Not Exactly Ovid

by ErtheChilde

When Castiel mysteriously disappears the night Dean is reunited with Sam, the brothers hit the road to find answers. But the Apocalypse was not as neatly tied up as they hoped, & pursuit by enemies forces them into "supernatural witness protection". Along the way, new truths come to light, Dean re-evaluates his relationship with Cas & Sam seeks redemption. [short arcs now long eps]

4. 6x02 - Go Ask Aggie

Two

Club2-N-1,
New York City, New York
Tuesday 18 May 2010

"I am not going in there."

Sam rolled his eyes and shot Dean an unimpressed look.

His brother was staring up at the building in front of them with an expression that suggested he was once again standing at the gates of Hell. Part of Sam understood the sentiment – this place was so far from their usual watering hole it might as well be a foreign country – but at the same time, he knew they were here for a specific reason.

The club they faced had once been a fire station, judging from the large garage bays on either side of the domed entrance. It looked as though it had been built in the nineteen twenties, and its façade had been painstakingly restored down to the tiniest detail, with the exception of the deep shade of purple it had been painted.

They could hear the music even in the street – the repetitive drum patterns and synthesized medleys of the weekly R&B hits. While he might not have been as averse to techno as Dean was, even Sam had to wince at the music. He'd never been the type to enjoy clubbing. He'd endured it a few times in college, for Jessica's sake, but it wasn't his cup of tea.

He'd never actually been to a gay club, either, whatever Dean might like to insinuate on any given day. Personally, Sam didn't get the big deal, but Dean wasn't the most open-minded individual when he was in the best of moods, let alone when he was in a snit. And at the moment, he was in a full-on sulk.

Dean had been bitching since they arrived in New York City late the day before. They had had to spend the night in the cluttered, mildew Cherokee they'd stolen outside of Mason City because there were no vacant motels in the immediate vicinity. Sam privately blamed Dean for that, considering he had refused to enter the city during daylight – when there might have been more places open.

Dean had said he was just trying to keep off the grid, but Sam had known it had to do with their last experience with the New York rush hour. Still, he knew better than to say anything. Especially not while Dean was still seething about the Impala.

Bobby had called once they were on their way to New York to assure them that the Impala's wreckage was taking up space in the salvage yard instead of some chop shop. The word 'wreckage' had had Dean grinding his teeth for the two day drive, along with a few not so coherent curses about angels. Sam was pretty sure those weren't all directed at Raphael.

'Cas, wherever you are, I hope you know he's going to kill you when he sees you again,' Sam thought, and then winced at the idea that maybe Castiel might actually already be gone for good. It was a possibility he had refrained from voicing in the past two days, not least of all for his own feelings. Part of the reason he hadn't complained about Dean's less than stellar mood was because if his brother was focussing on something mundane like the Impala, he wasn't worrying about some of their more pressing problems.

Castiel's mysterious disappearance was the number one priority, whatever Dean had to say about Adam. Even though they both wanted to save the poor kid who had had the misfortune of being born a Winchester, Adam was barely more than a stranger to either of them. Whatever Sam and Dean knew about him had been playacted by the thing that killed him. The few hours Sam had spent with Adam had shown him an understandably resentful and angry teenager who wanted nothing to do with them. As much as it was on them to clean up Dad's mess – because that's what it was, when Sam got right down to it – and get the kid out, the fact of the matter was that Castiel meant more to them than Adam did.

And then, after dealing with the Adam and Castiel problems, there were Sam's own personal demons. Whatever brought him back may have taken away any memory of the thirty-six hours he had spent in Hell (though it had probably felt like more down there), but it hadn't taken away the guilt. The knowledge that he had almost caused the end of the world plagued him – probably would for the rest of his life, he knew – but that wasn't what was grating on his psyche.

Every night since being brought back, Sam dreamed unapologetic montages of himself at his lowest and most depraved. He watched himself committing the same mistakes, over and over; sometimes the same decadent pleasure filled him that he had felt when Lucifer allowed him to rip apart the demons that had ruined his life. Except in most of the dreams, it was Dean that he was ruining.

Sam shuddered.

He hadn't let on to Dean exactly what he was going through. Knowing his brother, Dean would drop everything and try to focus on protecting him from his guilt. Considering Sam wasn't even sure he should be protected– and boy, would that be a fun argument to have when it came up – it was just easier not to talk about it.

Better to focus on the problems that might have actual solutions. Because even jail-breaking Adam from Hell would be easier than working through the post traumatic damnation disorder Sam was trying to deal with.

"Are you sure Bobby's not just dicking us around?"

Sam blinked, Dean's question bringing him out of his thoughts, and glanced back at the club.

The place was pretty packed for a Tuesday night, with people arriving and meeting all along the rather impressive line that wound back to the corner of the street. Couples, mostly, but he also saw a few groups of friends huddled together against the night chill. The venue might have been a problem under normal circumstances, but considering some of the looks he and Dean had gotten since they started hunting together again, Sam figured they might actually blend in for once without having to try too hard.

If he could force Dean in through the door.

He sighed; the cool, damp air carried upon it the smell of sewer and cigarette smoke that Sam could almost taste. "Seriously? You gonna let your inner homophobe take point on this one?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam levelled a look at him, and Dean snorted with disgust. "It's not that I have the problem with. To each their own and all that shit." He made a vague, uncomfortable gesture. "The music's making my ears bleed. And I'm outside. Can you imagine what it's like in there?"

"Yeah, actually, I can. And you're going to have to suck it up," Sam replied. "This is the address Bobby gave us, and unless you want more up-close-and-personal encounters with the latest members of our fan club, we're going in there."

"Can't we meet this chick in a place that isn't here?"

"This is the only address Bobby would give. He said there's a reason for it."

"Christ, he's enjoying the cryptic crap these days."

"That's not fair, Dean, he's trying to help us out."

Dean had the decency to look ashamed, and after a moment he exhaled a loud, grudging sigh. "Fine. We'll go in – but does it have to be tonight? Can't we come back tomorrow before it opens or something? The hex bags and sigils will cloak us fine until then…"

"What's wrong with tonight?"

Dean pointed to the long line of enthusiastic looking patrons, some of whom were rather flamboyantly dressed. "Besides the obvious?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, yeah, it's awkward…on the other hand, according to Becky Rosen, we'd fit right in."

Dean stared, and then shook his head in disgust. "And I'm the one who went to Hell first? Really?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, like all older brothers, you get to do the cool stuff before me."

Dean narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to retort, and then closed his mouth again. A moment later, his shoulders hunched forward a bit and he grumbled in a low, defeated voice, "Know how I know you're gay?"

Insults were the only way Dean could cover up losing an argument. The usual protocols for this called for Sam to gloat about it, but instead he grinned at his brother and retorted, "Dude, you're the one who watches Dr. Sexy, M.D.."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but the words were cut off when someone behind them said, "Ooh, I love that show! Did you see the finale? I can't believe that Dr. Sexy almost died – and it's terrible what happened to Dr. Piccolo!"

The speaker sounded male, but when Sam and Dean turned toward him, they were confronted by a tall, mini-skirt wearing blond in a leather jacket and go-go boots. Sam had to admit, if he hadn't heard the voice first, he might actually have confused the guy for a woman. The only tell was his Adam's apple.

Dean's expression turned strained, though Sam honestly couldn't tell if it was because he was uncomfortable being seen with a drag queen, or because he'd actually missed the season finale on account of the near Apocalypse.

Knowing Dean, probably the latter.

When neither of them could think of anything to say to that, the guy flushed beneath his make-up and quickly murmured, "Oh, I'm sorry, that was kinda rude of me. You two were obviously having a private chat, and I – well, you guys look a little lost there, and I thought – know what? Never mind."

"No, it's okay," Sam answered, trying to work the polite angle he knew his brother wouldn't be able to fake right now. "This is, uh, kind of a first for us."

"I figured," the guy said, recovering himself quickly and regaining his smile. "You boys don't look like this is your kind of thing."

"It's really not," Dean said firmly.

"But we were told this place is pretty decent," Sam added quickly, sending Dean a warning glance. "Our – er, a friend of ours said that the owner treats her patrons well."

"Aggie? Oh, she's a doll. She comes around every so often to check up on the place and make sure everyone's having a good time. Her club's not like a lot of the other places down here, where anything goes, if you know what I mean." The guy made a face as if to show what he felt about that. "She's got really strict rules, and she doesn't make any bones about throwing someone out if they don't follow them," the guy said. A moment later, he swore. "Crap, I'm sorry, I'm really being a clod tonight. I'm Gil. I work the bar."

"I'm Sam," Sam replied, adopting a friendly smile. Then, because he was just not in the mood to act like he was dating his own flesh and blood, he added, "And this is my brother, Dean."

"Brothers, huh?" Gil said, though his smile wavered a little in confusion. "That's…interesting. If you don't mind me asking, are you both…?"

"I'm just here for moral support," Sam explained quickly, and then because he just couldn't resist, he went on in a conspiratorial voice, "Dean's – you know, friend – up and disappeared a few days ago. He's taking it kind of hard."

Dean shot him an expression of horror and indignation, while Sam tried to hold back his laughter. For all his virtues, he was, after all, still a younger brother.

"Oh, no!" Gil exclaimed, staring at Dean in understanding. "How long were you two together?"

"Two years," Sam supplied before Dean could ruin the whole thing; he had to work hard to keep his face schooled into one of sympathy. It was made all the more difficult because of the way Dean's eyes bulged and the vein in his jaw began to pulse. "I've never seen Dean that close to anyone. And then, the guy just left. No goodbye or a note or anything."

"Asshole!" Gil said emphatically, shaking his head. "No wonder you look so tense." A look of resolve appeared in his eyes, and then he nodded, almost to himself. "Tell you what – I start my shift in like half an hour. You come with me and I'll help you get at least a little settled in there. It's always hard your first time – no pun intended."

