Sam had declined to return to the artificially created, false version of his past. He had no desire to experience yet another revelation of forgotten truths that robbed him of his life all over again, and with his memories intact, knowing it was all stage dressing and props, it would have been empty, and too painful.

Instead, while waiting for the prescribed moment, he had immersed himself in study. Volumes and scrolls were provided at his request. He devoured them and beset the angels who delivered them with barrages of questions. Their answers would be generally forthcoming, but Sam still suspected that there was something that he wasn't being told.

He would delve into the documents, written in languages too ancient for him to have even heard of, much less recognize. Random squiggles would transform into readable text with a touch to his forehead. He was well aware that this made the translations highly suspect, but all he could do was work with what he had.

Between the book worming and angelic interrogation, he had been able to piece things together. Lucifer, the devil himself, had been caged in Hell for almost the entire span of human history. Demonic minions would eventually be able to release him, and it looked like that day was fast approaching. To save humanity, and the planet they called home, the Archangel Michael would have to kill Lucifer once and for all. An Archangel's power was such that it needed containment in a vessel, a human host, lest its very presence cause disastrous consequences for miles.

All that was reasonably easy to accept, once one accepted the existence of God and angels. The part he had difficulty with was, being descended from the family line of Michael's chosen. No one ever thinks that they are "the chosen one", and it was a lot to process.

A question he hadn't answered was, where was Dean? What was this sacrifice that he had made? How was Sam the last Winchester to choose from? It couldn't be that he had died for Little John. Sam was dead himself, and that clearly hadn't been disqualifying. It didn't matter. If it had to be a Winchester, it wasn't going to be Dean, and certainly not his son. That was a settled matter as far as Sam was concerned.

He had found, in his research, multiple references to "the field of the dead" and "the resting place of the fallen". He had assumed that meant a cemetery, so it was no surprise to find himself in one now. That it was this particular cemetery, that was a surprise.

It was unsettling, looking that the gravestone before him and seeing the familiar pattern of letters that made up his name, not just the same name, used by a stranger with no relationship to him, but his name, because it was his body, what used to be him, that lay rotting underfoot.

"So, this is where Lucifer is?" he asked, nervously looking around. Shadowy figures roamed about among the other stones and markers. Odd, that so many people would be visiting a cemetery this long after dark.

"No," Rachel answered, "he will be elsewhere. We're just here on a quick errand. You can't host an Archangel without a body to possess, so we need to put you back in yours."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he conceded, because what was on more layer of weird?

"It would be best if you looked away." the angel advised, "Humans have an uneasy relationship with their own mortality. You would find the sight of your ravaged and decaying cadaver unpleasant."

Since learning of their existence, Sam had felt an almost automatic drive to question or argue with most everything an angel said to him. That urge evaporated instantly. He hastily turned his back to the grave.

Light invaded the edges of his sight and harmonic tones sounded behind him. He tried not to think about what was happening and sought distraction in watching the movements of the distant figures. "Isn't it going to get awkward if someone sees us?" he asked.

"Don't worry about them." Rachel told him, "They're all too fixated on whatever holds them here to be aware of anything else."

That made no sense to him, but Rachel obviously wasn't concerned about any onlookers, so there was probably no need for him to be.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

As was her habit, the angel didn't seem to have much interest in what he had to say. Before he could ask, "Ready for what?" he was being pulled backward, folded and squeezed, and sucked through a straw. Then he was lying on his back, the full field of the starry sky spread out before him.

He startled and scrambled to his feet, realizing where it was that he must have been lying. He wanted away from that particular plot of ground and the stone that marked it as quickly as possible.

"How does that feel?" Rachel asked, either not noticing, or not concerned about his distress.

Honestly, it felt confining, too tight and heavy. He shuffled a bit, testing out the freshly restored muscle and flesh. "Yeah, seems OK." he said, the same half truth he would tell Mary when trying on school shoes after a summer running barefoot. It would stop feeling strange when he to used to it, so he'd just say it was fine.

"Good, then we should be going." Rachel said, "We have a timetable to keep to."

So, Michael wouldn't be coming there. He nodded and stepped within her reach.

