A/N: based on a "what if" prompt request on Tumblr. The prompt was "What if Sam met Martha while he and Dean were hunting what turned out to be an alien?"

The boy had said that his father vanished right before his eyes. Into thin air.

And the boy said that the angel did it.

Sam and Dean had stumbled across the story online one day, just as they were passing through a small town in rural Minnesota. Sam had chipped away at Dean's disinterest until all his brother could do was roll his eyes and promise that they would drop by and check it out.

They planned to pose as reporters from some kind of conspiracy theory website, but the mother mistook them for the child counselors that she had called about her son's traumatic experience. They rolled with it.

"So, Glenn," said Sam, bending down a bit so he was at eye-level with the six-year-old. "Tell us what happened."

Dean cleared his throat and wandered to the other side of the room, casually glancing out the window into the garden.

"The angel took him," Glenn murmured, scuffing his shoe against the carpet. "Daddy disappeared when the angel moved."

Sam's eyebrows lowered a bit in thought. "Did you see the angel move?"

Glenn seemed to be confused. "Not…not really—kinda. It looked different sometimes…and sometimes it wasn't there at all."

The angel was in the garden, a tallish stone garden ornament that was, in Dean's opinion, insanely creepy and probably more suited to be a Halloween decoration than a centerpiece for a flowerbed. The angel seemed still enough, however. It's hands were lifted to cover its eyes—almost like it was crying.

Dean nodded the hovering mother over. "When did you get that?" he asked, indicating the statue.

She was wringing her hands a bit now, glancing between him, the angel, and her son, who was still talking to Sam in quiet tones. "Just a few months ago, at an auction in Alexandria. It was an antique—some local artist had it in his basement or something and they found it after he died. They called it The Weeping Angel."

Dean smiled reassuringly. "Thanks. We'll look into it. Let us know if you think of anything else." He turned to the other side of the room. "Sam, let's go."

"Dean, I-"

"C'mon, we've gotta get to…er…another appointment, remember?"

Sam clenched his jaw, but nodded curtly and stood. "Thanks, Glenn. We'll talk again soon, okay?"

"What was that all about, Dean? That family could be in real danger…"

They were walking down the sidewalk to where they had parked the Impala at the end of the street. Dean scoffed. "From what, a dusty old antique in the backyard? Seriously Sam, that kid is 6-years-old and dammit if he doesn't have the same kind of crazy imagination that you had at that age."

"Look, Dean, we've gone on less before. The dad's gone without a trace—no trace, Dean. And we've dealt with statues being inhabited before. Remember that painting…or the mirror…the mannequins…"

Dean stopped and threw his head back, sighing deeply. "Fine. We'll stop at the antique store in Alexandria and check it out, okay? Happy?"

Sam nodded. "Yes."

There was a soft laugh from behind them. "Don't bother, guys."

They turned quickly. The woman who had spoken stood a few feet behind them, wearing a maroon jacket and dark hair brushing her shoulders. She was smiling inquisitively at them.

Dean frowned. "And you are?"

She shrugged and glanced over at the house, towards the garden in the back. "Just a fellow…investigator." She looked back at them quickly. "You are investigating the angel, right?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably next to Dean, but didn't speak.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" asked Dean.

She walked forward a bit and drew her hand out of her jacket pocket, offering it to him. "The name's Martha Jones. There's someone I'd like you to meet. Someone who knows more about the Weeping Angels than anyone you're bound to find."