This time Sam couldn't help letting a chuckle escape him, despite the terrible joke.

Dean coughed awkwardly. "It's alright – I mean, you've got better things to do than babysit us, right?"

"Honey, it's my job to look after the customers," Gil told him. "I can at least get you a drink to settle your nerves – I make a mean highball."

Before Dean could more vehemently refuse and thus consign them to a night of waiting in line for a club he'd rather be in and out of quickly, Sam cut in, "You know what? That sounds great. We're in. Anything to make my bro here feel better."

Dean mouthed a revolted 'bro?' at Sam, but Gil didn't notice.

"Great! Come on, then!"

The guy had the same bouncy energy as a five-foot-three cheerleader, which was impressive on someone that was almost as tall as Dean.

"If we didn't have a street full of witnesses right now, I'd murder you," Dean hissed under his breath before they followed Gil past the bouncers and into a narrow black-lit hallway. The music became louder with every step, causing the floor to vibrate.

"No you wouldn't," Sam grinned at him. "Besides, I never actually said anything that wasn't true. He made his own assumptions."

"So much Nair in your future," Dean growled, and that was the last thing Sam heard him say for a while.

The interior of the old fire station had been hollowed out into one huge room, with a dance floor and DJ in the center, while a kind of tiered floor led up to galleries and a few cubicles with tables and lounge furniture within them. Black-lights and an actual disco ball created patterns across the walls and the people. The club was filled almost to capacity, mostly with couples and single revellers who occupied sections of the dance floor or places at the bar, but there were enough groups of friends there to fill in the little space that remained.

Bass heavy music pounded away as they followed Gil through the throng of people, dodging the occasional interested brush against their shoulders or invitation to dance. Sam had been to a high-energy place like this before, though there had been a significantly lower number of guys when he and Jess had gone clubbing. That little bit of experience helped him to better maneuver himself through the crowd with better ease, trying to sync his movements at least slightly to the music. It was difficult, considering his height, but he was still doing better than Dean, who was just marching determinedly forward and trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Once they reached the bar, Gil excused himself so that he could go clock in, but assured them he would return to look after them as soon as he could. When they were once again alone, Dean rounded on Sam and glared. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the music. "This place is like Hell."

"Oh come on," Sam called back. "You can't seriously be comparing this to the Pit."

"If there had been a soundtrack down there, this would be it. And it's just as crowded here as it was there."

"Don't be melodramatic. Besides, we've been to concerts that were more crowded than this. I don't know what you're complaining about."

"You do not get to compare Ozzy to this," Dean said, shoving a finger in his face. "I've forgiven a lot of crap, Sammy, but that level of blasphemy doesn't get a pass."

Sam knew better than to touch that one with a ten foot pole, and so, he occupied himself with looking around and trying to come up with a game plan instead. Now that they were inside the club, they had to find this Aggie person. Once Gil returned he would ask him where she might be, but not right away. He didn't want the guy thinking that Sam and Dean had just used him to jump the line – which is exactly what they had done. So he would have to play the supportive younger brother card a little while longer.

'Speaking of,' Sam thought, nudging Dean none-too-gently. "Would you relax? We're here for a reason. "

"Bite me, bitch."

"Jerk."

But Dean did stop glowering at anyone who looked his way. Still, it wasn't until Gil returned with a drink in hand that Dean finally relaxed, his shoulders loosening up as he gulped down the alcohol without asking what it was or taking a breath.

"You gonna live now?" Sam asked him, amused.

"Another few of these and I think I might," Dean said, glancing at the now empty glass contemplating. "Dude wasn't kidding about settling my nerves."

"I told you," Gil said smugly. "Want another?"

"Hell yes."

"Don't give him too much," Sam told him. "I care about him and all, but I don't want to be carrying him out of here."

"Not that you'd have a problem with that, would you, hon?" Gil asked, looking Sam up and down. "I'll bet you can lift your own weight and more."

"Uh…sure," Sam said, awkwardly realizing the interested gleam in Gil's eyes. Luckily, someone else claimed Gil's attention and the bartender waved cheerfully as he went off to do his job. Sam exhaled in relief.

Beside him, Dean adopted a mocking smile. "He thinks I'm the one into dudes and he's still eyeing you like a piece of meat. What's that tell you, Sammy?"

Sam replied snidely, "He's got good taste?"

"You would say something like that," Dean rolled his eyes. He finished the dregs of the drink and then adopted a businesslike expression. "Alright, what are we doing now? The sooner we find Bobby's friend the sooner we can get the hell out of here."

"No arguments there," Sam said as Gil passed by again with another highball for Dean and a wink for Sam.

At that moment, an older man came to sit beside by them. Sam wouldn't have paid him any attention, except that he looked even more out of place at the bar than Sam and Dean did. He was sharp-featured and bald, with piercing amber eyes and a hooked nose; he was also not exactly dressed for the club scene. His suit looked like it cost more than the brothers made in a month of poker and pool winnings.

When he noticed Sam watching him, he adopted a cool smile.

"Well you two certainly look like you just walked out of the bush," he remarked, eyes performing the familiar up-and-down consideration Sam had come to expect since entering the club. Thankfully there was nothing flirtatious in this glance, but the amount of judgement in it put him on edge.

"Not interested, pal," Dean muttered, downing his second drink. He sent Sam a scathing look. "'Sides, I'm apparently taken."

"Mazel tov," the man said in an obviously detached manner. Then, he bluntly asked, "Are you the friends of Robert Singer?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off, demanding brusquely, "Who wants to know?"

"My employer sent me to look for the most country-looking unfortunates in the establishment. Considering almost everyone here but you two has obviously at least glanced at a copy of Out within the past twenty years, I'd say that's you," the man replied snidely.

After exchanging a glance with Sam, Dean drained his glass and stood up. "You couldn't have led with that?"

"And diminish the suspense? Perish the thought," the man drawled, gesturing for them to follow him. Sam and Dean hesitated for a moment, and then started after him.

Navigating the crowd was easier the second time, possibly because Sam stuck close enough to Dean that anyone wanting to approach them might get the wrong idea. He was glad Dean was in front of him, because if he noticed what Sam was doing, he would probably throw a fit.

They came to a thick metal door with an 'Employees Only' sign behind the main dance floor, which the old guy promptly led them through. Once it was closed behind them the music lessened, and Sam saw his brother visibly relax – only to seize back up half a second later when two tall, bulky men appeared, effectively blocking access to the hallway.

"Weapons," one of them said, crossing his arms.

"Are you serious?" Dean demanded.

"We've dealt with hunters in the past," the old man said. "It never fails to amaze me what ingenious places you decide to stick things." He smirked. "Maybe a cavity search is in order…"

"Whoa, hold on," Sam spoke up, holding up his hands defensively and slowly reaching behind him to remove the handgun tucked into his jeans. He passed that to the nearest bodyguard, and at his expectant look also passed him the knife in his belt.

Dean made a noise of disgust, but also forked over his concealed weapons – a gun, a knife and a small wooden stake he had brought with him just in case. Neither of the bodyguards or the old man seemed surprised at hidden stockpile, and after giving them the rudimentary pat-down, they allowed Sam and Dean to continue on their way.

The backroom was a large private office-cum-lounge, furnished with industrial looking furniture that had obviously been arranged according some form of feng-shui. The music from the club was even less pervasive here. Across the room, a dark-haired someone was bent over what looked like paperwork.

"Lady Agdistis – the mud people you wished to see," the older man intoned gravely. In front of him, Dean bristled at the insult, but Sam frowned. The person's name was familiar to him somehow, but he couldn't think how.

"Thank you, Ethon."

The man crossed the room and disappeared through a door that Sam hadn't noticed before.

"I hope you enjoyed yourselves?" she inquired smoothly as they crossed the room to join her by the desk.

Sam couldn't tell upon first glance – or even his second or third – whether their host was a man or a woman. In fact, if it hadn't been for Ethon's greeting or that Bobby had told them they were meeting with a woman, he wouldn't have been able to make a definitive judgement. The voice was so androgynous it could have been male or female, and the woman herself could have passed for either. She looked at once like the female lead from the Matrix and the psychopathic shrink from Batman Begins. Thankfully, instead of a leather bodysuit she wore denim pants and an open collar shirt.

"I'm going to be bleaching my ears for a week, but otherwise, yeah," Dean grumbled.

"I know exactly what you mean. The music's enough to make Chinese water torture seem fun," she agreed, amused.

Sam blinked. "Isn't this your club, Lady, er, Ag –"

"Just call me Aggie," she interrupted. "Everyone and their mother does. And I'd prefer that to your barbarian mangling of my actual name. And, yes, it is my club. But that doesn't mean I actually enjoy blistering my ears every night."

"Then why do you play it?"

"It just happens to be the type of music to draw a crowd. The more people come in here, the more business I get. We all have to make sacrifices." She smiled a rather sinister smile. "And besides, it blocks out the screaming."

In that instant, she seemed to transform. Her youthful appearance was suddenly at odds with the very ancient look in her eyes, and she was giving off a distinct aura of otherness that Sam usually associated with the creatures they hunted.

From Dean's tense stance, his brother noticed it as well.

"You're not human," Dean stated roughly, his eyes shifting around the room in the instinctual search for a weapon.

"And you're not Hugh Jackman, but you don't see me complaining, do you?" she replied coolly. "Now, are we going to stand here and state the obvious at each other, or are we going to get down to business?"

"What are you?"

"I'm insulted you don't know – well, actually, no, I'm not. There aren't many mortals who've been around my kind and survived. Although, I heard interesting rumours about what happened to some of my relatives down at some hotel in Indiana last month –"

Sam and Dean's eyes flicked to each other meaningfully.

