"HEY LADY, YOU GOT ANY HOLY MEN AROUND HERE? I NEED ONE."

"Uhm…what kind do you need?"

"OH ANYTHING ABRAHAMIC IS FINE."

As Dean took a sip of his morning coffee, he noticed a blip on the bunker's map and groaned. They had enough crazy bullshit to deal with already without whatever was going on in frikkin'—Dean leaned over the table and squinted—

"Maine?"

"You saw the map?" Sam said, walking into the room. Dean glanced over at him and turned back to the map.

"Yeah," he said, "Looks like its sendin' us into a Stephen King novel." Sam smirked and huffed out a chuckle.

"Well, we should probably head out anyway," Sam said.

"Oh, come on, man!" Dean moaned, "We're already up to our ears in crap, here. And I just got my coffee!"

"Dude, the last time that thing lit up, the angels were falling," Sam said. He had a point. Whatever was going on in Maine was big if the bunker's map was picking it up and Dean could already feel the burn of the Mark on his arm at the thought of something new to kill, but he had just woken up and he was cranky so he wasn't about to concede that easily.

"So it's probably just another angel. Let 'em rot," he said. Sam gave him a look.

"It's at least a two day drive!" Dean said.

"We could always take a plane," Sam said. Dean's eyes widened for a second and his breath hitched at the suggestion, then he glared at Sam, downed the rest of his coffee, and trudged back into his room.

"I'll go pack my shit," he grumbled as he passed Sam and his stupid, self-satisfied look. Well, fine! He was just going to put on that tape Sam hated for the whole drive there. That ought 'a teach him!

The Rabbi waved goodbye to the woman he'd been speaking to in his office. She was in the process of converting to Judaism and had had some questions. He had been happy to help, and she had left with a new light in her eyes. That had to be one of his favorite parts of the job, helping to guide souls to that new understanding.

He noticed a young boy sitting in one of the chairs outside of his office, swinging legs that were too short to reach the floor.

"OH, HEY THERE! I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER COME OUT!" There was something inherently… disturbing about this boy, whether it was the smile that was just a bit too wide or the voice that was just a bit too loud, but the Rabbi greeted him with a kind smile, anyway. He wasn't the kind of person who judged others. He figured that was the Lord's job.

"What can I do for you, young man?" he asked.

"I SEEM TO FIND MYSELF IN NEED OF A BLESSING," the boy said. He hopped off of the chair and, from under it, lugged out two milk gallons filled with what looked like oil. The Rabbi raised an eyebrow.

"That's….uh…a bit unconventional," he said. In fact, no one had ever come to him with a request like this before.

"YEAH YOU DON'T MIND, DO YOU? THE SITUATION'S TIME-SENSITIVE."

"Young man," the Rabbi said, kneeling down to the boy's level and placing a hand on his shoulder, "You don't need me to bless anointing oil for you." Because that was what he was assuming it was. What else could it be?

"OH, BUT THIS IS SPECIAL," the boy said, a hint of mischief in his tone. He dug a crumpled piece of paper out of his vest and handed it to the Rabbi. On it was written a blessing unlike any he'd ever seen. The handwriting was difficult enough to decipher, but the words, themselves, were worse. He couldn't even translate a majority of them and would have considered it gibberish if he hadn't recognized a few of the words as Enochian. He looked up to ask the boy where he had found something like this, but the boy was already lugging the jugs into his office and grumbling something about noddle arms. The Rabbi followed him in, looking down at the sheet again.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked, genuinely curious. The scholarly debate about Enochian had been going on for centuries, and here was a chance to participate in some dialogue about it.

"I KNOW LOTS OF THINGS," the boy said, "YOU DO THIS BLESSING FOR ME AND I MIGHT JUST TELL YOU A FEW." For some reason, the Rabbi didn't say what he usually would: that knowledge isn't conditional, that mutual learning is better than buying and selling. It was something in the boy's eyes, something that said whatever knowledge he had was conditional, that it could only be bought. That same something caused a sinking feeling in the Rabbi's stomach, like he was getting in too deep with a creature that should not be crossed. He had the sudden urge to physically remove the boy from his office, lock the door behind him, and start praying.

He forced his gaze away from the boy's to look at the sheet again. He was just being silly, of course. This was only a child, and one who was requesting his help. What would make him even think something like that? He took a deep breath and began the blessing.

"So, get this…" Dean turned his head with an annoyed grunt to get a better look at Sam. He was too damn beat to care all that much about whatever Sam had dug up about where they were headed. He'd just been driving for nearly fourteen hours straight, stubbornly refusing to hand the wheel over to his brother, and had flopped face-first into his bed the second they'd entered the motel room. But Sam, damn him, was still awake and on his laptop.

"There was a murder not far from the coordinates of the blip," Sam said.

"Stephen King novel. I told you already, man," Dean mumbled half into his pillow.

"A Rabbi," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's attitude, "The police report puts the time of death about three hours after the blip first showed up."

"You think our little red dot ganked the preacher," Dean stated, rolling over onto his side.

"From the looks of it, dude, this thing is pretty brutal," Sam said, his mouse clicking. He was probably looking through pictures of the crime scene.

"Great. Tell me all about it in the morning," Dean said. He was out before Sam could respond.

He'd been sorry to see the Rabbi go, but he'd had no choice.

He nearly burst out laughing at that thought. Just who was he trying to fool? He'd been itching to sink a blade into the guy since the moment he'd met him. His enjoyment aside, though, he still hadn't had much of an option. These sorts of spells were a lot more potent with the blood of a martyr mixed in.

Besides, he'd given the man a little something in return, told him one of the many things that he knew.

The exact time of his death:

… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1.