Author's Note: I'm back! And once more, I would like to thank everyone who is reading/following along with me on this ride. Every fave/comment/follow I get gives me life. You guys are the best :-D

Hope you enjoy!

"Well shit, those ain't friendlies."

"Your powers of observation are keen as ever, Robert."

"Shut your trap, you, and keep an eye on that lot while I get our ears up." Bobby smacks a pair of dirty binoculars into Crowley's chest before easing down to the ground to assemble their spell-modified spying apparatus. The thing should, in theory, allow the lot of them to hear what's going on in the clearing a half a kilometer away.

While Bobby gets to work on that, Crowley spends a futile five seconds trying to clean the ground-in grit from the left lens of the binoculars, before giving up and lifting them to his face and focusing in on the scene upwind. What he sees is of more than mild concern.

Right where that horrid little portal had let Crowley and Mary into this world once upon a time, there's a horned, grey-skinned demon on a chain, wrists bound, being forced to its knees by a pair of bland, cardboard cutout human-appearing males. (Angels, the both of them, Crowley would bet the moon on it.) Another three human-esque creatures form a semicircle around the kneeling demon. He guesses the man at the center may actually be human, given the way he cowers and shakes as the angel in an equally non-descript female meatsuit to his right pushes him forward towards the demon.

The frightened man clutches a thick book in a deathgrip against his sternum, shaking his head, lips moving but the motions too indistinct and obscured for Crowley to get a read on what he's saying. Though he suspects it's sprinkled liberally with 'no' and 'please' based off of the body language. On the outskirts of whatever ritual is in progress there are a series of sentries, all of them armed with an bright, shiny angel-blade.

All in all, Crowley counts ten (supposed) angels, two demons (there's a spare near the back of the enclave, similarly chained with a guard holding its leash) and the one human.

On a 'shitstorm' scale of one to a hundred, Crowley ranks their current situation at about a seventy, maybe a seventy-five.

Meaning, they're not quite screwed. Yet. But one wrong step, and they just might find their insides becoming outsides right quick. He'd quite like to avoid that for the moment. "Odds are decidedly not in our favor. We try and get close enough for an angel banishing, and they'll spot us in a heartbeat."

Mary hums out her agreement from where she's camped out prostrate in front of a sniper scope. "I could get two before the reload, if I'm lucky, but then they'd know where we are, and we're sitting ducks."

"I don't fancy being shishkebabed myself. Any chance at reinforcements, Robert?"

The hunter shakes his head. "I sent out a beacon before I reeled you two in. The nearest pair is two days away. Got another half-dozen that can be here in six days, maybe seven. After that - well - the road this way's rough, so ain't no real way to tell. And most of 'em have their own shit to worry 'bout."

"Worse than a small garrison of angels trying to pry open a portal to another world?" Mary says from her perch, voice sounding strained.

"Same shit, different day, Campbell. 'Sides we don't know that's what they're trying to do."

Crowley's hands are starting to itch, his reawakened flight or fight response disliking being in one place for so long. "We would if you got the sound working some time this year."

"This ain't like setting up a microphone, ya know. Give me a sec." Is what he says, but Crowley's internal countdown brings them to one-hundred and sixty-eight seconds before the piece in his ear flares to life with a nasty burst of white noise. By then, whatever the angel brigade has orchestrated is well underway.

The boy (because now that Crowley has been staring at him through the binoculars for more than two minutes, he can tell that the human they've got chanting in Latin in the general direction of the demon has less chance of seeing his twentieth birthday than Crowley does of seeing Juliet again) is pulled back and away from the demon by the angel wearing a handsome dark-skinned meatsuit to his left. The same angel nods towards the angel at the boy's right, the newly live audio feed filtering his barely restrained voice directly to Crowley and company's ears. "Now."

Frustrated with the way the issued command sends gnawing tendrils of fear out through his limbs, Crowley grinds out a shaky: "Mary?"

"I take the shot, that's it for us. Not the cross I wanna die on."