He might never see Lawrence again. He took one last look around the place that had been his home for almost his entire life. "Where did everybody go so fast?" he asked finding his surroundings empty.

"They're all still there." Rachel told him, "You just can't see them now."

Sam had grown somewhat used to flying. The instantaneous change of one location for another, without the passage of either time or scenery, didn't jolt him anymore, at least not as harshly as it once had. He wondered idly if it was the same for angels, or if their perceptions allowed them to experience the journey, feel the rush of the wind, see the ground rushing by below. He hadn't bothered to ask. Talking with angels was easy. Achieving actual communication was more of a challenge. He wasn't curious enough about it for it to be worth the inevitable frustration.

He turned his attention to surveying his new surroundings. They weren't what he would call a step up from a moonlit graveyard. The aging building had seen more impressive days. Now, weather beaten and crumbling, it loomed, dark against the cloudy night sky, casting a large, blockish shadow over neglected grounds. It made him think of 50s era monster classics, and even for that, this was laying it on a bit thick.

"Where are we?" he asked, hoping the answer would be Boris Karloff's Heaven. That would be better than an abandoned, Gothic monolith that had no business actually existing in the real world. No such luck.

"Ilchester, Maryland," Rachel replied offhandedly before setting off towards the eerie building at a bold pace. She obviously expected him to follow.

It was a typical angelic answer, the sort he had come to expect, technically correct, but largely devoid of anything of use or interest. With nothing else he could do, he fell in step with her.

It didn't matter anyway. Whatever stops they made along the way, he knew where the road ended. He had agreed to see this all the way through and there was no backing out.

Still, it would be nice to know what was going on. He had been viewing everything through the lens of his human perspective. This all boiled down to a fight between two brothers, not much different than the ones he and Dean had found themselves in while growing up. Now though, everything was escalating very quickly, encompassing factors of a scope difficult for a human mind to simply accept.

"What's it like to be possessed by an angel?" he asked as they moved through a mess of long dead shrubs and eroded statues.

"I couldn't tell you. I've never been possessed by an angel." Rachel said coolly.

"But, you're possessed right now." Sam pointed out, mildly confused.

"No, my vessel is. We are not our vessels."

That set off a tickle in Sam's stomach. He found he didn't want to talk about it anymore. In silence, they continued on towards the building.

At an outer door, a man waited. "Rachel," he greeted her at their approach, "all is in readiness. We've been awaiting your arrival. Are you ready to proceed?"

"At your word." she responded.

With a nod of acknowledgment, he bowed his head. "It has begun." he said after a moment's pause.

"Wait a minute. I don't understand any of this." Sam blurted out. Impatient with being excluded from a conversation he couldn't follow, all the unasked questions tumbled out of him, "Why are we here? Why couldn't we do this back in Lawrence? Or anywhere else? Out of the whole world, how do we end up at a condemned building in a town nobody's ever heard of instead of the Vatican, or Jerusalem, or the shrine at Lourdes? There's sacred places all over the planet, and Michael picks this place?"

"It's not for Michael to say." Rachel said gently, "We, even Michael, are bound by what has been written."

Another, irritatingly minimalistic, angelic answer. What was the point of even asking? What could he do but follow obediently as Rachel lead him through the door and down a series of arched hallways?

Finally, they turn a corner into a short hall that ended in an iron bound wooden door. As they approached a scream erupted from the room beyond. Sam stopped short. This wasn't shaping up like he had expected. The door shuddered, sending a resounding boom barreling up the hallway.

"What's going on in there?" he asked urgently.

Rachel's answer was calm, "It's just the demon."

Sam backed away, retreating up the corridor.

"Oh, don't be silly." Rachel chided him, "What is there for you to be afraid of? You're already dead."

Sam didn't find that particularly comforting.

"It's all a necessary part of the ritual." Rachel explained, "Don't worry, you won't be allowed in until after it's dead."

Sam nodded numbly, barely reassured. The battle raged in the room beyond the door, the noise barely muffled by the thick wood. He kept troubled eyes locked on the door the entire time. He flinched reflexively when it creaked open, ready for some hellish nightmare to burst through and charge at him.