"You're a pagan god," Sam realized. His body went rigid, a standard reaction to the presence of something old and powerful which would probably enjoy picking its teeth with his bones. Frantically, he tried to remember if he had ever heard of a god called Agdistis. "Why would Bobby…?"

"Send you to a flesh eating monster? Go on, you can say it."

"It's not like you sons of bitches have the best track record," Dean grunted defensively, not relaxing at all. "At least not the ones we've met."

"And killed, am I right? Considering you're still alive."

"You going to get all weepy on me 'cause we ganked some of your cousins? Start telling me about equal rights for monsters?" Dean shot back, his tone implying he was looking for a fight. He was too far away for Sam to kick, and so Sam had to content himself with hissing, "Dean!" in a warning tone under his breath.

"Of course not," Aggie said, both she and Dean ignoring Sam. "Those idiots deserved death if they were going to draw attention to themselves. One of the main rules has always been to keep the hunters off our asses – and no, hunters aren't a new thing. We had them back in the old days too. Although, back then they got epics written about them and didn't go skulking around the back roads like hermits. People were a lot wiser back then, too. They knew what we were – and they worshipped us to keep themselves safe. Simpler times, I think."

"So why shouldn't we torch your ass? Save some people?"

"Other than the fact you really need my help?" she asked sweetly, causing Dean to clench his jaw in anger. "I haven't actually killed and eaten anyone since about the time Jack the Ripper was making his debut across the pond."

"Meaning?" Sam prompted.

Aggie shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "Unlike the rest of my…people…I'm more reasonable. I don't get greedy and demand everything, and then get miffed when someone comes looking to spoil my buffet. I take only what I need to survive – it draws less attention, and sometimes, I even get a repeat customer. It's good business." She clapped her hands together once, business like. "Which brings me to you two; you must be in a monumental amount of trouble if Robert called me."

"Listen, lady – not that we're not grateful you're agreeing to Bobby's favor, but what exactly makes you so special that you can get angels, demons and hunters off our backs when no one else can?" Dean asked. "I'm sure there's some hoodoo witch doctors down in New Orleans who could cook us up some protection just as easily."

"Oh, I'm sure there are others who could 'cook up' something expertly tailored to your particular brand of shit luck," Aggie said with a cold smile. "I just happen to be the person who will be asking the least for it."

"That doesn't answer anything," Sam pointed out. "What exactly is it you do?"

"In your case? I'm going to transform you."

"That sounds like the catchphrase from some lame make-over show," Dean complained.

"Much as you're both in desperate need of one of those, that's not what I meant," Aggie drawled. "What I do is more…extensive. I can completely alter your physical bodies. So much so that no one will recognize you."

"So it's basically a glamour – like what witches are able to do," Sam contemplated.

"I'm insulted you'd compare me with those little whores," Aggie remarked archly, her tone only half-joking. "Witches don't actually change their looks – they just change other people's perceptions. That's too easy to break. I actually change you. And not in the 'altering reality' way that angels and demons like to play around with."

"And how exactly does that help us?" Dean wanted to know.

"It's a bit complicated, but let's see if I can't break it down a little into a language you might understand," Aggie mused. After a moment's thought, she stated, "Your life sucks because of your genetic code, right? Vessels to those dicks with wings? "

Both Dean and Sam looked up sharply at this. "How…?"

"Oh, don't look so surprised, boys. Even if the entire supernatural world didn't know about the two of you, I could smell it on you a mile away. You stink of archangel." She made a dismissive gesture. "The easiest way to deal with that is to change it – your genetic code. See, I can bend matter and energy in a way that alters you physically – but also on a much more basic level. You get your vessel bloodline from Daddy? I alter your mitochondrial DNA so Mommy's genes have more sway. Or vice versa."

"That seems…kind of scientific for an ancient deity," Sam said after a moment of processing what she had said.

"It's the twenty-first century, Sam, I watch Discovery too – but I can explain it in Koine or Mycenaean if you want," Aggie rolled her eyes. "Or were you expecting some dactylic hexameter rhyming spell calling upon the moon and the stars?"

"Uh…no, that's okay."

She shrugged and continued, "The process will put you off of angel radar, because you won't technically be viable vessels anymore. And I can alter your thought patterns and looks so demons and hunters have a harder time recognizing you."

"So you're basically giving us the supernatural equivalent of Nip And Tuck," Dean said.

"If you want to put it in such crude terms, then yes."

Sam blinked. "And you're going to just do this because you owe Bobby a favor?"

"More or less."

"What exactly did Bobby do for you?" Dean wanted to know.

"It's Robert's story to tell, if he ever decides to," Aggie said, idly pushing a dark bank of hair behind her ear. "Although some of it isn't for such young ears…"

"Do we look twelve?" Dean grunted.

"No, but you do look like young men who don't need to or want to know the sordid details about the sexual escapades of an old friend – unless you're into that kind of thing, in which case – "

Dean held up a hand. "You know what? We're good."

Aggie grinned. "See what I mean? Juvenile."

"You said 'more or less'," Sam interrupted, trying very hard to wipe any images the goddess's words had conjured up. "What did you mean by that?"

"Just that I'm willing to help you out as a favor to Robert, but that it's a little more complicated than simply one favor for another. You're still going to have to give me something in return. That's how it works."

"How what works?"

"It's a pretty straightforward contract," Aggie explained, snapping her fingers. Sam and Dean jumped as they watched symbols and hieroglyphs the color of old blood creep up the skin of their wrists and arms, disappearing beneath their sleeves as they moved. "In a normal transaction, the payment I demand is whatever organs the human body can safely live without – spleen, gallbladder, kidney – even that useless little appendix of yours. Those are great on Melba toast."

Sam tried not to be nauseated at that image. "That's got to cut into a person's standard of life, though."

"Most people are so desperate they agree – they don't care what trouble they might go through afterward, so long as I fix their problem," Aggie explained, bored. "But Robert has informed me he wants you two as intact as I can possibly leave you, so I've agreed to mark down the usual price."

Sam scanned the glyphs on his skin, frowning as he tried to translate the few symbols of ancient Greek that he knew. Upon discovering that he was Lucifer's intended vessel, Sam had also found out that his already decent memory for languages had become stronger. At one point, he had been able to sight-read Coptic. The ability had faded, probably along with Lucifer's presence, but enough of it remained that he managed to get the gist of the words he was seeing.

His eyes widened on the third read-through of a particular section. "Our livers? Are you crazy?"

"I'm only taking a small part – they grow back," Aggie said, as though the issue was just a silly inconvenience. "I take a small part now and another small part when you want to turn back. I also want a decent amount of blood. You're vessels, which makes your blood a lot more potent than the run-of-the-mill Susie-Sobstory's. It should make up for a few of the delicious tidbits I'm letting you keep."

"Hold the phone – are you kiddin' me?" Dean broke in. "We're supposed to let carve us up just so that we can go into some kind of supernatural witness protection? No! No freakin' way!" He was already on his feet. "Come on, Sam."

"How easy do you think it will be to save your brother when you have the combined forces of Heaven and Hell hunting you every minute of every day, Dean?" Aggie asked quietly before Sam could stand up. At their surprised expressions, she continued, "See, Bobby called me for a reason, and it wasn't just because I owe him. In addition to helping you give those Judeo-Christian dicks the slip, I also have a few contacts that consider Hell no more than a run to the corner store. Catch my drift?"

She and Dean stared at each other for a long moment. Sam knew that she had him – had both of them – because she had pulled the family card.

Trying to recover his own composure, Sam asked, "Why are you so desperate to get us to do this?"

"Do you have any idea how inconvenient it is to owe a human?" Aggie replied vaguely. "Also, you're being chased by my three least favorite groups. Pulling the wool of their eyes is a bonus."

Dean slowly sat down, glowering at Aggie, and then caught Sam's gaze.

"Say for a second I was actually considering this – which I'm not. How do we know she's not going to just eat us the minute she's got us vulnerable or give us up the second some hunters show up and play the pressure card?" Dean reasoned angrily, directing his question to Sam while keeping his eyes on Aggie.

"Puh-lease, I have a house in the Hamptons, a bichon frise and a different lover every night," she snorted before Sam could reply. "It's as close to the prestige of the old days that I'm ever going to get. In fact, it's better – way back when, a lot of the he-man-type gods had a problem with us gals having any kind of fun. If I decided to sell you out, your kind would take my information and then gut me like a pig without hesitation."

"Excuse me if that doesn't make me any more confident about this," Dean retorted.

"Well, that's between you and your foibles, sugar, because I don't have to be doing this," Aggie reminded him. "In fact, I can't do anything unless you believe I can help you, or it won't work. Phenomenal cosmic powers still come with a price. So you've got to ask yourself – would Robert have sent you here if he didn't know I could get you out of whatever trouble you've landed yourselves in?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, and Sam knew Dean was thinking the exact same thing as he was. Bobby would never have sent them here if he thought they didn't absolutely need to be there. And the possibility that she could point them in the direction of how to get Adam out of the Pit was something that they desperately needed right now. Without Cas in their corner, Sam knew that they wouldn't be able to do it. Hadn't he spent weeks doing nothing but trying to find a way into Hell to save his brother?

"Information first," Dean finally said, sounding frustrated. "There's no way you're getting a taste of this without something more than you 'saying' you can help us spring Adam."

Aggie shrugged, like she had expected this. "There's a guy in Elwood, Indiana. Him and his kind know the backdoors to every realm – Heaven, Hell, Purgatory – you name it, he can probably get you in there."

"And we're just supposed to trust your word on that?"

"When this is over, honey, I'll draw you a map. But other than that, I'm not telling you anything else. You're already getting off better in this little deal than any of my other clients ever do. And I've been doing this a long time."

This time the looks Dean and Sam exchanged were more searching. After a moment, Sam nodded in resignation and Dean sighed.

"Fine," he groused. "Just don't screw around with our ribs. We've got protective sigils carved into them and messing with them would make this whole thing a waste of time."

