If the atmosphere during the trip to Chicago had been infected, the one on the way back was deceased. Crowley had ditched them after the first ten minutes or so, declaring he'd have more fun at a funeral. Probably a very deliberate choice of words, knowing him.

"I'm sorry about your brother", he said softly. What else was there to say? He wasn't going to be at the actual funeral, might as well say it now. "It's gonna hurt."

"Don't you say that." Steadfast, caring Dean who refused to believe hope was lost even when his voice threatened to break. "I'm not gonna let Sammy–"

"You are." He wanted to close his eyes. Dean had a way of wearing every emotion plain on his face, and Shirou didn't know what to do with that much pain. And denial. The denial, however, had to go. So he looked at Dean, and tried to bring every emotion he couldn't put into words out through his voice and his eyes. "The sooner you accept that the easier for both of you."

"Easy?! You think anything could make this easier?!"

Fucking great. Smooth as always. Shirou curled his hands into fists, grounded himself against wave after wave of raw hurt and despair that came rolling off Dean. Goddammit, he was trying to help here, any kind of help, whatever fucking help he could give.

"For him – yeah. I'm pretty damn sure it would be easier for him to walk to the edge of that pit if he had his brother walking next to him."

Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn't he be both angry, frustrated, wanting to help and eloquent?

"You're a cold son of a bitch, you know that?" Dean wound tighter, sucked all that hurt and anger into himself like a supernova preparing to explode. "This is my brother. This is the only family I have. To just stand there and watch him throw himself into the fire: nobody should have to do that. You have no idea what that feels like."

Too bad the one who exploded first was Shirou.

"This isn't about you", he snapped, feeling ugly things roiling in his gut and under his tongue, feeling that all-too-familiar tug to say the worst things possible, aim straight at the unprotected crack in the armour and watch it fall apart. "Your brother's scared to death. He's going up against a force he knows he can't beat and he's doing it alone. There's no way out for him, no one in the world who can help him. Except there is." Words risen from the worst sides of him, from those blackened bits of his heart where Samael had sealed his fate. "If only his brother would quit his selfish whining and support him when he needs it the most."

The Impala's tyres ground black marks onto the asphalt when Dean stepped on the brake.

"Get out."

Shirou didn't argue. He'd argued enough.

The walk of shame had nothing on the walk of guilt. Shirou had miles to walk off his ire and assess the damage he had done.

Maybe he should just lay down on the road and wait for a truck?

He wasn't sure he'd remember the entire way back, and thinking about it... it didn't matter. He let his feet walk, let them carry the clouds in his mind whichever way they pleased. He didn't want to face Dean again. Or Sam.

Sam...

Shirou huffed through a dark smile. 'Containing more or less the same elements, like your average blockbuster movie'? It gave him a sickening feeling of comfort. That he wasn't alone, that there were others who-

"It would'a been better if I had been the only one." Objectively speaking. But who wanted to carry that burden alone, honestly? Not him. "Not Sam."

Shirou left a trail of cigarette butts along the highway, ashes smouldering like so many breadcrumbs marking the way back from one dead-end disaster to another. His feet remembered other walks like this, other circles trailed in straight lines as he tried to outrun one problem only to find the road led straight into a new one.

Containing more or less the same elements, like your average blockbuster movie. Other dimensions with other hunters fighting supernatural monsters. Other immortal bastards playing games against one another with human tokens, other souls marked by greedy gods for immolation. Would he get to witness his own dimension's Apocalypse, too, catching up to him in forty-or-so-years in his own timeline?

Would he have to... stop it...?

Shirou had smoked a full carton of cigarettes, and given the finger to a number of cars honking at the barely visible human on the dark road, when a familiar shape materialised ahead.

"There you are."

He didn't respond, just halted his steps and levelled an indifferent look at Crowley. The demon was, as demons tend to be, utterly disinterested in anything he would have said anyway. Once they had established that this was the case, and that Shirou would not come on his own like a good boy, Crowley accepted that he would have to saunter the few metres over to Shirou if he wanted any response.

"Reporting in to Lost & Found: merchandise retrieved."

He didn't even have time to open his mouth before Crowley laid a hand on his shoulder and teleported.

Shirou got at least one wish granted. Crowley's teleportation did not bring him face to face with the Winchesters.

"I'm terribly sorry for the trouble, Fergus." Samael was not sorry. "But this pup is such a darling~"

Bobby's dusty basement filled with the rumbling of a huge dog - presumably with chainsaw chains for vocal cords - that sprawled legs and other similar extremities all over the floor. Shirou would have taken it for a menacing growl if not for a wiry demon king sprawled on top of the beast and lovingly scratching its ears.

He tried not to think of the comment about Noah's ark.

"Fair is fair: you look after my pet, I look after yours."

He hoped Crowley was thinking of the comment about Noah's ark.

"How about you enjoy your petting session in private and I get back to work?" He pulled out of Crowley's grip and headed for the stairs with a moderately formed plan on how to reconcile with Dean - or at least get the chance to speak with Sam.