Instead, someone, presumably another angel peeked out and beckoned Rachel forward. "It's done." he told her, "The vessel may safely enter."

"He's getting skittish." she said quietly, "Hide the body. This could go badly if he sees it."

With a nod, the other angel retreated back through the door.

"Sam," Rachel called, holding her hand out to him, "it's time."

Hesitantly, Sam came forward with slow, short steps and allowed himself to be lead into the room beyond the door. It was a chapel, or at least, it had been once, before the irreverence of time had been allowed to have its way with the place. At the far side of the room, near the dais that held the alter, congregate a group of four people. No, not people, he reminded himself, they would be angels. Their fresh wounds and damaged clothing told the tale of the fight they had just won.

Movement drew Sam's attention to the floor, where a crimson flow snaked its way unnaturally across the tiles. It moved as if guided by some intelligence along a predetermined path.

"It's all right, Sam." Rachel said soothingly, tugging at his hand to lead him deeper inside, "This has all been foretold."

The blood trail looped back on itself, enclosing a circle. Sam was taken right up to the edge of it. He watched, not understanding, not knowing what questions to ask, as sprialing lines sprouted at the circle's inner edge and grew to converge at the center.

A shaft of light shot up, taking him by surprise.

"It's nearly time." Rachel whispered loudly.

Sam didn't respond. He stared into the light, fascinated and transfixed by it. So this was an Archangel, or maybe just the power that surrounded an Archangel's presence. He didn't know. There was so much he didn't know, and there was no more time in which to try and seek answers.

"Sam?" Rachel tugged at his hand, "Are you with me?"

"Huh?" he snapped out of the daze, "Yeah, I'm OK. It's just so…" He trailed off. He wasn't sure what it was he was trying to say, and the words didn't exist anyway.

The angel squeezed his hand reassuringly. "All you have to do is say yes." she reminded him, "Everything else has been arranged."

A high pitched tone emitted from the light. It grew louder, more shrill, became painful to hear. Wind kicked up from nowhere to buffet the room. The light grew too bright to look at.

"Sam Winchester," Rachel's voice rose to be heard over the chaos, "do you, freely and of your own will, accept this Archangel and offer yourself to serve as his vessel?"

He turned to look at her. Smiling, she nodded in encouragement.

Sam swallowed nervously. He had gotten himself in way deep. Who knew how far past the safety rail? It didn't matter.

He remembered Little John, sitting sadly in Pastor Murphy's church, pecking out the broken notes of a strained song.

He remembered a night long ago, when Dean had been right around that same age.

It's all right to be scared, he reassured himself. You just can't let it beat you.

Straightening up to his full height he firmly said, Yes."

A powerful wave washed over him and through him. It spread, taking root, getting all tangled up with him. It was already hard to tell where he ended and it began. A voice whispered in his head, seductive, inviting, saying things he couldn't make out.

"Sam!" Rachel was right in front of him, almost nose to nose, "Sam!"

He struggled to bring her into focus. She was underwater, or behind a thick pane of glass. "Sam, we have to go now." the words were muted and heavy, "We can't be caught here when it finishes. Just let things play out."

She was one. They were all gone. The only angel left was the one settling itself inside of him.

He tried to examine it, "hear" the voice "look" at the angel. Something was wrong. Behind the light, he could feel something cold and dark, something corrupted that hid inside of this thing he had let into himself.

Angels, in general, had not lived up to their reputation as merciful altruists, but this was way beyond manipulative tactics and lies of omission.

This was dark.

This was evil.

He recoiled from it, disgusted by the thought of touching it, or even getting too near it. It just wormed in deeper into the space he left. There was nowhere to retreat to. He pushed back against it, trying to force it out. It was too big, too strong. He was pushing against a wall. No, not a wall, an avalanche, one that was spilling its way into him and filling him up.

Laughter, it was laughing at him, at his clumsy, ineffectual attempt to resist.

"You're mine, Sam. You've always been mine. From the beginning."

Oh god, he knew now, understood what he had been deceived into agreeing to.

"NO!" his yell echoed back to him off the walls of the empty room. It was his last action before all control was lost to him.