"We don't deal with bones anyhow."

Sam attempted a confident voice. "Let's do this."

"Just one last thing before we do," Aggie said, ignoring Dean's impatient grimace. "This all has to be done while you're awake, otherwise the magic won't take. The pain endured is a component of the spell – it's all part of the sacrifice you're offering to me. Think you can handle that?"

Dean's jaw clenched and he looked at Sam imploringly. Sam knew his brother was thinking of what he had endured in Hell – of what he'd done; Dean knew that he could endure any kind of pain that was thrown at him, but was obviously worried about Sam. Letting him go through with this deal was against his older brother's code, and Sam knew if he showed even a little bit of uneasiness at the prospect, Dean would bow out.

And they really needed to get off supernatural radar until they figured out their current problems.

Trying to appear more confident than he was, Sam nodded. "We've both been to Hell. Wasn't a picnic."

He just didn't add that he couldn't remember any of it.

Before Dean could argue, Aggie clapped her hands together. "Excellent. Then let's get this show on the road." She pushed a pen and paper across the desk to Sam. His confusion must have shown in his eyes, because she said, "Address. So my people know where to bring you afterward. Patching you up and transporting you back to your place of residence is all part of the service. Considering you're hunters, I imagine that's some decrepit motel somewhere." She smirked. "Unless you want to stay here during the recuperation process?"

Through the walls, another round of techno beats began.

"There aren't enough ways to say 'no'," Dean groused, grabbing the paper before Sam could make a move and scribbling down the information.

"I hope you're paid up for the week," Aggie told them. "Recovery usually takes at least three days."

She stood up and walked across the room, heading for the door Sam had seen before. "Right this way."

They started after her, when she suddenly turned around and fixed Dean with a penetrating frown.

"You," she intoned, looking as though she was properly seeing him for the first time. "You've already been reformed once."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, and for a moment Sam wasn't sure what she was talking about. And then he remembered those terrible four months of his life. Neither of them liked to talk about that period, for obvious reasons. After the one share-and-care session Dean had forced out of him back when Sam had still been working with Ruby – his stomach clenched with guilt and discomfort at that memory – they had both agreed to never mention it again.

"That gonna be a problem?" Dean was asking.

"No," Aggie said. "It just means I've got to be careful not to break anything when I work. Your body and soul are still fragile. They were held together by…grace, was it? An angel reformed you?" At Dean's barely there nod, she whistled and went on, "It's not there anymore, though."

Dean coughed uncomfortably. "Yeah…kind of noticed that."

"Whoever did it, did a good job," Aggie said, sounding grudgingly approving. "Although, your friend recalled the grace a bit early. Any sooner and you would have been completely rent apart."

Dean tensed. "Recalled…? What does that even mean?"

"If grace is anything like a god's immortality, it stays connected to its host until it ceases to be. You said you felt it disappear?"

"Yeah."

"Then he's probably dead."

Dean paled, and Sam spoke up, hoping for a different answer. "But Dean said Cas died twice before and he didn't feel anything. Why's this time different?"

"Really?" Aggie frowned. "Huh. Well, it's interesting. It could mean that the grace had already separated itself from its host before your friend…had whatever happened to him happen. It's rare, but possible." She studied Dean again. "What little of his essence he used to hold you together might have formed a symbiotic relationship with your soul."

"But then why's it gone now?" Dean asked, and then seemed to realize what he was asking, because he added defensively, "Not that I'm crazy about having another dude's, uh, essence all up in my soul."

"My theory? Even though it melded with your soul, it still managed to retain that connection to its former host," Aggie suggested. "It probably returned if its host was in danger or in need of a power boost." She shrugged again. "But this is all a guess, I'm not going to pretend I'm an expert about angels. I try to avoid the bastards at all costs. Like I said, it just means I'm going to have to be careful."

She turned again, leading them down a sterile looking hallway and into a room that looked like a hospital operating table. The older man was there as well, although he had changed out of his expensive suit and into something akin to scrubs. He was standing beside a tray of several wicked looking metal instruments.

"Ethon will be carrying out the surgical part of this little procedure," Aggie explained, leading them into the backroom. "Don't let the geriatric look fool you – he's being doing this exact operation for millennia."

"One hundred percent success rate," the man grunted.

"I thought you said this was a spell," Sam asked.

"Oh, it is. We're just taking our payment up front," Aggie assured them. "He's the one who's going to be carving out pieces of your livers. Once that's done, then the real magic begins."

Ethon smiled, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying this. "Who wants to go first?"

(*)

Dean awoke feeling as though he'd gone three rounds with a Mexican prizefighter and then chugged a vat of battery acid.

A dull, pulsing throb encompassed his entire body, his skin stinging like he had spent too much time in the sun. His head ached in an unfortunately familiar reaction to a night of excessive fun, but thankfully he was without the urge to empty the contents of his stomach any time soon. In fact, there was a gnawing sensation in his gut like he hadn't eaten in days.

Drained and feeling weak as a kitten, it took him several tries before he could finally force his eyes open. Even then, his vision remained blurry for several seconds.

'Christ, I hope I got lucky last night,' he thought bleakly as the picture became clearer and his awareness returned. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for his short-term memory.

He was lying on his side – alone after all – on a too-soft mattress, beneath a slightly moth-eaten comforter. On the bedside table he could make out the stationary from the motel that he and Sam had checked into – Motel Lorelei or something like that – after arriving in New York.

The familiar snore coming from somewhere to his left settled whatever bit of unease he might have had from waking up slightly disoriented. If Sam was still sawing logs, there wasn't any immediate danger he had to worry about. He couldn't hear anyone else in the room with them and there was no uneasy sense that an angel was lurking nearby.

Something inside him twinged uncomfortably at the thought of that. Cas was still AWOL, and they hadn't even had a chance to go looking for him yet, all because they had spent yesterday…

He frowned against his pillow.

'Was it yesterday?' he thought to himself, for the life of him unable to remember when they had actually showed up. He had the vague sense of temporal displacement, like he had lost a few hours. Or maybe days. 'I guess I got monumentally shit-faced at some point if I can't remember the date.'

Exhaling heavily, he heaved himself out of bed and padded toward the bathroom, grimacing at the ache in his abdomen. He must have been really hungry, because it felt like his insides were trying to claw their way out of him. Still straining to remember when it was the last time he had eaten, he didn't pay much attention to the odd lightness in his steps or the feathery sensation on the back of his neck.

He wandered into the bathroom, ignoring the light switch as a favor to his still sensitive eyes, and turned on the tap. He waited for it to run clear – a lifetime of nomadic living had taught him just what might come out of a motel sink – and then splashed some water on his face, hissing in surprise at the way it felt against his oddly irritable skin.

'What the hell did I –?'

Dean froze, his thoughts grinding to a halt as he lifted his gaze and stared at the dripping face in the mirror.

For an eternal second, his mind couldn't interpret the information his eyes were giving him – at least not in any way that made sense. Because there was no possible way that he was seeing what he was seeing.

Except he was.

A green-eyed woman with shoulder-length sandy-colored hair was staring at him with exactly the kind of abject horror that he felt rising within him. He raised his hands to his face again, tentatively wiping at some of the water droplets that ran down his chin; the woman's gesture was identical. Most terrifying of all was that he could see himself in her face. They had the exact same pattern of freckles, the same frown crease between their eyebrows, the same lines of exhaustion around the corners of their eyes –

Disbelieving, he gazed down at his body, hoping against hope that he was just dreaming, or that perhaps the mirror was cursed.

Instead, he found himself confronted with two raised bumps bulging up his now too-large Hell Hazers II shirt. Automatically, he moved his hands up to cup the breasts he knew he hadn't gone to sleep with, fighting back a choked groan when they felt exactly the way a woman's breasts should feel.

Impossibly, inarguably real.

Nausea swirled in his empty stomach, and he reached tentatively for the hem of his shirt to further examine the new additions. He paused before he'd gotten it half-way up his torso, staring at the pink scar that neatly followed the curve of his ribs. It didn't sting the way a newly inflicted wound would, and from the texture it looked to be months old.

As Dean continued to stare at himself in the mirror, mentally trying to break himself out of the shock that had overtaken him, his memories decided to make their first appearance of the day. He recalled the mediocre club and the terrible music, and the creepy bald dude, the knife cutting into his flesh –

And then he remembered the crazy goddess that had said she was going to help him and how he had gone against his own better judgement and accepted her help because they were in a jam. She had said she was going to 'transform' them, but he hadn't expected anything on this scale.

His eyes roved farther down the body of the woman in the mirror, and then he looked down at his actual body. With the same deliberate care he used when dealing with cursed objects, he worked his fingers downward to flip open the waistband of his boxers – which were also too loose on him now. Casting a pleading glance heavenward, as if it would actually do him any good, he cringed and peeked down.

Just as he feared, there was nothing but empty space where his junk used to be.

"No fucking way," he said, feeling his heart practically stutter at the sound of his voice. His usual smooth, deep Midwestern drawl had gone up several octaves. The sound still had a low, throaty quality, but now with a distinct feminine edge to it. It was something he would have found – in addition to the breasts – sexy on a woman.

Not on himself.

In all his years of weird, nothing could actually have prepared him for something like this. Even Gabriel hadn't tried anything remotely close, and that winged bastard had had one screwed up sense of humour.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, whirling around and marching past the room divider and into the sleeping area.

He grabbed hold of the comforter covering his brother and hauled it back. Part of him hoped it wasn't just him that was afflicted and the other part fiercely hoped he was going to reveal his dopey, sasquatch brother with his limbs lying akimbo and drooling on the sheets.

The person in the bed curled into a protective fetal position at the onslaught of cold. Sam had shrunk significantly, although Dean was pretty sure his brother would still be taller than him once he stood up. Sam's once stupidly long hair had grown longer, and his already soft features had become even smoother. He now sported his own brand, spanking new bosom which was thankfully covered up.

