Shotgun in hand, cell phone open as a walkie-talkie in the front cargo pocket of his jacket, Dean cursed elementary schools for not having maps on the walls, probably thanks to human horrors like school shooters. He knew that individual rooms would have fire routes on the wall, but when he tried the first door on his path, the handle didn't budge. The individual classrooms were locked. He had headed right for the center of the school building but instead of a cafeteria, he had found the empty auditorium. His gut told him Famine would be in the cafeteria, thriving on places of consumption. He crossed the auditorium through the double doors on the other side.

"Jo, can you hear me? Is there a school handbook in that office anywhere? I need to find the cafeteria."

"Let me look." He heard a staticky shuffle accompany her muffled voice. The poeticism of her voice speaking to him from a pocket over his heart came to mind and then irritated him. He looked down to check his gun.

"Found one! Where are you now?"

He looked at the classrooms around him; gaudy door designs smiled out from every angle, a visual cacophony of pattern and color. The backdrop was so inappropriate for the mission that it jarred him.

"Other side of the auditorium, passing some classrooms. Did you know Mrs. Kauffman is 'beary' excited to see her third grade forest friends?"

"Nope." Jo's voice sounded like a guitar string pulled too taut to vibrate. "You need to head down that hallway and swing a left. The cafeteria has its own exterior entrance on that far side of the school."

"For the dumpsters. That makes sense. Thanks."

His stride changed at the sudden reality of knowing where he was going, his boots falling a little softer now. The involuntary rush of adrenaline flooded from his glands, tipped off that it was go time. It thrummed familiarly in his veins, and for yet another time today, he thought of his father, hearing John Winchester's steady instructions in his head: "Focus on your breathing and the task. Inhale. Act. Exhale. Act. Nothing else. There's no room for anything else." Other voices came and went, but his father's voice narrated his hunting day in and day out. He had not always been a great father, but he had been an incredible hunter.

"Hey Dean?" Jo's voice thrummed with fear, turning his name into a request, and he forced it not to throw off his breathing, continuing his breaths and steps in sequence. She continued. "Do what you've got to do to come home to me."

His heart squeezed in his chest; he knew the famine was talking, making her vulnerable in her craving for love and partnership, but that didn't mean the sentiments weren't real. Home. His whole life he had wanted a home, to cook in a real kitchen instead of eating something out of a mini-mart fridge, to see chairs in the same place he had left them, to have grass outside waiting on him to mow it. Jo had never had that either, but he recognized the same earnest desire in the way she said "home." For her, it was also a magic word. She would not say it lightly.

"I will."

He rounded the corner and saw two men standing guard at the cafeteria doors. Bingo. Their ramrod straight posture proved they were demons as much as the flicker of black in their eyes; Famine was not affecting them. Their mouths twisted into matching sneers when they spotted him.

"Dean Winchester comes alone to stop the Apocalypse," one of them chirped. He ignored a lock of his youthful body's curly hair as it fell over his eye.

"This is even more pitiful than I expected," the other echoed.

They moved forward in a rush, but Dean did not give them the anticipated fight. He threw a couple punches, squeezed out a round of salt shot, but his focus was simply on getting into the cafeteria so the plan could begin. It was game time, and he was ready to enter the stadium. They closed their hands on his arms, the powerful grip bruising him through his jacket.

Dean ducked his head down and spoke to the open phone in his pocket before the demons on either side jerked him back upright.

"Go ahead, Jo."

He thought he heard muffled affirmation before the demon pulled the phone out of his pocket. It looked at the screen, broke it half, and thew the pieces away.

"No one's coming for you, Winchester," it growled.

With no direct line to her, Dean would just have to trust that Jo knew what to do. The demons threw open the cafeteria doors and dragged him inside.

Bodies littered the red and white tiled floor, human waste from demonic possession, but enough demons still had their meatsuits on, standing at attention around the mechanized wheelchair. A few unpossessed humans knelt on the floor at the back of the cafeteria. Dean saw the steady movement of their hands back and forth to their mouths, grabbing any pieces of spilled food they could grasp. Their glazed inhuman eyes turned his stomach.

Gripped tight between his two captors, Dean laid eyes on Famine again. This time memory had failed him. He had remembered Famine as a haggard old man, but his recollection had dropped the worst of the creature. As he was dragged closer to the Horseman, Dean saw more of the grotesque detail: a trail of thick, viscous saliva hanging from the mouth, yellow inch long fingernails, deep carved wrinkles over every inch of his skin. The creature bared his greying teeth in an almost smile.

"Welcome to my America, young man." The oxygen tubes feeding into his nose moved as he spoke.

"One big TLC fat people special all the time," Dean agreed. His eyes locked on the black and silver ring on the creature's hand.