Bobby grunts out an agreement. So instead of any of them doing anything, Crowley watches as a blade is drug across the demon's throat, spilling blood down its front and causing it to gag. They wait with bated breath, along with the attendants of the ritual, for whatever happens next.

Which turns out to be nothing more than the demon dying a blubbering, drawn out death.

The head angel pulls the human into his side, his voice a coarse whisper that is almost carried off with the wind. "What. Went. Wrong?"

The boy shakes. They're too far away, even with the assistance of the dirty binoculars, to make out the finer details, but Crowley imagines that there are fat tears rolling down the boys sallow skinned cheeks. "NNNothing! I di-did everything exactly as, exactly as planned, I swe-swear!"

The head angel huffs, and shoves the boy away from him and into the arms of the angel on his other side. He then turns to the pair standing on the other side of the circle, gesturing to the demon corpse at his feet. "Get this cleaned up, and reset everything." He turns back to the boy, menace balancing on the shoulders of annoyance in his voice. "Then we are going to try this one more time, and this time you-"

There's a swirl of movement on the outskirts of the circle. A crackle of power that Crowley damn well knows he can't actually feel at this distance, but which makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up all the same.

(He misses the ability to teleport desperately at that moment. Along with a whole host of other tricks that went the way of the dodo when he came back human.)

The display of power is punctuated by shouts of surprise from the angels at the center of the clearing, and grunts of pain from those on the edges standing guard. It all happens in a quick, dust-obscured series of impossible to follow movements that ends with several of the sentries dead. Explosions of shadowed wings lighting the sky testament to their former status as angels, and their new status as residents of the void.

Out of the over-dramatic dust-filled display, strolls Lucifer. The sight of the arrogant asshole makes the acid in Crowley's stomach churn. He swallows around the sudden impulse to vomit, hating everything about his human body acutely when he tastes bile on his tongue.

"Michael! My dearest darling, brother. So good to see you!"

A string of colorful curses streams out of Bobby at the confirmation that there's a pair of archangels in their sights.

"You certain these bullets don't work on archangels, Bobby?" Mary's request is steady, controlled, despite the situation.

"Never had the chance to test 'em out myself, but your boy Dean sure did. Wasted a whole clip on the blond bastard down there. Didn't make a dent."

"Damn."

The head angel, Michael apparently, turns his attention towards Lucifer. His voice is flat, bored sounding, although Crowley catches a hint of surprise as well. "Lucifer? You're dead. I killed you myself."

"Here's the thing, I'm afraid that I'm not - strictly speaking - your brother." Lucifer paces around the half-circle of angels, a smirk in place as he side-steps debris in his path. "I came through that portal you are so - ineptly - trying to open."

"You're the one that's been hunting my men."

Lucifer puts his hands up, palms facing out in what would be a placating gesture if not for the shit-eating grin on his face. "Guilty as charged! I'm sure you understand having to break a few eggs sometimes." Lucifer gestures pointedly at the dead demon oozing on the ground with a chuckle.

"Funny how things work out, isn't it? In my world, you ended up in the cage while I'm free as a bird, and the world is…" Lucifer makes a so-so gesture with his hand, "a little less of a trash heap? Not that I don't absolutely love what you've done with the place. It has that special sort of dystopian end-of-the-universe vibe that our father would just loathe and that's something I can really get behind."

Michael's tone is all annoyance when he asks, "What do you want, brother?"

"Why, to help you, of course. It's clear we both want the same thing. And while I give you an 'A' for effort for snagging yourself a…" He rolls his hand in the general direction of the human boy still being held by one of the other angels, a look of distaste on his face. "Prophet - what is he? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"He's seventeen. And he's been raised to-"

"Don't actually care. But come on. He's a tadpole." Lucifer steps back from the lot of them and spins with his arms out in an expansive gesture that illustrates the absolute nothing around them all quite well. "And based on how your effort here fizzled out in such a sad, pathetic fashion, it's clear that you could use some assistance getting where you so long to go. Hmm? And lucky for you, I'm more than happy to offer just that to my favorite older brother - one reality removed." The bastard winks, and Crowley's skin crawls.