Aggie's supposed 'transportation' service had at least had the decency to keep them dressed. Dean was having enough trouble comprehending the idea of himself with tits, let alone his brother.

There was a groan and then familiar hazel eyes fluttered open. They stared at Dean, at first in confusion, and then in suspicion as awareness took hold. Sam shot upward, ready to fight off and threat.

"What's goin' on?" his now feminine voice slurred, retaining enough of Sam's inherent bitchiness to put at least some of Dean's mind to rest. Sam's eyes widened, probably at the sound of his own voice, and then he was staring down at his new and improved body, before gaping up at Dean in bemusement. "…Dean?"

Apparently he was a little quicker on the uptake.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me," Dean said, weary. A second later, his hand flashed out and he cuffed his brother in the side of the head.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"This shit is your fault, that's what the hell!"

"How's it my fault?"

"It just is!"

Sam sent him a bitchy glare, which was made all the more effective because Sam actually was a girl now.

"You knew as well as I did we'd be getting a new look," he said, getting up off the bed and examining himself curiously. Dean had been right; Sam was still about three and a half inches taller than him, even as a girl. His hair fell down his back and despite the fact Sam now had rounded hips, his pants were slipping down over his hipbones. "Supernatural witness protection, remember, Dean?"

"Yeah, but I figured it'd be a goatee and gaining a hundred pounds!" Dean yelled. "There was nothing in the contract about growing a vagina!"

Sam had the decency to look slightly freaked at that, his eyes flitting in the direction of his crotch as though he didn't actually believe Dean. A second later, he took a deep breath and met Dean's gaze again. In a placating tone, he reminded him, "Look, it's only temporary."

"Damn right it's only temporary," Dean snarled, "because we're going back to that psycho and having her set this right!"

"You're in that much of a hurry to get more of your liver carved out?"

"To get my dick back? Gee, let me think, Sam – YES!"

"Even though we're off the radar the way we are now?" Sam pressed. At Dean's expression of apoplectic disbelief, he made a defensive gesture. "Hey, I'm not crazy about the way this turned out either, but we might as well take advantage of it while we can."

"You know what? Maybe she didn't make a mistake with you," Dean snapped in disgust. "Maybe this is how you're supposed to be."

"Very funny, Dean."

"No! That's the whole point! This ain't funny!"

"It could be worse," Sam offered cautiously, obviously aware of just how close Dean was to a full on freak out.

"How? How the hell could this be worse?"

"She could have made us look like Ed and Harry."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then promptly shut it again. Sam did have a point. As much as he was livid at the idea that he had been pretty much castrated by a pagan goddess, he would probably have done serious violence to himself if he had woken up looking like one of those freaks from the Ghostfacers. Still, it didn't change the fact that this situation completely sucked.

The familiar tone of 'Smoke on the Water' interrupted any comeback he might have been able to muster up, and he stalked across the room to where his jeans had been tossed onto the chair. Ignoring the possibility that the creepy bald guy that had cut part of his liver out might have undressed him, he yanked out his phone. The barest glance at the caller ID told him it was Bobby, and so he flipped it open and barked, "What?"

There was a pause and a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone, before the older hunter actually spoke. "That you, Dean?"

"Well, it's obviously not Sam, because he's loving his new modifications," Dean growled. "I assume you know what's been done to us?"

"Might have gotten a call from Aggie after she had you two dropped off three days ago," Bobby answered, sounding gruff and tentative at the same time. "I gotta say, I didn't think you'd go for it. Either of you."

"Oh, bullshit," Dean bit out, dancing out of Sam's attempts to take the cell from him. "You knew exactly what was going to happen when you sent us to her!"

"Don't put that on me, idjit, it ain't my fault you didn't ask the right questions," Bobby retorted. "Thought you were taught better than that."

"Spontaneous gender fucked-upedness is not something I've had to deal with!" Dean hissed, jerking out of Sam's reach.

"Other hunters ain't gonna be lookin' for two women, are they?" Bobby reminded him meaningfully. "So stop throwin' a temper tantrum and lay low for a while. Let things blow over some."

"We actually have the time to plan our next move now," Sam added gently. He didn't try to take the phone again, although he stayed close enough to Dean that he could hear Bobby on the other end. "Dean, we probably don't even have a record anymore, not in these bodies. I'm willing to bet she changed our fingerprints and DNA markers too. If we wanted to just up and leave all this behind today, we could do it."

"Except that's not what we're doing," Dean said tightly, the reminder ringing warningly in his tone.

"Of course not," Sam said hastily. "You said we figure out what happened to Cas and Adam, that's what we'll do. Just, now we don't have to look over our shoulders. As much."

Dean exhaled angrily through his nose.

"And on that note," Bobby continued, obviously able to hear Sam on his end, "Aggie gave me some information for you to follow. She told you about her contact in Elwood?"

"More like she mentioned him in passing and expected us to trust that he was real," Dean grumbled. "Considering the clusterfuck we've found ourselves in, there wasn't much of a choice but to trust her. You got a name for us?"

"Nope," Bobby replied. "Her kind don't use names unless they have to. Attracts too much attention. But she gave me a case that'll put you in contact with someone to help you. Supposedly."

"And you trust her," Dean deadpanned.

"Already told you I did, or I wouldn't have sent you to her," Bobby growled. "I know you're in a fix over there, boy, but Aggie's the best I could come up with on short notice. In case you've forgotten, there's a demon out there hangin' onto my soul. Excuse me if I haven't been as completely focussed on your problems as you think I should be."

Dean winced, Bobby's word's hitting their mark. All things considered, he really shouldn't have been complaining.

"Now, d'you want the case or not?" Bobby continued, businesslike.

"Yeah, sure, here, talk to Sam," Dean muttered, feeling defeated. He practically tossed the cellphone at his brother and threw himself back down on his bed, trying to ignore the bounce of the new breasts as he did so. He couldn't think of them as 'his'. It was too weird, and it seemed too much like giving in to the cosmic practical joke that had been played on him.

Examining his hands – too small and too slender to actually be his – he frowned thoughtfully. The past week had not been the best ever, even though half of it he had apparently been out cold for. Aggie and Ethon must have put some major mojo on them to knock them out for three days straight. He'd lost his brother, his body, his car and his angel all in the span of days.

"Not that Cas is mine,' he thought distractedly, not noticing for several seconds that his hand had gone to rub the bare patch of shoulder where the angel's palm print had been. He had been trying for days now not to notice how weirdly naked he felt without the scar there. The sensation of having his metaphorical strings cut hadn't disappeared; if anything, it had gotten stronger.

"Okay, yeah, we'll check into it," Sam was saying.

"I'll keep lookin' on my end," Dean heard Bobby promise. "And tell Dean to relax. Stress is the number one killer of women your age."

"Tell Bobby he's not funny," Dean snapped, sitting up and shooting a glare at the phone.

"He's already gone," Sam answered, with an unimpressed frown of his own as he flipped the phone shut.

"What's the case, then?"

"Kind of sounds like a tabloid article, actually," Sam said, sitting back on the bed with a thoughtful look on girly face. "Disappearances, reports of crop circles, bright lights in the sky – if Bobby didn't tell me Aggie was sure this was her guy, I'd say it was people trying to build up some kitschy UFO flap."

"UFO," Dean repeated tonelessly. "You saying ET's gonna beam us down to Hell and back?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying."

"Damn it, I need a drink…"

"You can't, you just had half your liver cut out," Sam reminded him.

"Then at least some damn coffee!" Dean shouted. Sam raised one eyebrow, and Dean pointed at him warningly. "I swear, if you even think the word 'Midol' I will end you." Sam lifted his hands in surrender, and Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. Even the familiar motion felt wrong. "You know this is messed-up, right?"

'We've been through stranger," Sam tried.

"Oh yeah? Name one."

"Suicidal teddy bear."

Dean considered. "Yeah, okay, I'll give you that one."

"So just…keep in mind that we're going to change back. We'll get through this."

"I need a timeframe on this, Sammy," Dean grunted. "'Cause I really don't see how I'm supposed to focus on helping Cas or Adam when I'm not even me enough to do the focussing."

"We're still us. Just different packages."

"Great. Make it feel like I'm possessing some poor girl's meat suit."

"But you're not. You're still you. I'm still me. It's still our bodies and our blood, Dean; we're not actually using anyone else."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Rogers, it's still creepy as fuck."

"Fine – if you can't get past that, at least keep in mind this whole thing's giving us extra time that we wouldn't have had with hunters, angels and demons gunning for us."

"How much time, Sam? It could take forever to find anything!"

"Give it a month."

Dean made a noise of frustration. "How much sanity do you think I have? A week."

"Two weeks."

"Fine. And then we're going back to our pal Aggie and getting her to fix this shit, and we'll deal with the fallout after that," Dean stated decisively.

"Fine," Sam sighed. "Two weeks and we'll go back. Which means we've got to start looking now."

"Well, then let's check out of here and get going," Dean said, already grabbing for his duffel bag.

Sam didn't follow suit, instead cocking his head to one side and adopting a pained expression, like he knew what he was about to say wasn't going to go over well.

"Uh, Dean? There are a few problems we need to deal with first…"

(*)

Convincing Dean that they needed to buy some more appropriate clothing if they were going to follow Aggie's lead had taken less time than Sam would have thought. His brother wasn't stupid and he knew that they were bound to draw attention walking around in men's too-large clothing. Convincing Dean that they actually had to leave the motel room to do said shopping had been another story altogether.

It had taken the rest of the morning, and it wasn't until Sam had ventured out to the diner down the street and returned to bribe his brother with pie and coffee that he had managed to talk him around.

And what a trip that had been.