The stairs had not been briefed on this plan, and they would have none of it. It didn't matter how aggressively Shirou walked, he didn't get a step closer to the staircase.

"I fear the clock has stricken midnight, Cinderella dear. Pumpkin express is about to depart."

"Wha- now? But I-" Hadn't seen if they could stop the Apocalypse or not, hadn't gotten anything right with Dean, hadn't said a word of support to Sam... "Fuck." This was all the leeway he'd been given, then. This was all his brief visit amounted to. "You owe me though. One thing." He glared at Crowley with all the pent-up frustration in him determined to get at least this miserable sliver of closure. "Who the hell is Stuart Little?"

"It's a children's book about a tiny white mouse going on adventures", Crowley said with a very sincere smile.

The boy sent him a ferocious glare, and was probably about to say something uncouth when he was censored with a resounding pop and a cloud of pink, sparkly smoke. How Samael, couldn't even teleport without making it dramatic.

Crowley straightened his suit. Stuart wasn't the only one who was determined to get answers before this game was over.

"Yours won't let you scratch his ears yet...?" he opened in light tones.

"They tend to bite when they're young - it's not without its charm, but I am looking forward to the day he's fully grown and ready for use." Samael gave the hellhound's ears a last affectionate ruffle and slid off its back.

Dog ears.

Red ears.

Red eyes and white fur.

"Not a pet mouse." In his mind's eye, Crowley watched the hounds of the Wild Hunt tear apart the hellbeasts at the gas station. Red eyes, white hair. "A pet hellhound."

"Even then, he looks like he might bite", he responded cordially. "Nice catch, that one. The pride of your collection?"

"Of sorts~"

Samael may have been a gentleman and a king in rank, but fawn over his toys and you could virtually see his tail curl in satisfaction. Always stroke the dog along the grain. Give him an audience to show off his collectibles for.

"You know, I've come across quite a few witches in my time but never one like that. Natural witches are one in a million - and ones that can summon hellhounds? Did you have him custom made?"

"No~ But the idea has its appeal. If one could mass-produce suitable specimens..."

"It's called a breed club." Too bad, really, that Samael had already magicked Stuart away - he would have loved to hear this conversation. "What's keeping you from growing your pet harem, then? Or is there some trait in him that can't be reproduced?"

"Ah, you know me and Lady Chance - a complicated relationship. I covet and pursue her, yet rarely does she reciprocate."

The playful glimmer in his eyes would not bring Crowley any closer to the secret than Stuart's brisk walk had brought him to the stairs. Well then. He had other coin to buy horses with.

"By the way - on the topic of trophies to brag about - I acquired a little something to show the boys back at the bar. What do you think?"

He clicked up the picture: Samael's eyes grew the size of tennis balls.

"You have to send me that!" he squealed as Crowley pulled the phone out of grabbing range.

"I do?" Feigned innocence was the only thing that looked better on him than an Armani suit. "It's just one little Hunter who organised the worst demon purges in modern history. Hardly compares to a witch with enough bite to hook the King of Time."

And the King of Time... laughed.

"Indeed! Indeed!" Samael had a peculiar sense of humour. This situation seemed extremely funny to him, for no reason Crowley could discern, but- Oh dear.

Samael had a peculiar sense of most things, but the most off-putting habit he had was speaking in verse when he was excited. Crowley loathed verse.

"Chance is generous the times she pays sojourn
She conjures blessings gods alone can boast
Only once an eon comes a time when fates may turn
Only once you find the cursed soul of Satan's host!"

Oh. Oh...

Implications spun hurricanes in his head, but as a born Scotsman Crowley knew how to handle storms. He raised his phone, wordlessly, and clicked Send.

Satan's host. Indeed. Indeed...

"Good news if I ever heard any." The phone returned to his pocket and he stopped himself once again from rocking on his heels in an undignified manner. "Here I was afraid I'd have you knocking on my porch when it's time to stave off your world's Apocalypse. Good to know it's covered."

"More than covered~" Samael's eyes had gone from glimmering to positively glowing. "It's going to be spectacular!"

Trust Samael to be dickwad enough to poof him to the Academy's hanging gardens of all places. As if he hadn't spent bitter hours there, looking at the world below bathed in promises and looking at the ridiculously low brick wall keeping him from being a gory stain on the ground.

It was poetic, couldn't deny that. He had been given those promises and chances with the blessing of the birthday gift he wanted most, the one that would be an impossible dream if not for Mr. Multi-dimensional Horsedick, and he had soared. And now it was all splatters on the ground.

Shirou watched the smoke trail upwards from his cigarette with dull eyes. The bastion wall of the Academy was still warm against his back, soaked in daytime sunlight while the evening chill crept into the grass he sat on. He pulled his knees up to waste less body heat on the ground. Maybe that's when it finally became real to him. With the growing cold of another day dying at the horizon, his birthday was ending. His adventure was over. He had met Dean, the real Dean, and Sam, and Bobby, all in one day. And now they were somewhere else, fighting the final battle over the universe. While he was here. Wondering just how he had squandered the chance of a lifetime that bad.