"It's a supersized world. I'm just giving people what they want, what they hunger for. I'm feeding my sheep." Famine's aged mouth wrapped around the words, luxuriating in the syllables of the word hunger. He pushed the lever on the arm of his wheelchair to move closer, and Dean struggled involuntarily against the hands that gripped him. He could not control his bodily response to the being; he felt dull panic, not hearing anything over the speakers, not seeing any way to get out of the grips into which he had fallen.

Famine stopped in front of him, rheumy eyes searching Dean's face.

"How do you stand in my presence?" Famine leaned forward and sniffed hard. "Angels. You have their stench all over you. No matter. I have not had to do this the old-fashioned way in a long time. There's a pleasure in that too."

A bony, claw-like hand extended to touch Dean's abdomen.

Dean felt desperate hunger rise up from the center of his body, radiating out through every individual cell, filling each with famine, and then continuing its march. Everything flashed through his mind, everything he had tried to suppress.

Lisa and Ben in the hospital, clinging to one another's hands; Castiel juiced on souls and destroying the world; Ellen kneeling down beside a bloodied Jo to say goodbye; Sam shooting at nothing, unable to discern reality from hallucination; black Leviathans racing their way across the waters...

He had to stop it. He would do anything to stop it all. He would slit throats, carve initials in spleens, drain blood. He would sacrifice anyone on the altar of safety for his family.

He wanted their safety above all else. The world could burn as long as his loved ones got to live.

"You're not supposed to be here." Famine spoke with hushed recognition. Dean could not concentrate on the danger of the Horseman knowing his time travel; all he could feel was his desperation. The fear paralyzed him.

"I admire you though. Your secret desire is not so different from your open action. That shows strength of character. That is what the Almighty desired from his creations when he made the decision to populate the Earth. It doesn't matter though. You cannot stop me."

Suddenly the PA system crackled to life and through buzzing, popping static, Jo's voice rang out.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."

Famine let go of Dean and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes narrowed.

"What do I care for the sanctity of a few demons? Exorcise them. I do not care."

The vessels all around them began to twitch. Their mouths contorted, choked gasps from their mouths, as the exorcism droned on around them. Jo did not falter, did not hesitate, and when she reached the end, heads dropped back and black smoke roared out. The hands on either side of Dean released him, and he fell to his knees between the bodies.

Famine did not flinch.

But neither did Jo stop. She began again, galloping through the exorcism. This time, Famine froze. He put his hand to his chest. His splayed fingers wiggled. Something below the flesh burbled.

Dean watched as Famine's mouth lurched open, and smoke began to roll out. First, it moved in tendrils, but it expanded rapidly, until billows of black poured from the body.

The paralysis held Dean still. His mind trapped his own body.

Then he heard Jo gamely carry on, repeating the exorcism once again, leaving nothing to chance. He gritted his teeth, let the barrage of fears batter itself against him, and rose to his feet. The smoke roared all around him, blinding him, filling his nose and mouth, choking him. He reached a shaking hand into his jacket and pulled out his knife.

Dean grabbed out, closing Famine's bony, wrinkled digits into his own, and then he slashed. He slammed the knife down.

With the ferocity of a man with nothing to lose, he struck out again and again. He heard a terrible, guttural howl, but he did not stop, not even when he felt the fear begin to dissipate, racing from his extremities back to his core. He slashed and stabbed until the smoke around him cleared, leaving only an empty wheelchair and the engraved silver circle on the ground beside it. Famine was gone.

Dean stretched to grab the ring and then sank down amidst the bodies.

The score: Dean Winchester: 2, Horsemen of the Apocalypse: 0.

When he walked back into the principal's office, Jo was still reciting the exorcism, voice hoarse and eyes dull. At the sound of the doorknob, she picked up her gun but did not stop the recitation until her brain recognized it was him. Her eyes brightened. All alone, salted into the office, she had kept going until she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was safe. His throat tightened unexpectedly.

He met her gaze and reached into his pocket to hold up the ring. The ugly creepy piece of metal felt like a victory trophy.

He thought she would breathe out a sigh of relief, say something, keep professional and prove to him she was a big, tough hunter, but instead, she set the gun down and ran to him. He supposed she knew she had already proven herself. She slammed into his arms, 120 pounds of relief careening into him hard enough to throw him off-balance. The bruises, the unspeakable exhaustion, and the hollow post-adrenaline faded away for a moment. He held her tight, lowered his nose into her hair and breathed in her scent before letting her go.

"We got that son of a bitch." Dean heard the smile in his own voice.

"Damn straight." She grinned back at him.

"Let's get Sam and get the hell out of here."

Long habit took over as they kicked out the salt line and walked out of the school, still armed to the teeth, guns still in hand. The picture they cut against the empty street was the same as earlier, but the little details altered it entirely. Their steps had new buoyancy, their silence was a peaceful optimism, and their straight mouths meant pride, not fear. Going into a possible suicide mission closed the door to the future, but they had just kicked it wide open again. Damn, if it didn't feel freakin' good.