Waking up as a woman was one thing, but walking around pretending he had always been one was more difficult. While Sam wasn't as freaked out as Dean was about all this – because Dean just wasn't as mentally flexible as he was – Sam still felt as though he had been thrown for a loop.

Even though no one knew what had happened to him, he felt as though everyone had been staring as he made the four block trek to the coffee shop and back. Well, they had been staring, but probably not for that reason. He knew he would have stared too, if he'd seen a woman walking down the street dressed in too-large clothing and walking like a man that was seven and half inches taller.

Even worse, the oddness of his appearance hadn't stopped some of the stares from turning into leers.

Sam had felt the appraising look some of the men standing behind him in the coffee line up had been giving him, and he had felt his stomach jump uncomfortably. Because he had known he'd had that same look on his own face before, even if he had thought he'd been careful about it.

He had decided not to tell Dean about any of that, of course, because it would probably have made his brother decide to turn hermit, and they really needed to get down to business if they were going to make any headway within the next two weeks.

Dean had refused to drive, which was equal parts disgust at New York traffic and protesting being seen in the clunker they were using, so they'd decided to hail a cab to the nearest mall. Sam had decided that because they needed underwear in addition to new clothing, and shopping for panties in a second hand store was kind of gross, they should probably go to a different venue than their usual style. That, and there was the added benefit of no hunters ever frequenting such an establishment.

"Can't we just order some chick clothes online?" Dean complained for the hundredth time as Sam led them through the white-washed, columned atrium of the Manhattan Mall.

It was already packed in there, both because it was New York City and because it was Friday afternoon; groups of kids skipping school and nubile twenty-somethings starting their weekend shopping sprees thronged the hallways, packing it almost as closely as the club had been.

He tried hard not to notice the looks he was getting from most of the people they passed, or the embarrassment that flared up whenever he accidentally met someone's gaze. Especially when that someone was male and leering very obviously at Sam's braless chest; Dean had already nearly punched one kid out before Sam had managed to haul him away.

"Online stores don't usually deliver to motels – and I don't think Bobby would take too kindly to some guy from Victoria's Secret showing up at his doorstep. Not that we can actually afford to shop there."

Dean glared.

"How can you be taking this so calmly?" his brother demanded angrily.

"It's not as if we have much choice in the matter," Sam shrugged. Still, if he was honest with himself, he was forcing himself to be calm just to balance out Dean's temper.

They descended to one of the lower levels and headed for JCPenney, which Sam imagined was the most affordable option right now.

"Hi there," a blasé sounding blond teenager greeted, eyes roving over their rather slovenly appearances. Sam could read the judgement in her gaze. "Just to let you know, we've got our spring promotion on now, where if you buy two sets of lingerie you get the third one half-price."

The 'and you look like you really need it' went unspoken.

"Uh, thanks," Sam said, trying to muster up a friendly smile. "We'll keep that in mind."

"Can I help you find anything particular?" she asked; the question sounded stilted and forced the way it always sounded coming from someone who only made their money on commission.

"Actually, yeah, maybe," Sam said, knowing he knew absolutely zilch about shopping for lingerie.

Back when he and Jess had been together, he'd attempted to buy her sexy lingerie for Christmas. He'd ended up having the foresight to show Rebecca Warren what he'd chosen, and she'd promptly vetoed his choice as looking like 'something a stripper might wear'. After that, any time Sam wanted to get anything like that for Jess, he'd asked Rebecca to pick it out for him.

The problem right now was how to explain to this teenager that a woman in her late twenties didn't know how to shop for underwear. "See, the thing is…"

And his mind drew a complete blank.

Which was the exact point when Dean decided to become 'helpful' again.

"My sister and I grew up with the Angels of Fire and Brimstone and God's Almighty Baptizing Sword," he said, arranging his face into an approximation of shellshock. "Our leader believed many of your modern comforts were the work of the devil. Underwear, hairspray…toilet paper." He shook his head, ostensibly rueful. "We weren't even allowed to brush our hair. 'He Who Walks Behind the Rows considers that to be vanity. We were only just 'liberated', as the law enforcement says."

Sam mentally groaned. Of all the stories Dean could have contrived, he had gone with that?

"Oh my gawd!" the teenager's eyes widened, and her bored look was immediately replaced by one of pity. "That's terrible!"

"Yes, it was terrible," Dean agreed, looking like he was fighting to keep his face straight.

Before he could come up with anything worse, Sam interjected. "So, now we're just trying to start over, and so we supposed – clothes were the best thing to start with. The agency that's looking out for us right now gave us a spending allowance, but we don't exactly know…you know, what to get. "

"Oh, I can help you!" the girl said, her boredom now gone. "We can start with the simple stuff first – follow me!"

She waved at them to follow her toward the back of the store and Sam shot Dean a frown. "Dude, that was the worst story we've ever come up with. And it could have backfired."

"Tailor to your audience, man. She was wearing one of those 'Team-I-Think-Vampires-Wear-Purity-Rings-And-Spark le' Shirts. No way has she ever seen Children of the Corn."

The girl, whose name was Kathy, led them to the store's lingerie department and began to chat with them about underwear styles and types of bras. With their permission, she took their measurements and confided in them that it was a good thing they were doing this before buying anything, because so many women wore the wrong size.

While she was looping the tape around Dean's chest, Sam noticed his brother adopt an odd expression. He thought it might have to do with not wanting to be touched while he looked the way he did.

"Is there anything in particular you might have in mind?" Kathy asked as she finished with the measurements and had proclaimed Dean a 32C and Sam a 34A. Sam had almost laughed out loud at the notion that Dean had a bigger cup size than him, but he had stopped himself just in time. They weren't supposed to know anything about bras.

Thinking back to the things Jess had complained about, Sam replied, "I guess comfortable is our biggest concern. And no padding. Padding is the devil's invention."

Kathy and Dean stared at him, Sam winced as he remembered himself, but Kathy had already disappeared to find a few items for them to start out with.

"I know we're going with the cult escapee story, but that was a little over the top," Dean remarked conversationally.

"It's something Jess always said," Sam replied defensively. "When you were with Cassie, didn't she complain about stuff like that? She kind of struck me as the opinionated type."

"Oh, she definitely was but we were both more focussed on other things, if you know what I mean," Dean waggled his eyebrows. "It's why it lasted as long as it did." His expression turned serious. "Now that I think about it, Cassie was probably the longest time I've stuck around anyone that wasn't family."

"Not true," Sam offered. "You and Cas have been hanging around each other a while."

"Longest time I've stuck with anyone I've been sleeping with," Dean corrected in a deadpan.

"And whose fault is that?" Sam joked.

"Nice, Sam," Dean frowned. "Who's being the jerk now?"

"Does that make you the bitch or the shorter bitch?"

"Ha, ha."

Kathy returned with several different colored items and styles, in both their new sizes.

"I'll just leave you two alone to decide what you like," Kathy told them as she led them to the dressing rooms. "If you need anything, give me a shout. I'll just be in the next section."

"Telling your coworkers about the clothing retarded cultists you're helping, I bet," Dean said quietly as she disappeared. He watched her go, and his expression morphed into the familiar Dean-leer that usually showed up when he was about to say something lewd. Strangely, it looked even more predatory on a woman's face. "Hey! I just thought of an upside to this whole mess. Girl on girl!"

Sam groaned. "Come on, man, I really don't need to be picturing that. Whether you're a girl now or not."

"Hey, I'm just trying to find the silver lining."

"Yeah, well, don't look for it there. She's still jailbait, whatever body you're in," Sam cautioned, picking through the piles of underclothing. He made a face, noticing that Kathy hadn't exactly followed his request for comfort.

Beside him, Dean muttered something under his breath and then dug out the flimsiest, laciest bra and thong set he could find, and then flung it at Sam. "There you go, Samantha."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," Sam retorted. "Those things itch like crazy." Dean stared, and Sam realized what he'd just said. "No! Not like – I never actually – Jess had a few pairs she would wear on special occasions…"

"Whatever, man. No judgement here," Dean said in a tone that conveyed the absolute opposite of that.

"Oh shut up. The point is, she was always complaining about how itchy and uncomfortable they were. Considering our lifestyle, all I'm saying is comfort is probably more of a concern for us."

"And on that note, let's get through this so we can get back to that lifestyle," Dean said, finally just grabbing an armful of material and closing himself into the nearest cubicle.

Sam sighed and followed suit, heading for the dressing room beside.

As he struggled trying to get the bra on – because apparently just because he could unhook a bra one-handed didn't necessarily translate to being able to put one on with the same ease – he found himself thinking about Jessica again.

It had been a while since she had been so present in his thoughts, and he wondered if that had to do with his sudden transformation into a woman or if it was his subconscious trying to tell him something. With the end of the world not panning out, suddenly there was a faint hope once again blossoming up inside of him. Whatever happened with their quest to save Castiel and Adam – and figure out what exactly had brought him back and why – the fact of that matter was that they didn't have to worry about the Apocalypse any longer, barring a visit from Raphael. Which meant there was a possibility of having a future again.

When he was a kid living in crappy motel room after crappy motel room, he had always imagined getting out, marrying a nice girl and having a normal family. He had wanted to do it right. He had almost gotten that with Jessica, but since her death he had filed it away as something he could never have. He hadn't actually been with anyone since Dr. Roberts in Iowa, and before that Ruby –

He shivered at the memory. That had been his worst judgement call to date, even worse than his decision to say 'yes' to Lucifer. At least the latter had been an attempt to stop the world from ending and protect his brother. Trusting a demon over his own flesh and blood, on the other hand…

He shook his head as though to clear it.

Obviously, normal wasn't going to cut it anymore; Sam had long since given up on his dream. He knew that no matter what happened – even if everything supernatural all of a sudden disappeared the next day – he wouldn't be able to just go back to normal. As much as it sucked, the hunters looking for him and Dean were right: once you almost destroyed the world, you couldn't just go back to the way things were. Sam wanted to do something with his life to at least try to make up for all of the crap he had done.

