"And these vision of yours are all connected to the same demon?" Angelina asked as the three sat around the Winchesters' kitchen table and talked.
"They were," Dean nodded, "until I killed the sucker. He hasn't had one since. Until today."
"That's not exactly true," Sam muttered, hanging his head and twiddling his thumbs, "about three weeks ago I had a dream. I just kind of dismissed it at first, but now I'm starting to wonder-"
"What happened?"
"You were trying to strangle Angie," Sam answered, turning to his brother, "you were talking crazy, man. Saying that she killed someone and stole something."
"That doesn't make sense," Angie said, "I could never kill anyone. I can't even imagine it. You've got to be mistaken."
"Probably just a bad dream," Dean agreed, "but the one today wasn't. What did you see?"
Sam sighed. "You were in a graveyard," he began slowly, "standing by my grave. You were talking about finding the Colt after 100 years of searching. You said it was useless. You starting talking about something killing me and Angie, and you said you'd killed it. Then, you went to a motel and shot yourself in the head, but you didn't die."
"And they all lived happily ever after," Dean groaned, "man, I'd forgotten how morbid these things can be."
Angelina shook her head. "That couldn't have been real. You said something had killed me, and, believe me, nothing can."
"The Colt can," Sam said, "it can kill anything. Dean was saving the last bullet for himself, but I'm guessing that isn't going to work out."
"A gun that can kill anything," Angie scoffed, "right. And I'm a demon."
"It's true. It was made in 1835 for a hunter, and only thirteen bullets were made. There's one left now, but that should be all Dean needs to really die."
"I still don't believe you."
The brothers exchanged a glance. "Fine," Dean sighed, "come on." He led the other angel back into his bedroom and over to the box, which still sat on the clothes hamper. He opened it up carefully and showed her.
"It's a gun," Angie shrugged, "big whoop."
"This gun's killed a number of big bads in its time," the hunter explained, "don't take it lightly. It could probably kill you, too." He set the Colt back in the box and closed the lid, latching it carefully.
The girl still didn't seem impressed, though her eyes lingered on the Devil's Trap that adorned the lid of the chest. "So, Sammy thinks something's out to get him?" she asked, "something that can kill me?"
Dean nodded, "Looks that way. And whatever it is, it uses up the last bullet. Probably on you."
"Why don't we just take the gun, hunt it down, and shoot the stupid thing, then?"
"Like Sam said, I'm saving that bullet."
Angie nodded sadly. "I see. So, what, you're just gonna make me stay here all by my lonesome? You're gonna go on to something better and I'm going to spend the rest of eternity like this?"
The hunter sighed. "Well, when you say it like that, it makes me seem selfish."
"I didn't ask for this, Dean. I don't want to stay like this."
"That makes two of us."
"You know, you could be the bigger person here. You could just give me the gun and-"
"Do you know how long it took me to get that thing?" he growled, "how hard it was to find? I froze to death looking for it, and I'm still not even sure it'll work on me. I guess I'll find out at the end of the week."
"You selfish bastard."
"I think it's time for you to leave."
"Ditto," Angelina hissed, turning on her heel and storming form the cluttered room. The front door slammed as she left.
"What was that?" Sam asked, poking his head into the room.
"We had a fight," Dean muttered dismissively, "nothing to worry about."
Sam nodded and retreated into the living room, leaving his brother alone to think. It was something to worry about. The girl had opened Dean's eyes, pointed out an obvious fact that he had missed before. She was more deserving. She hadn't known what she had been getting herself into, and he had. Hell, he had asked for it.
He walked back to the hamper and took the gun from its protective case. He turned it over in his hands. His one shot at freedom, at a blissful eternity with his family, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. She had been right. He was being selfish. She deserved the gun.
Dean was actually considering going after Angelina when he heard his brother call his name. He set the gun down on his bed, glancing once at the box it usually sat in and figuring that five minutes out of the case couldn't hurt.
"What?" he asked, meeting his brother in the kitchen.
"I just had a thought," Sam began, "what if the demon's back?"
"That's impossible. I killed it."
"I know, but all of my visions were connected to the damn thing before, and now… I mean, 55 years is a long time, man. It's possible."
Dean shook his head. "No. It's not. It's dead, and it's never coming back. And we're not even entirely sure this is a vision."
"I guess, but-" Sam's argument was cut off by the sound of shattering glass in Dean's bedroom, and both brothers ran to investigate.
Sammy stopped in the doorway, gazing across all of the clutter at the single broken window that the intruder had entered through. Apparently, the criminal had exited the same way. "Whatever it is, it's gone," Sam shrugged.
Dean had run to the bed, paying absolutely no attention to the window or his brother, and had started to sift through the sheets. "No," he mumbled, searching the floor, "no, it can't be. She couldn't have."
"What?" Sam asked, walking up to his brother.
Dean turned to face him, fear flitting across his features. "The Colt's gone."