Shirou buried his face in his hands and groaned, long and deep and cutting.

Why, always...

He sat like that still, when the muted pop of teleportation cut the silence next to him. A heavy, absolutely atrocious armchair landed on the small garden outcropping.

"In the end I was completely useless." Shirou pushed the heels of his palms more firmly into his eyes, let them slide up his eyebrows and forehead and smoothen the wrinkles that had made their habitat there. "I've never fucked up so bad in my life. I literally didn't do shit." His hands and arms flopped limply down between his knees, and the back of his head hit the brick wall with a soft thunk.

"Don't be too sure of that", the demon hummed, filling his voice with the deep tranquil of the dusk hour. "I think you may have done something very important."

"I still feel like shit", he clarified, in the unlikely case that Samael had missed the implication rather than outright ignored it in favour of sounding philosophical.

"It's part of the experience." His eyes were hooded, lowering like the night sky over the horizon. "Saving the world is not as glamorous as Hollywood makes it seem. They know that. To achieve great things, at great personal cost..." He glanced sideways, long enough to meet Shirou's gaze and catch the last, bright golden rays of sun. "Such is the path heroes walk."

"Or you just like romanticising human suffering", he muttered, and would have blown smoke in Samael's direction if his cigarette hadn't vanished in thin air the moment the demon invaded his solitude.

"Human struggle", he corrected politely.

"Same thing."

"Hardly."

"You know what, I don't care what tag you stick on it." Shirou tossed pulled-up tufts of grass and dirt at Samael. He didn't put much energy into it, didn't expect it to hit the mark. "I don't care what kind of show you wanted." None of it hit the mark. "It was my birthday, and I wanted to fight side by side with the Winchesters. That's all I wanted. Get to know them, be part of the team, save the world with them. I didn't get any of it. All you did was dangle the possibility in front of me, you never intended me to have it, never intended me to become their ally, and you didn't even let me know if they made it! I don't know if they're alive or dead! I don't know if their world still exists! I don't know anything! All I know is when I left they hated my guts and that's all I'll ever be to them!"

There is only so much anger and disappointment one can sit through. Shirou's voice had risen, and his body with it, until he was shouting jumbled sentences down at Samael's face like a man gone mad. And the smug fuck just sat there, just smiled, like this was all just the next scene in a show he enjoyed, and-

"They made it." Shirou lost track of his rant. Samael was still smiling, but only a tiny fraction of it was smugness. "Because of you."

His voice punched the remaining air out of Shirou's lungs. The words did their part, sure, but it was the voice - the tranquil hum, the soft shiver curling through Shirou's blood - that said Samael wasn't lying.

"They made it...?" He felt like he was swaying where he stood.

"Yes", the demon confirmed with a peaceful smile. "How was the pizza?"

"...Remember when we would just… hunt wendigos? How simple things were?"

Dean turned the ring in his hand. The evening was chilly out on Bobby's doorstep, but he preferred that company right now. If anyone had told him back then what it would all amount to, he wouldn't have believed them. Fighting angels and demons was something people did in movies and comics, not something he was equipped for. Then again, when you aren't given a choice... you just do it.

The ring sat between his fingers, quietly not giving him a choice, and something sharp and burning in his chest wished he had never found the damn thing.

"I found out."

Dean's entire being hiccuped out of his body.

"What?" he managed to say in a voice that wasn't a scream.

"I found out." Crowley would have to give him a bit more to go on than that. "I said there was something off about the kid, didn't I? I found out."

"Not in the mood for games, Crowley." The ring was securely out of view inside his fist.

"You're in luck, I just won one against Samael." The glitter in Crowley's eyes suggested it had been a jackpot, too. "Stuart is the Sam Winchester of his timeline. Satan's ride to prom night."

Dean hated that expression. He let Crowley know that, too, colourfully enough that the demon took his leave after commenting on his uncivilised - and ungrateful - behaviour. 'Riding people', 'wearing people', as if people were just objects lying around until demons made use of them - it made him sick.

It made him sick because honestly, what was going to stop them? Angels? Most of them weren't much more than demons with feathers as far as he was concerned. Every single one of them out to grab a body.

Dean felt the hard edges of the ring dig into his palm. It should have been their solution to all this, their hope, and yet he had never felt more powerless in his entire life.

...Nothing compared to how Sam felt.

He could hear Stuart's voice as clear as if he had still been in the shotgun seat next to him. He remembered the silhouette he had abandoned in the rear-view mirror of his car. Lanky like a teenager but looking much older with those glasses and that pale white hair. He could see him, even as the figure shrank in the distance when he drove away. A kid that had to grow fast and be his own adult. A kid with shoulders pulled high, on guard like he was expecting something to jump him any minute. Shoulders that carried the weight of the world.

No family. No brother. When he faced Satan, he would be alone.

Nobody should have to do that.