But at the same time, he wondered if that meant he would have to be alone to do it.

Dean didn't count, in that respect. He was his brother and that was an obligation thing as much as it was a family thing. Besides, even though now Sam couldn't see Dean giving up the life any more than he could see himself doing it, something told him that Dean might at least dial things back. If they managed to save Adam and find Castiel – when, Sam told himself firmly – Dean might just go the Bobby-route. Start up his own business and keep on the periphery of hunting.

'I'm getting ahead of myself,' Sam shook his head, considering himself in the mirror. He'd finally managed to figure out the secret of getting the bra on; it still weirded him out to look in the mirror and not see his own reflection. Objectively he knew that the reflection was just as much him as usual – same lanky build, his anti-possession tattoo was still in place – but it was so weird. Especially since the tall, pale woman in the mirror was someone he might have been attracted to if he hadn't known it was himself.

He idly traced the healing scar by his rib, and then feeling slightly foolish, cupped the smallish breasts that he had been given.

There was a swift knock on the dressing room door, and Sam abruptly dropped his hands.

"What's taking so long? Are you ogling yourself in there?" Dean's voice was muffled by the door.

"Like you weren't doing the same," Sam told him after he had changed back into his clothes and left the cubicle.

"I actually got stuff to look at," Dean said mockingly. "Unlike your itty-bitty-t –"

"How are you girls doing?" Kathy had popped up again; several feet away, two of her coworkers were idling, pretending to fold away some of the merchandise. Apparently Dean had been right about her chatty nature. "Anything else I can help you find?"

In the end they stuck to cotton bras and underwear, although for some reason, Sam imagined he saw Dean slip a pair of pink satiny panties into his pile of underthings. After a brief stop at the ladies room – ("Holy crap, it's so much dirtier in here than the men's," Dean hissed as they entered.) – where they changed into their new purchases, they headed for the ladies fashion department.

After a brief argument about how much money they should spend on clothes they might not need two weeks later, they decided to stick to a pair of jeans each and a few shirts. Sam figured that they could still get away with wearing most of their hoodies and flannel shirts, and he knew Dean wasn't about to give up wearing Dad's leather jacket any time soon.

The next stop was the barber, where Dean was intent to cut off all of the extra hair tumbling over his shoulders. He grumbled about how much more women had to pay for a simple haircut than men, but offered the receptionist a charming smile when she asked him what he wanted done.

"I want it short," he said.

"How short?" she asked him politely. "Because with your bone structure, if we go too short, you'll end up looking like Justin Bieber."

Sam had roared with laughter while his brother gaped and then stalked wordlessly from the hair salon.

"I could cut it for you," Sam offered when he could talk without laughing.

"Right, so instead of looking like that Canadian douchebag I can look like I was attacked by a lawnmower? No thank you," Dean complained. "Gonna get my body back soon anyway, right? I can wait it out."

"But you'd look good with a swear-word shaved into your head," Sam had teased.

It was the last time either of them considered getting rid of their long hair.

"There's something else we might want to consider," Sam commented as they headed for the mall exit. He figured he'd put Dean through enough for one day.

"Yeah, what?"

"We need to be really careful if we're going to hunt like this," he continued. "I know these are our bodies, but we're not exactly used to them yet. I think we might need to train a bit before we go hunting."

"The swap didn't screw with our memories, Sam, I still know how to throw a punch," Dean deadpanned. "Jo and Ellen did a pretty good job hunting up until the end, so it's not like we can't hunt because we've got girl parts now."

"I'm just saying that things we're used to – like our strength and speed and reactions – it'll be different," Sam pointed out. "We should find out exactly how different before we go looking for this contact of Aggie's. Unless you really want to play the part of the dumb blond chick running through a dark alley way because you can't fight properly."

Dean made a thoughtful face. "Okay, yeah, makes sense. While we're at it, we need to make some new IDs. All my fake driver's licences have me as male, which Joe Cop is going to notice right away." He flashed Sam a grin. "Hey, d'you think I can get out of speeding tickets with this rack?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, because that's clearly our biggest concern right now."

(*)

"…and that is why I believe Elwood has become a center of extraterrestrial activity," the heavy-browed older man sitting across from Sam and Dean declared excitedly. He prodded at a screenplay sized pad of papers for the umpteenth time. "As you'll no doubt be able tell from my work, I have personally recorded dozens of eyewitness accounts, strange lights in the sky, mysterious presences attempting contact –"

"Er, Mr. Whitaker," Sam ventured, sensing that if he didn't interrupt, the man would keep talking.

Whitaker was a newcomer to Elwood, Indiana and had apparently been drawn there by the reports of alien activity; for all intents and purposes he seemed like a complete whack-job. They had been sitting at the cramped diner cubicle for fifteen minutes, and Sam had yet to see the guy take a breath.

Beside him, Dean was distractedly tapping out the melody to 'Thunderstruck' on the table, probably to keep himself from reaching over and shaking the guy.

"Junior. Mr. Whitaker Junior," the man said blithely. "Mr. Whitaker was my father."

"Right, Mister...Junior," Sam amended as Dean shifted impatiently and gestured at the waitress to bring more coffee. "We spoke to the sheriff earlier this morning, and he insists these disappearances have nothing to do with, uh, aliens. He says it's just a string of missing persons' cases that got blown out of proportion –"

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" Mr. Whitaker Junior said defensively. "It's all part of the cover up. Mark my words, ladies, there's something bigger going on here."

Dean bristled at the word 'ladies', and Sam knew he'd better wrap up their latest interview before his brother knocked over a table or something. "That's exactly what we think, too, but the Mirror was hoping for more than just idle speculation. The sheriff couldn't find anything linking the disappearance and the…strange phenomena. If we were to focus on your theory in our article, could you maybe elaborate a bit? Do you think there could be a pattern that the police have missed?"

"Oh, no doubt," Whitaker Junior nodded fervently as the waitress refilled their cups, putting a hand out to keep her from topping his up. "But it's probably one too complicated for humankind to follow. This is an advanced species we're dealing with, you know."

'Aaaaand, that's a wrap,' Sam told himself as Dean scoffed into his coffee. He stood and adopting a grateful smile. "Well, thank you for your help anyway, sir. If we need anything else for our article, we'll be sure to call you."

"I'm always around," Whitaker beamed, getting up to go. Sam started to hand the thick stack of papers to him, but the older man stopped him. "Oh, no, you keep that. I have so many copies lying about. Besides, it will help you write a more balanced, factual article."

"Right. Thank you, sir."

Dean offered a tight smile and a wave, eyes narrowing as he watched the man exit the diner and start across the street to where a UFO-themed bazaar seemed to be in full swing.

"Someone took the brown acid," he commented darkly.

"You never know, Dean, he could be right," Sam reasoned, although there was little conviction in that argument. After spending an afternoon wading through the crazy of conspiracy theories and alien abduction stories, he was becoming more and more convinced that this place had nothing to offer them.

Two days before heading to Indiana, they had stopped in upstate New York to resupply, emptying their father's lock-up of whatever weapons and tools might come in handy in the coming weeks. They had arrived in Elwood the day before and spent the evening scoping out the town. It had turned out to be easier than usual to just observe from the sidelines, considering every UFO enthusiast and their entourage was visiting the town.

Almost every motel was packed, which had nearly resulted in the brothers camping out in their newest car, a black 2006 Dodge Charger that Sam had bought in New York – or rather, which Jane and Erica Campbell had bought with a little help from their Uncle Bobby. Before getting on the road, they had had to whip up a few new fake IDs, drivers licenses and credit cards. They had opted to use their mother's maiden name on their primary identifications, partially because no one in the hunter community would connect it to the Winchester name, and also because it helped them keep at least part of their identity. Considering their first names were too recognizable, they had had to change those as well.

The smaller the paper trail they left, even in their new bodies, the better for both of them. So far the hex bags and sigils on their ribs continued to hide them from the forces of Heaven and Hell, allowing them to concentrate on following the lead that the pagan goddess had left to them.

Which was turning out to be a massive waste of time, in Sam's opinion.

"This is ridiculous," Dean burst out, voicing Sam's thoughts. "Between this guy and the hippie chick that thinks aliens are coming to help humanity to the next stage, this whole thing smells like a set-up. I bet Aggie just sent us in this direction so she could skip town while we chased down a whole lotta nothing."

"Bobby said she's legit, so I'm willing to give it at least another day or so," Sam told him, ticking off the name Whitaker on his list of potential witnesses. "We've still got a few people we can check out. This next one – uh, Marion Allen – has been telling people it's fairies."

"You mean like Tinkerbell?" Dean scoffed. "What, flying saucers aren't insane enough for her? Let me guess – she's one of those shut-in broads with a couple dozen cats."

Sam ignored that. "It could still be credible."

"Two things I don't believe in, Sammy, that's coincidence and fairies."

"What about angels?" Sam asked, his feigned innocence pointed.

"Screw you."

The waitress appeared with the food they had ordered before Mr. Whitaker had showed up. Dean smiled winningly at the older woman, and although his charm didn't have the same effect it usually did, the waitress returned the gesture before leaving.

"You're gonna kill yourself eating like that," Sam said, staring with undisguised horror at the heaps of bacon, sausages, home fries and eggs on his brother's plate.

"Considering the creative ways we usually die?" Dean said, shovelling fries in his mouth. "Not a bad way to go."

"You think a heart attack isn't a bad way to die?"

Dean answered cheerily. "Better than being crushed by a piano."

"You don't even remember that."

"I can imagine it."

"You do know that in your new meatsuit that stuff's probably going to go straight to your thighs, right? Different metabolism and all."

"Aw, I'm touched by your concern, Samantha! You're the best little sister ever!" Dean said in a mocking, high-pitched imitation of his new voice, fluttering his eyelashes winningly. His expression returned to normal. "Way I see it, I'm not gonna be in this body long enough for that to matter."