Michael tilts his head. "Why?"

Lucifer shrugs, but Crowley knows that gesture. Is familiar with it and all its awful, frustrating, horrible connotations. And he knows that whatever comes next, it's not going to be good, for anyone.

"I've beaten you once already, and you've done the same to me. Way I see it, dear ol' Dad's prophecies have been fulfilled plenty in both our realities. Seems as good a time as any to wipe the slate clean. Let bygones be bygones yadda yadda yadda." Lucifer slides a step closer towards Michael, though still well out of range of the other angels. "Maybe...and now this is just a suggestion, but...I'm thinking we could make an exchange. Your universe for mine? I just need to pop back over there for a minute or ten to grab a few things, but after that? It's all yours."

"You're...offering me a truce. And control of your reality?"

"Yeah. Sure." Lucifer's face splits wide with a grin as he lifts his shoulders to his ears. "Why not? You give me yours, I give you mine? Win. Win."

Several long drawn out seconds pass by while the two stare at one another, just the howling of the wind filling up the space between. "There would be conditions, of course."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Lucifer swivels his head and body to look around the clearing before kicking a bone stuck in the dirt by his foot. "What do you say we go somewhere a little less likely to be overrun by an army of special order beasts any second to hash out the stickier points? Neutral ground, if you will."

To Crowley's surprise, Michael nods his head in agreement. "I assume you have somewhere in mind?"

"Catch." Lucifer tosses an object at Michael, only to have it snagged mid-air by one of the lesser angels. "Ohh, nicely done, Thing One."

The angel that made the catch ignores Lucifer in favor of unraveling a document that Crowley thinks is a map, but could just as easily be a flyer of some sort, a rock falls to the ground as she does so. After a few seconds she shows the document to Michael, who gives it a fraction of a glance before offering up an agreement to meet at the designated spot. A moment later the lot of them blink away, teenage human prophet and all.

It's only when they're gone that Crowley realizes that the taste of blood has joined the taste of bile in his mouth. His tongue throbs out at him, angry at how he was biting down on it viciously during the archangels' conversation.

Stupid fragile human bodies.

"Balls."

"Did that...did Lucifer just cut a deal with Michael? Did that just happen?"

Crowley tries to offer up a quip in response to Mary, but finds that he's shaking too bad to do so. He closes his eyes, and begins to count down from twenty in an effort to calm himself.

He's halfway through counting back upwards to twenty when Bobby taps him on the wrist. "Crowley? You alright?"

Crowley's eyes pop open and he gives a somewhat stilted nod to the pair standing in front of him with twin expressions of concern. After a moment, he manages to croak out a "fine" over desiccated lips.

It's clear by the look that Mary and Bobby share at his response that they don't believe him any more than he does.

Still, the sudden focus on him and his mental state makes him uncomfortable. So he shoulders by the two of them, reaching down to snag the pack of supplies he'd been responsible for carrying there and locks the binoculars inside before tossing it over his shoulder.

"Come on, we should get a look down there while we have a chance. See if we can piece together what ritual they were working on." He doesn't wait for the two of them to agree, just starts down the path.