When they reached the hardware store, Dean took a half-step ahead to grab the knob and open the door for Jo. She smiled her gratitude.

"Dean." Castiel's voice rumbled out its traditional greeting from the back. The angel sat beside Sam, legs extended in front of him, trench coat billowed out around him. Dean tried to remember if he had ever seen Cas sit down this way before; the position was so human. He supposed it made sense under the circumstances. Cas didn't have enough juice to zap them anywhere. Hell, he didn't even have enough to heal a broken leg; he might as well just sit on the floor and wait. Just a baby in a trench coat, Dean remembered saying once, in a time about two years from now.

"You got the ring," Cas said it as fact. "I can feel the change in the air."

"There's a disturbance in the force," Jo muttered from behind him. Dean stifled the urge to turn around and lay one on her just for making a Star Wars reference.

"Yeah. I guess we can put one in the Win column. Did you put a bright shiny smiting through Meg?"

"The demon got away." Cas looked down momentarily. "I am not at full capacity."

"It's alright. Any word on angel radio from your big brother?"

"I'm assuming you mean Gabriel. No. He must still be with Lucifer."

"We got a call from Bobby though," Sam spoke up now. Dean noticed now that Sam's hands were still pressed against the rags on his leg, holding in his blood and bone fragments with sheer determination. His face was drawn, pale, but steady. Sam looked at Jo when he spoke.

"Ellen and Rufus are going to be okay. He got them to a hospital in time. They're pumping them out and cussing Bobby up and down for being stupid enough to let his friends drink like that." The corner of Sam's mouth tilted up. "But they're going to be okay."

"Thank God." Jo breathed the words out in a sigh of relief.

Dean looked around the room and considered what they should do next. He could rally them as a group and start them out of here: Sam slung between him and Cas, Jo responsible for shooting any residual demons who got in their way. Maybe they could hotwire one of the abandoned cars before the town's citizens started to emerge from their shock. They could drive Sam to a hospital, begin the awkward process of explaining inexplicable injuries to concerned doctors and nurses.

Or maybe the answer was even simpler than that. Maybe they needed to do for Gabriel just what Cas had done for them: wait.

"Well, I don't know about you crazy kids, but I'm going to sit my ass down and unless something big, bad, and scary busts through that door, I'm going to wait for our angelic getaway driver to show up."

"Seriously?" He followed Jo's voice over to her raised eyebrows.

"Listen, you do whatever you want, Daphne, but I'm going to sit here with Shaggy and Scooby." Dean eased himself down onto the floor beside his brother, using Sam's shoulder as a brace to slow his descent.

"You think you're Fred?" Sam replied.

"Fred owns the cool car and always drives. Yes, I'm Fred."

Jo sat down beside Dean. "I always liked Velma better myself."

"Trust me, babe. Daphne's the hot chick. You're a Daphne." The sheer cheese of the line should have made him wince but instead, it made both of them smile. Even Sam could not stifle a bit of a grin. Dean slung an arm over Jo's shoulders and pulled her closer. She leaned into him and lit up his insides with fireworks and whiskey.

In the quiet moments that followed, Dean let his mind wander. Jo rested against him, head on his shoulder; Sam kept pressure on his own leg but relaxed beside him; and Castiel sat unnaturally still, listening to angel radio and apparently finding nothing of concern on its wavelength. Ellen and Rufus were in a hospital a town away, probably on IVs of fluids and hopefully cussing Bobby up and down for not busting them out to come help.

Everyone was alive. Everyone was sane. And he had the rings of two Horsemen of the Apocalypse in hand.

For the first time in years, Dean thought about the things that were for normal people, things that suddenly seemed possible. What if he stopped the Apocalypse - all hands still on deck? Their lives could be so different - no soulless Sam, no Leviathans. The images flickered through his head, embarrassing in their optimism. Jo in his passenger seat, head tilted back as she sang Blue Oyster Cult; Castiel popping in at Bobby's while Dean and Jo cooked breakfast; clearing a simple ghost case with Sam, saving people together; and maybe, just maybe, waking up next to a beautiful woman in a shared home with a yard, a garage for his car. Maybe Sam could have a dog.

A stupid sentimental lump tightened in his throat.

He might be able to have a better life than he had ever thought possible. He might be happy.

Gabriel appeared in a poof of sparkly white smoke, an unusual sprinkle of good fortune added to this tiny stretch of luck.

"Somebody made the Devil so darn mad that he decided to get out of Missouri. Might be headed down to Georgia." Gabriel wore his smarmy grin, but he had his eyes on Dean. There was genuine gratitude and appreciation there. "Ready to get out of here and regroup for Round 3?"

Dean closed his hand around Jo's to help her up as he stood.

Then the world around him folded into darkness as if someone had slammed the lid shut on a box.