It was the same small-town church where John had finally married his lovely Mary. It was the tumbledown vicarage Bobby had gone to seek sanctuary and guidance after the death of his wife. It was the quaint rectory where Pastor Jim had preached to the faithful, the chapel where Ellen had escaped to when all she saw were the ghosts, and the cold, impersonal, white-walled cathedral where Sam had said his last goodbyes to the woman he loved.

They were all different. Yet they were all the same. Why the hell were they all the same?

Dean looked around the door. Okay, this is new.

There was this feeling, this vibe he couldn't shake as he walked into the church. You shouldn't be here.

The light illuminated the crucifix hanging above the alter. Dean had never been a particularly religious guy. He'd maybe walked into a handful of churches in his time, and most of them had been haunted and/or had other supernatural problems that called on his particular areas of expertise.

I will fear no evil.

"Time is falling together. What was still plays a part in what is."

She was a pretty woman, draped in black cloth almost like a shroud. There was something familiar about her face. He had to stare at her a minute before he recognised her.

"Eve?" Dean asked curiously, recognising her face, and the unbalanced glint in her eye.

Eve Potter, or at least that was what she was calling herself at the time, was a succubus that he and his brother had encountered on a hunt several months ago and had been unable to kill. The demon developed a disturbing fixation on him, and there was a dangerous edge to her apparent insanity.

"Everything's eroding now, the tin soldiers all fall down."

"What?"

"Can't you feel it? The balance is breaking away, and the world is falling into darkness."

Dean slowly raised an eyebrow. "Could you say that again a little less Yoda-like?"

"There are no more choices." She said sternly. "There are no more places to run to avoid your fate. Or that of your brother."

"Sam?"

There was a noise behind him, sudden and loud. Slowly the church door swung inwards.

"Dean."

His brother was just standing there, his face in shadow. Why?

"Sammy?"

"You promised, Dean." Sam said, his voice strangely expressionless. "You promised us both."

"Promised what? You're going to have to give me a little more to work with here."

"You promised me and Dad that if you couldn't save me, you'd kill me."

An icy fist closed around his heart.

"Sam?"

And Sam stepped into the light.

"No," Dean stepped back. Sam's eyes, they sparkled…

A horribly familiar shade of yellow.

"You didn't save me." There was an almost accusing tone in his voice. "You wouldn't save me."

"I tried-"

"Stop saying that!" Sam snapped. "You're trying, you're always trying, but you never actually do anything more. You made me this, and now you are going back where you belong." He stretched out his hand, and Dean stared silently at the glow that began to gather around his fingers.

Fire.

All he could see were the red and black spots. He thought he had accepted the inevitable. That he was going to die. He thought he had moved on past the fear.

Only now did he really realise that he didn't want to die.

Help me!

"Never doubt that you tried you best." Another man, with a serene face and kind eyes. He knelt down beside Dean, who realised he was laid out flat on the floor. He couldn't see Sam. He couldn't see the church. Only the red and black spots.

"You fought well, but it is over now."

"It can't be over. I'm not ready. I've still got things to do. I have to fight."

"Others will carry on in your name."

"But I'm afraid." Dean whispered.

"Don't be." The man placed his palm on Dean's forehead and he felt his body grow limp, grow cold, his heartbeat sluggish until…

There was nothing.

"Angels are watching over you." Castiel stood tall, the fluidity of the shadows casting the suggestion of great wings flung out behind his back. "May God forgive us for what we are about to do."

The vibrating of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans jerked him awake. Disorientated, he stared around himself for a moment before realising that he was still in the crappy little motel room off the highway where the walls, carpets and furniture were all varying shades of beige.

Sam was still there, slumped on the lounge, newspapers and books spread out to either side of him. He too it seemed, had been rudely awakened by Dean's cell. The TV was still on, blaring out at the both of them.

The damn phone was still ringing.

Instead of hurling it across the room like he was first inclined to, Dean tugged it out of his pocket and flipped it open. He didn't recognise the number.

"Hello?" He asked, his voice husky and dry.

"It's Lawson." The voice was small and tinny on the other end of the line.

Confusion. Who the hell is that?

"Lawson?"

"You remember. New York, 1995. You and your dad…"

Dean sat up. Memory forced it's way through his clouded mind. It was really quite painful.

"So, I picked up this crossbow, and I hit that ugly sucker with a silver-tipped arrow, right in his heart. Sammy's waiting in the car and, uh, me and my Dad take the thing into the woods, burn it to a crisp. I'm sitting there and I'm looking into the fire, I'm thinking to myself... I'm sixteen years old. Kids my age are worried about pimples, prom dates... I'm seeing things they'll never even know. Never even dream of."

Reggie Lawson. A year younger, and a lot scrawnier. Dean recalled a geeky kid with braces and glasses that for some reason wasn't scared off by Dean's take-it-or-leave-it attitude. The guy used to hang out with Dean during school. He was an army brat, he said, he knew what Dean was going through.

But then there was that accident.

Dean never sat with Lawson at lunch again.

Oh dammit. "How did you get this number?" He demanded. It's not like he didn't like the guy, but most people from his past seemed to want to kill him these days.

Lawson laughed. "It's good to hear from you, too. I'm fine, thanks for asking."

There was an awkward pause. Sometimes Dean thought his whole life was just a long series of awkward pauses.

"How you been, D?"

"Like hell."

"Tell me about it."

"What about you?"

"Oh, man, living the dream."

"Look, Lawson, I'm really busy at the moment-" On the TV, LOST's Sawyer had somehow managed to loose his shirt again, before coming to an ad break where some barely-there teenager was spruiking on about the benefits of wrinkle cream.

"Your idea of busy is a beer, slice of pie, and a couple of skin mags." Lawson said. "I have a problem."

"Well, the first step is always admitting it to yourself." He replied seriously.

"Ha. I'd forgotten that you liked to pretend you were funny."

"That's me. Pretending to be funny." Dean said dryly. "What do you want?"

"Can't I just call to catch up with an old buddy?"

"Gee, what was the last thing you said to me? Oh yeah, something about if I came near you again, state homicide laws be damned?"

"Come on, dude. You know I wasn't serious. Don't tell me you're still holding a grudge."

"I like holding grudges. I'm good at holding grudges. They don't tell me I'm a wacko and then kick my ass out the door of a moving car." Suddenly all the childish resentments that he thought he buried when he became an adult were surfacing once more. "Dammit, that hurt."

"I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I'm friggin' sorry." Lawson burst out. "Look, we really need your help."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Echo 2/1."

Dean felt the breath catch in his throat as he heard the name of John Winchester's old squad in the Marines.

"Something's killing them, D. My dad said that you guys can help. Please."