He'll never tell anyone how grateful he is when he hears their footfalls join him a moment later and a cheeky "Lead the way, Your Highness" tossed his way from Bobby.

~~~\/~~~

Sam's buried in a wall of books and notepads, the carcasses of a half-dozen pens scattered across the tabletop in front of him. His eyes are turning to dust, and his throat feels like he's been chewing on sand.

It's not a good look, he knows. And considering that his bedroom is only a hundred feet away, and the kitchen's less than half that, it's a special kind of ridiculous that he's glad no one but his brother is around to see.

(Not that he wouldn't welcome a visitor to the bunker once and awhile these days. It's been too quiet in the place for far too long.)

Regardless of his current physical and mental state, he's still not ready to give up the search. Not when he can feel success skirting just out of his reach.

They can do this. They can get their Mom back. He knows it.

And yeah, he knows that focusing all of his efforts on this one thing might be edging towards unhealthy, but ever since Castiel turned up alive any doubts Sam had about their Mom being alive having been wiped away.

Because if Cas could come back from the dead, again, then surely their Mom - as capable and experienced as she is, and alive as she was when she fell through that portal - would have managed to survive being locked in a hellscape world. Even with Lucifer on her heels.

They just need to go get her back.

Then...then maybe Sam can have a shot of forming an actual, honest to God relationship with the woman whose death has defined his entire life.

Sam's thoughts are interrupted by his brother dropping a bottle of beer in front of him, the top already popped (something for which Sam is grateful, seeing as how bottle openers always seem to take a walk around the bunker whenever he wants one) and pushes a plate with a sandwich on it in Sam's direction.

Affection warms Sam at the action, glad to see that his brother is slowly returning to his usual self. It's immediately followed by a wave of concern when Dean settles into the chair across from Sam, his own beer in hand but no food in sight. Sam frowns. "You're not eating?"

"Already did. Inhaled two while I was making yours. How's it coming?"

Mollified, Sam gives Dean a half-shrug, taking a sip from the bottle before responding. "Not great. I've managed to translate at least a half-dozen of the potential dimension hopping spells we've located, most of which seem to be in some bastardized Sumerian cuneiform, but…" Sam shakes head. "They're all incomplete. And so far seem to be pretty specific about opening portals, with no mention of closing them. And even skipping that problem, they all call for an array of insane ingredients that I don't know how we're gonna manage."

Dean lifts his eyebrows and nods his head as he gulps down a mouthful of beer. "Can't say I'm surprised. If just anyone could break the walls down between realities, we'd be in a helluva lot of trouble."

Sam picks up his sandwich, humming happily when he notes that the romaine he'd bought earlier in the week is on it. "I guess." He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully while watching his brother scroll through his phone.

He's been doing that a lot since Cas came back, Sam's noticed. Always keeping it in easy reach in preparation for their check-ins from the angel. They'd been sporadic at first, while Cas and Jack worked on stabilizing the nephilim's negative impact on the timestream. Dean had spent those first few days (and Sam too, if he's being honest) in a constant state of agitation, ready and willing to drop everything and rush back to the mill to rescue their friend from the son of Satan.

It had taken them the better part of a week, but the pair had figured it out, and ever since, Cas has called in - like clockwork - once a day to give them updates.

And Dean, well, Dean's been creeping slowly and steadily back to normal ever since. Or something close to, at least. It's a work in progress, but now when his brother sequesters himself away, it's in the garage tuning up the cars, as opposed to just being locked away in his room with his headphones on. And there's been a positive trend in the amount of food he's been eating too, and a decrease in the number of bottles finding their way to the trash.

Despite all the improvement, Dean never quite lets himself relax either. Even now, with his feet kicked up on the table, and drinking a beer, he still appears tense. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But Sam will take any amount of improvement anyway they can get it.

The last few days, that's been manifesting in the form of Dean letting Sam bend his ear as often as he wants regarding finding their Mom. Without biting his head off in response. He's even begun to offer assistance. Dragging books from one side of the bunker to the other, or cross referencing to their Dad's journal.

