sinclair smiled broadly. "I think I will." He held out his hand, clearly expecting her to shake it. Cass hesitated, because she couldn't help but feel that that had been far too easy. Sinclair raised his eyebrows. "Do we have an agreement, or not, Miss Holmes? I assure you, there's nothing up my sleeve."

Fuck it. What other choice did she have? "Alright. We have an agreement."

She shook his hand. The world blurred.

Bobby woke up pissed. He doubted he'd been out of it for more than a few minutes, but that didn't matter—Sinclair and Cass were both gone, and with his skill in magic they could be anywhere by now. Forrest was whining pitifully, nudging Bobby's arm with his cold nose.

"Damn it!"

He scooped up the dog's leash and rushed back towards the truck, dialing Dean as he jogged. He answered after two rings, sounding concerned, but not nearly concerned enough.

"What's up, Bobby?"

"I need you to get your asses to Kansas as fast as you can."

"Kansas?" He repeated. "Why? What's going on?" The background noise got louder—he was on speaker now.

Bobby winced and braced himself. "Cass has been kidnapped."

"What?" That was Sam. "How? By who?"

"Angels?" Dean asked tensely.

"No, not angels," Bobby said, fumbling with his keys as he reached the truck. "Cuthbert Sinclair. He's some kind of wizard, master of spells. We were hoping he could help us track down Lilith."

"You let her meet up with some witch all on her own?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Of course not!" Bobby snapped. "I went with her. But the guy's good—he knocked me out before I could do more than flash my gun, and when I woke up they were both gone."

"We're on our way," Dean said. Over the sound of car doors, "Any idea where he would have taken her?"

"Cass said his house is in some kind of pocket dimension—" Bobby finally managed to unlock the truck and frowned. "Hang on."

"What is it?" Sam again, sounding very tense.

"She left me a note," Bobby said sourly, sure he wouldn't like the contents even before he opened it.

"What's it say?"

"'In Case I Am Kidnapped'," Bobby read aloud irritably. "'Step One: Stop beating yourself up about it. We both knew this was a possibility going in.' Damn it, Cass…"

"Wait, you knew he would try to kidnap her?" Dean said incredulously. "Bobby!"

"Who is this guy?"

Bobby sighed. "It's like I said, he's a master of spells. And he's kind of a… collector. Lore, artifacts, everything you can think of. Cass said he's got himself a zoo of different supernatural creatures."

"This guy wants to put her in a zoo?" Dean whistled. "That's screwed up, even for us."

Voice strained, Sam said, "What's step two, Bobby?"

"'Step Two: I'm going to try and talk my way out of this. But if you don't hear from me in a day, call Sam and Dean. You're going to need back up.'"

Dean said, "Okay, check."

"'Step Three: This is the hard part. Cuthbert Sinclair's house is in a pocket dimension in a clearing in the woods somewhere. I'm pretty sure it's in Kansas, but I don't know for sure. There's ingredients for a few different tracking spells in the trunk, plus—' Jesus, she really plans ahead, doesn't she? 'Plus some of my hair and a vial of my blood. If we're lucky, Sinclair hasn't warded his place against everything. Unfortunately, even if you do find the right clearing, I don't know the spell to get into his pocket dimension, which means—'" Bobby sighed heavily.

"What?" Sam asked. "What is it, what do we have to do?"

"'You'll have to get him to let you in,'" Bobby continued. "Your best bet will be to play up Sam and Dean's relationship with Henry Winchester.'"

"Henry Winchester?" Dean repeated, clearly confused. "Who the hell is Henry Winchester?"

Sam said, "Wasn't Henry dad's dad's name?"

"Yes, it was," Bobby said, feeling a headache coming on. This was not how he wanted to do this. "Or it is. Look, it's a long story, but the short version is this Sinclair guy was friends with your grandfather back in the '50s."

A pause. Then Dean said, "Bobby, when we get up there, we are going to have a talk."

"Did she say anything else?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, there's a note at the end. 'P.S. Come armed. Invited or not, he's likely to set some monsters from his zoo on you.'"

"I'm hating this guy more and more every second," Dean muttered.

"'P.P.S. Be careful. This guy is no joke. He's done practically nothing for decades but study magic. P.P.P.S. The demon doesn't sound so bad now, does he?' Then 'P.P.P.P.S. Maybe try praying to Castiel, too, he might be able to help.' And finally 'P.P.P.P.P.S., Re-read Step One.'"