(He even made a call to Garth, which… well, Sam's pretty sure by the end of that conversation everyone involved on both sides managed to be accidentally offended by everyone else, just a little. So probably best if Sam handles contact on that end for a while.)

But while Dean's been helping, he's also been steadfast in his opinion that it's a lost cause. Sam's stopped trying to sway him at this point, satisfied that Dean's not stopping him from trying.

And now that Sam's feeling like he's really hit a brick wall with the research, he knows it's time to bring up the the one idea which has been circling around his brain that he's yet to voice. He knows it's not going to go over well with his brother, but he's also not sure they've got another choice.

He swallows down the last bite of his sandwich, and decides to just bite the bullet and say what he'd like them to consider giving a try. "Dean, I've been thinking."

Dean drops his phone to the table, and turns his attention back to Sam. "Hardly news."

Sam flicks a crumb in Dean's direction. "Jerk"

His brother swats the crumb out of the air and smiles, just a bit. "Bitch. Spill. What's rattling around that brain of yours that's got you in knots?"

Sam sits up straighter, more surprised that he's surprised by Dean's astute observation of him, then he is by the observation itself.

His brother really does know him better than anyone else, even himself sometimes.

Sam clears his throat, organizing what he wants to say before he speaks. "Like I said, finding a reliable spell to open the portal hasn't been going as well as I'd hoped it. But, we at least know of one spell that can close it."

Dean's mouth pinches down at the corners, eyes narrowing a fraction. "No. Uh-uh. Ain't happening."

"Come on, Dean." Sam takes a deep breath, preparing himself for a fight. "Crowley's spell is at least a decent jumping off point to work from. And hell, if nothing else, we know that it works. Why couldn't we-"

Dean purses his lips like he's tasting something sour. "You forgettin' the final ingredient, Sam?"

Sam pulls back, surprised at the level of vitriol in the words. "Of course not, Dean. But, we could set up a devil's trap, summon a demon. Use whoever we catch as a sacrifice." Sam shrugs in an attempt to brush off the way just saying the words makes him feel a little dirty. "It's not ideal, but it would work."

Dean holds Sam's gaze for a heartbeat, before shaking his head with a huff of air that may have been a laugh in another life, and lowering his feet back to the floor. "No, Sammy. It wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"You really think that Crowley just - what? Up and killed himself when he could have snagged some random ass demon to do the job?"

Sam's mouth open and closes, cutting back his gut-response, because while he hadn't really thought about it in those terms before, yeah, he did think that was the case. "Didn't he?"

"Yeah, nope. He didn't."

"How do you know? I mean, I've been researching every thing I can get my hands on in regards to portals and other dimensions, and I still haven't come across the spell Crowley used. Did you find something, or-"

"I just do, alright?" Dean stares down at the bottle in his hand for a moment before swallowing another mouthful.

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair to push it back into place when it falls into his eyes. Choosing his next words carefully. "Dean - Look, I know that you and Crowley were...whatever it was you two were, and you knew him a lot - a whole damn lot - better than I did, but, that doesn't mean that he didn't-"

"Oh for the love of-" The bottle of beer in Dean's hand hits the table with more force than Sam would have anticipated. The liquid in it sloshing up, but not reaching the neck. "This ain't me pulling some boo-hoo woe-is-me bullshit because someone I gave a shit about went and played the martyr again." He heaves out a stilted breath. "I know because he told me."

Sam's brain stutters. Thrown off-kilter by the multiple confessions in Dean's short rant. He opts to focus on the one of the most immediate concern at the moment. They can deal with the rest later. Maybe. "He what? When?"

"It wasn't-" Dean looks away, fiddling with the label on his bottle of beer. "He left a note. Okay?" When Dean looks back at him, his eyes are hard as flint. "That spell required a willing sacrifice to work. Crowley knew that from the start."

Sam swallows, a heavy, uncomfortable ball of something settling in his gut. "Oh."

"Yeah. But sure, if you think you can find a loophole in a spell that a centuries old and powerful demon - whose bread and butter was finding loopholes - couldn't, go for it. It'll be a waste of time, but I won't stop you."

Sam opens his mouth again, but his response is drowned out by the sound of Dean's phone vibrating against the wood of the table. It shakes towards the edge before Dean snags it, casting a glance at the screen before putting it on speaker and settling it back against the wood.

His voice when he answers is calm, if tired. "Hey, Cas. How goes it in Pleasantville?"

"I'm not sure how it is in Pleasantville, but it's overcast and windy in Springdale!" Jack's overly cheery voice announces over the line.

Dean sits up, his whole frame coming to attention. "Jack? Where's Cas?"

"He's in the station, paying for gas. And snacks! He left his phone on the seat, said we'd call you when he came back out, but I thought, why wait? How's Kansas?"

Dean heaves an exasperated sigh and drags a hand down his face, looking to Sam for help. Sam rolls his eyes, but takes over for this brother.

"Kansas is fine, Jack. Where, uh - you said you're in Springdale? Where's that in relation to Shakopee?" Sam asks, hoping against hope that it's next door to the Minnesota town Cas and Jack have been camped outside of since they found them last month, and not halfway across the country or something. (Cas had sworn that Jack's accidental teleporting issues were under control, but a relapse is certainly a possibility.)

"About 950 miles west, in Montana! They've got these really beautiful mountains that seem to go on forever. And the air is really crisp? Kind of icy too. I really like it here. Have you guys ever been here before?"

Dean mouths 'what the fuck' to Sam, and Sam can't help but agree, still he keeps the thread of the conversation going best he can. "Yeah, Jack. We've been to Montana."

"What was your favorite part? The mountains or-"

"Jack, who are you on the phone with?" Cas's voice, muffled like he's just approaching the phone from a distance, cuts off whatever Jack's next question was going to be.

"Sam! And Dean."

"Can I have the phone please, Jack."

"Of course, Father."

Sam doesn't need to be looking at his brother to know that he's rolling his eyes so hard at the honorific that they may just roll out of his skull. He is looking at him though, and he's hard pressed to keep his laughter at the over-exaggerated gesture in check.

"Hello, Dean. Sam. I'm sorry if Jack disturbed you."

Sam says "It's fine, Cas" at the same time that Dean says "What the hell are you doing in Montana?!"

There's a crinkle of static over the speaker as Cas responds. "Stopping for fuel. The truck that we are currently using has sub-standard gas mileage, and-"

"No, Cas. Not why are you getting gas, why aren't you at the mill? Did Junior go for another walkabout? I thought you guys had that under control."

"Jack hasn't accidentally teleported anywhere in almost a full week-"

"Six days, four hours, and forty-two minutes!" Jack shouts out much louder than is necessary for Sam and Dean to hear him over the line.

"Yes, thank you, Jack. The two of us left the mill as Jack has been experiencing visions."

Sam's heart rate spikes at the pronouncement. Memories bubbling up from the depths of his mind that he tries his best to keep buried. "Visions? Of what?"

"It's difficult to say. At first, Jack's visions were...muddled. Abstract. We weren't sure what he was seeing, but it seemed that their clarity was improved by movement. When we realized they improved the further north and west we moved from the mill, we decided that driving in that direction might result in a significant enough improvement to allow us to determine what it was he was seeing."

Dean shrugs with his head and mouth, gaze locked on Sam from across the table. "Okay. Odd, but okay. You needed to get away from the mill to get a better signal."

"...Yes."

"So did it work? Is the reception better in Montana?"

"Somewhat. We still aren't certain of the specifics, but…no, Jack, those are for dessert. You need to eat the sandwich first."

"But-"

"Your body needs fuel still, Jack. You have to take care of it."

"Fine. But I can have it after, right?"

"Yes. You can have it after. And make sure to drink some water. It's important to stay hydrated."

Sam covers his mouth with his hand to hold back his laughter at the random interruption, and even Dean's face is splitting with a smile despite his efforts.

"My apologies, where was I? Oh, yes. The clarity of the visions have improved enough that we have a destination in mind. We're heading back to Washington. And we think it would be best if you were to join us there, if you're available of course."

"Of course we're available, Cas! Come on. Just tell us where and we'll be there."

"North Cove. At the house where Jack was born."

Sam and Dean both tense, memories of all that went down the last time they were there playing out in ugly technicolor. Sam watches as his brother swallows a breath of air and looks away. "Why there?"

"We believe someone or something may soon be trying to break through to our world from the alternate reality your mother and Lucifer have been trapped in."

End Author Notes: So I know we're ~25K words into this fic (Eeegads! How did THAT happen?!), and my fellow shippers are probably wondering when the heck Dean and Crowley are going to be in the same universe, and all I can say is we are SO CLOSE now folks, I promise! Hang in just a little longer.