"We'll be there in five hours," Dean said shortly. "See if you can get any of those tracking spells to work."

The call ended, and Bobby shared a miserable look with Forrest. "Damn it."

The moment the world stopped spinning Cass had twisted her hand out of Sinclair's grip and put several feet of distance between them, falling into a defensive stance. Sinclair raised an eyebrow, looking moderately impressed, then waved her toward a couch in the lavishly decorated living room they'd arrived in.

"Please, Miss Holmes, make yourself at home."

"Take me back, right now," she said firmly, not moving an inch.

Sinclair tutted, strolling over to a dark wood cabinet. "Come now, Miss Holmes. You can't tell me you didn't see this coming." He opened the cabinet, revealing a number of crystal decanters and glasses. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Absolutely not."

Sinclair looked exasperated. "My dear, if I wanted to do something to you, I could just do it," he explained patiently. "I have no need to slip potions into your drinks like some common criminal. Now. Do you want a drink?"

Cass folded her arms, unswayed by the logic. "I'll pass."

Sinclair sighed. "Suit yourself." He poured a drink for himself regardless, a few fingers of amber-colored liquid in a short glass. "Now. I find myself curious…"

"I find you curious, too," Cass said derisively. "Among other things."

Sinclair did not look at all put out by the implied insult. "You're sharp," he said, gesturing appreciatively at her with his drink. "I like that. But I'm curious, Miss Holmes—what are you?"

"Thoroughly done with your shit, for one."

Sinclair sighed. "There's no need to be impolite."

"There was no need to kidnap me, either."

"Is it really kidnapping if you knew it was going to happen?" Sinclair asked lightly. "Surely you wouldn't have come if you didn't want to be swept away."

Cass couldn't restrain a grimace at that implication. "I didn't see it happen. I told you already, I've only seen one version of events. You and I were never supposed to meet."

"Yes, so you said." Sinclair surveyed her over the rim of his glass. "I'm intrigued about how that works. But you must have seen something, or you wouldn't have hesitated so when I offered you my hand."

"And in the end I took it because I was foolishly optimistic that you would display a little more honor."

"Oh, but I am," Sinclair said, sounding quite sincere. "I'm doing what's best for everybody by taking you off the board."

Cass blinked, thrown by that assertion. "What?"

"All that knowledge in your head of the past and future—" Sinclair gestured broadly. "It's terribly dangerous. Can't risk it falling into the wrong hands, can we?"

"You're also keeping it out of the right hands—" Cass said, voice rising. "Or did you not pay attention to the bit about how we're trying to stop the Apocalypse?"

Sinclair lowered himself into a rich leather armchair. "I'm not terribly worried about that."

"What, do you intend to hide here forever?" Derisively she asked, "What are you going to feed the monsters in your zoo when everything is dead?"

"It doesn't matter, because it's not going to happen," Sinclair said simply. At Cass's blank look he sighed. "You said so yourself, dear. Henry Winchester is supposed to arrive in five years' time, where he finds his grandsons. He couldn't possibly do that if everyone's dead, now, can he?"

She didn't realize she'd given that much away. But still, "If we don't stop the seals now then Lucifer will walk the Earth. The Apocalypse, the Four Horsemen—thousands of people will die."

"And how do you know that?" Sinclair leaned forward eagerly. "What are you, Miss Holmes?"

Cass glared at him. "I'm not about to give you the pleasure of telling you what to engrave on the plaque outside my enclosure."

"Enclosure?" Sinclair repeated, sounding genuinely surprised. "Please. I don't intend to cage you like a monster."

"Fantastic. Please be so kind as to show me the door."

"Oh, be sensible," Sinclair chided. "You're a smart girl. You have the chance to be part of the greatest collection of all time. And if Lucifer does walk the earth, well—this place is warded more than well enough to withstand the Apocalypse."

"Not interested."

The dismay and puzzlement on his face did not seem feigned. "Why ever not?"

Cass blinked, then eventually decided he was serious. "Wow, where to start." She began to tick off the reasons on her fingers. "One, you're a sociopath. Two, you kidnapped me. Three, I'm still trying to prevent the Apocalypse—"

Sinclair snapped his fingers with a look of smug realization. "It's a man, isn't it?"

Cass stared. "Were you listening to a single word I just said?"

"Yes, dear, of course I was," he said with a patronizing wave of his hand. "But there's only one reason a passably intelligent woman ever acts this irrationally, and it's men." He sighed disappointedly. "Inconvenient, but I suppose it's only to be expected."

"We'll call the blatant sexism reason number four," Cass said decisively. "Look, Cuthbert, I didn't meet with you to be 'swept away'. All I wanted was a tracking spell so I can find Lilith and—I really can't stress this enough—stop the Apocalypse. Did you ever intend to help with that at all, or was that just a lie to abduct me?"

"I did say I would help, didn't I?" He mused. "Well, I am a man of my word." He stood abruptly, gesturing for her to follow him. "Come along to the library. Perhaps a demonstration will change your attitude."

In the library, Sinclair rolled out a large world map and produced a pendulum with casual confidence. He held the pendulum over the map and chanted for a long minute. Cass, familiar with the process but not the language, could only make out the name Lilith. For the first time, she found herself hoping that a tracking spell would work—and for the first time, she was relieved to see the pendant spinning madly, searching the map without success.

Sinclair narrowed his eyes at the pendant. "Well… that's unusual."

"Having trouble?" Cass challenged lightly, raising her eyebrows. "I thought you were supposed to be a Master of Spells."

"Nonsense," he said carelessly. "She's warded, that's all. I'll simply have to try something a little more advanced."

"Uh-huh." Cass pulled out a chair and propped her feet carelessly on the table. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but she was positive it would bother Sinclair, and she wasn't above annoying the shit out of him until he let her go. "Let me know when you give up."

Sinclair pretended not to hear her. He was darting around the room, gathering more tools and ingredients. This included more than one ritual knife. Cass debated whether or not to try to sneak one off the table. On the one hand, she doubted that she would have an opportunity to use it, and if she did she would still be stuck in a house with no exits. On the other hand, Sinclair was a shady bastard and she'd at least feel better if she had a weapon on her. When the second spell failed and Sinclair turned his back to gather more ingredients, she reached out and pulled a small silver athame away from the pile.

Then she cried out in surprise as, suddenly, the knife went smooth and slippery, transforming into the form of a gleaming silver snake which twined tightly around her wrists with a hiss and then solidified into heavy shackles.

"Motherfucker!"

Sinclair shot her a deeply amused glance as he measured out herbs onto a set of gleaming golden scales. "You didn't really think I'd allow myself to be murdered in my own home, did you?"

"Day's not over yet," Cass said darkly.

Sinclair looked pleased, in anything. "You know, I think you and I are going to get along splendidly."

Bobby had already tried every tracking spell Cass had left him ingredients for by the time Sam and Dean arrived. Unfortunately, they all failed—though Bobby couldn't say he was too surprised. Still, as the Impala pulled to a stop next to his truck in the park's parking lot, he wasn't looking forward to telling the boys the bad news.

"Nothing?" Dean guessed, taking in Bobby's expression as he unfolded himself out of the car.

"Nothing," Bobby confirmed. "Wherever this guy's place is, it's warded to high heaven if not even a blood spell can find her."

Neither of them looked reassured by that. Sam stepped forward to scratch Forrest's ears, and the dog distractedly accepted it—he'd been antsy and pulling at his leash practically since Cass was taken, until at last Bobby had secured his leash to the truck bed to make sure he wouldn't run off while he worked.

"Have you heard from—" A quiet swoosh interrupted Dean's words, and he turned. "Speak of the devil." Castiel frowned, clearly puzzled. Dean said, "Tell me you've got a way to track Cass down."

Castiel's frown deepened. "I don't. The warding on her ribs is like yours. It shields her from the sight of all angels, including myself."

"What about the archangels?" Sam asked. Castiel's eyes flicked to him, and then settled on the dog as Sam went on, "Shouldn't they know she's in danger?"

"The archangels will only interfere if she is in mortal peril," Castiel explained absently. "Involuntary relocation is beneath their notice." Then, confused, "Why are you not following the hound?"

The three humans all stared at the angel. "The dog?" Dean said incredulously. "He's not exactly a bloodhound, and even if he was I'm pretty sure that wouldn't work."

Castiel blinked, looking away from Forrest and glancing between the three of them. Taking in their equally confused expressions, he said plainly, "That is not a dog."