He shoveled an entire Sunnyside up egg into his mouth to emphasize the point.

"Anyway," Sam rolled his eyes and started in on his fruit and yoghurt parfait. "As I was saying, there's still more people we can check out. Families of the vics. The father of the first kid who disappeared – Patrick Brennan – he owns a watch repair shop on the main street.

"Sumphslakkapahn," Dean agreed with his mouth full. He swallowed and stood up. "Hey, I gotta hit the head – if she comes back, tell her I need ketchup for my fries. And it better be friggen Heinz – none of that No Name crap."

Sam sighed as his brother disappeared. He wished Aggie had thrown in a 'basic common courtesy' option in Dean's remodel.

'Then again, he wouldn't be Dean if that happened,' Sam told himself with a grim smile. He remembered how even when the angels had taken them and plugged them into new lives, Dean's basic underlying attitude had remained exactly the same.

He went back to reading over the articles he had printed off his laptop that morning. He frowned thoughtfully, reading through the information another time in the hopes that this time he would notice something out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, all the articles read like run-of-the-mill disappearance stories. It could have been anything from vampires to witches.

'Do any of them have anything in common?' he wondered, pausing with his spoon in his mouth. 'Not really – whatever's doing this isn't selecting them based on age, gender or race – it's not going through families, because none of the families of the vics who have siblings have reported any more trouble – "

Sam tensed, suddenly aware that he was being watched. Glancing up, he noticed a younger, dark haired guy sitting in the nearest barstool, considering him. When he met Sam's eyes, he smiled and lifted his coffee in his direction. As was his usual reaction to a friendly patron, Sam smiled awkwardly back and quickly looked back down to his work.

'Hunh. That's interesting. According to this, all the vics were oldest or only children,' Sam realized.

A shadow appeared next to him, and he automatically said, "Hey, I think I've found something. It turns out all the – " He glanced up and saw that he was staring at the dark haired young man and not Dean. "Uh…can I help you?"

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," the guy said conversationally. He was still holding onto his coffee and standing awkwardly next to the table.

"Probably not," Sam agreed lightly, moving to surreptitiously cover up the articles on the table. "Just passing through for work."

"Oh yeah? What do you do?"

"I'm a reporter with the Mirr – " The guy slid into the empty seat that opposite Sam. " – or. You know, that seat's actually –"

"I'm Rick."

It was at this point that Sam finally clued into the fact that he was being hit on by the guy. It was still such a foreign concept that he hadn't recognized the obvious tactic for what it was.

Truth be told, he had figured Dean would be the first one to attract anyone's attention. His brother's new features had the kind of girl-next-door quality that Sam himself would have been attracted to if he wasn't very clear on the fact that it was his brother sporting them. In fact, Dean's new looks greatly resembled their mother, who Sam knew in that same objective way had been a beautiful woman.

Sam had thought the fact that he'd retained a decent amount of his height, along with his too-pale complexion and lack of cleavage, might discourage anyone who was interested.

Apparently he had been wrong, he realized. His awkward smile became more forced. "Good for you."

"What's your name?"

Sam pursed his lips and adopted an unimpressed expression, realizing that words were obviously not getting through to the guy.

"Come on, tell me," Rick wheedled. "Or do want me to guess?"

Murphy's Law being what it was, Dean chose that exact moment to return.

"Am I interrupting something?" Even as a woman, Dean's tone had a hard edge to it that any intelligent man would think twice about challenging.

Evidentially, Rick wasn't an intelligent man, because he didn't even spare Dean a glance as he answered, "Kinda."

Dean's eyes flashed, and he grabbed hold of the guy's shoulder, in what someone else might consider a friendly clap on the shoulder, but which Sam recognized as a strategic way of digging his thumb into the pressure point by the guy's collar bone. "I think you misunderstood – you're in my seat."

"Jesus, ow!" Rick hissed, allowing Dean to guide him forcefully from the chair and away from their table. "What the hell is your problem?!"

Dean shoved him a bit. "The skeezy douche sitting in my seat."

"Relax, lady, we were just talking."

"Come on, pal, you were trying to get in her pants – own up to your shit," Dean scoffed. "Now move along. Neither of us is interested."

"Sorry," Rick grumbled, rubbing his shoulder and backing off with dirty look. "I didn't know you were together, sheesh."

"We are not together!" Dean snapped, more to the suddenly interested diner patrons than to Rick. He glared around, causing them to go back to their food, and then sat down with a scowl. "Why does everyone always think that?"

"I did tell you that you sometimes come off as too butch," Sam told him mildly. "Guess that quality carried over."

"You – you don't get to talk," Dean told him.

"I'm so intimidated by you," Sam rolled his eyes. "Incidentally, I could have handled that myself."

"Sure you could. Tell you what: next time, I'll leave you to the mercy of the sleezebucket who looks like he was rejected from the cast of Dawson's Creek," Dean shrugged and started back on his breakfast. Sam grinned at him, and Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You totally would have been that brother, wouldn't you?"

"Huh?"

"If I'd have actually been born a girl and we'd had a normal life? You definitely would have been that protective older brother that beat up on any guy that tried to take me to prom, wouldn't you?"

"Are you kidding? I would have been the brother that had to pay someone to take you to the prom."

"Apparently not, if our friend Rick is anything to judge by."

"You high standards astound me," Dean jeered, going for another spoonful of food. "Although, all things considered, he's probably a better choice than Ruby."

Sam glared. "Low blow, dude."

(*)

The rest of the day passed in a blur of weird interviews with even weirder people. Sam and Dean spent more than an hour at a small home outside of the town center listening to Marion Allen explain about how fairies were clearly to blame for the disappearances, all the while insisting that the brothers interact with her rather (disturbingly) impressive collection of garden gnomes.

After making their escape, they stopped for lunch and then interviewed three of the victims' families. In each instance there was little new evidence they could glean from the victim's loved ones besides the pervading sense of disbelief. As each door closed behind them, Dean felt familiar anger rising up in his stomach at how even the things people didn't know could kill them.

The last stop of the day was the father of the first victim. They had decided to leave him until last because his shop was closest to the edge of the city, and if his account yielded nothing they would have less of a ways to drive to investigate the site of the disappearances.

Brennan's Watchworks was a small, hole in the wall mom-and-pop business nestled in between a futon shop and a used bookstore on Elwood's main strip. Inside, the polished furniture and strong wooden beams of the décor spoke of a time when watchmaking had still been a big business. Instruments and tools lay scattered across several desks that took up space in the shop, and antique lamps tried to light the area, which despite the daylight outside, was shadowy and dark.

An unshaven man who appeared to be in his early fifties was hunched over one of the desks, staring blankly at a broken watch face in his hand. He had colorless, receding hair

"Mr. Brennan?" Dean guessed as they stepped forward, unintentionally startling the guy.

"Yes?" the man asked, training hooded eyes on them. Dean winced inwardly at the haunted look in them, seeing the familiar glint of pain that only someone who had lost a loved one possessed.

"I'm Joan Larkin, this is Sandy Pesavento – we're reporters with the Mirror," he explained, immediately seeing the man tense at the introduction. "We'd like to ask you about –"

"What? Is this about Patrick?" Brennan interrupted suspiciously. "Patrick's gone."

"Missing. Right," Dean said, raising an eyebrow at Sam. It wasn't often that a parent was so quick to agree that their child was gone. "Yeah, that was what we wanted to talk to you about. We heard your son was the first to disappear."

"First to be taken," Brennan corrected, looking back down at the watch in his hand.

"Taken," Sam repeated, considering the watchmaker with a confused frown on his face. "What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said, lady – he's been taken, and he's not coming back."

"You sound awfully sure about that," Dean pointed out. "It kind of sounds like you know something you're not talking about."

As though realizing how he sounded, Brennan suddenly looked up, his features carefully blank. "You know what they say. Seventy-two hours. After that, the odds of finding a missing person drop to nothing, right?"

"Well, every case is different," Sam offered.

Brennan shrugged. "It's been weeks."

'Something is not right here,' Dean determined. He decided to throw politeness to the wind in order to provoke a reaction. "If you believe someone took your son, why didn't you report it to the authorities?"

"It wouldn't have helped."

"Why? Who do you believe took your son, Mr. Brennan?"

"It doesn't matter. He's not coming back."

"You don't – er, believe in all the alien hype going on around here, do you?" he tried again.

That finally struck a nerve for some reason.

Brennan jumped to his feet, cheeks flushed scarlet in anger. "Get out! Out! This isn't your business! No one can help me, my boy is never coming back! Now get out, before I call the police!"

Sam and Dean headed for the exit, although as they ducked outside, Dean turned back around and dropped one of their newly printed business cards on the counter beside the cash register. "Alright, we're going – but listen, call us if anything comes to mind."

The bell over the door clanged with finality as they exited. Once outside, it took a moment for Dean's eyes to adjust to the brightness. Still, he saw the annoyed look Sam shot him without a problem.

"It never fails to astound me how much you suck with people," his brother pointed out.

"Hey, you're the one whose bread and butter is that wussified, dew-eyed crap. One of us had to get the looks."

"How did you manage to do this job before you came to get me?"

"Easy. I only took the jobs with hot chicks," Dean replied with a grin. "They were helpless to my charms."

"Yeah, I'd like to see that now." Sam snorted. His expression turned serious again. "So, what do you think?"

"I think Papa's hiding something," Dean acknowledged. "We might want to keep an eye on him."

"We still have to check out the place where his son supposedly disappeared from. According to the news articles I read, the 'crop circle' is still intact. The town's been making money off this UFO-craze, and they figured demolishing the circle would drive down business."

"Warms the heart to know some folks still cash in on other people's suffering," Dean sighed. "Why'd we stop the Apocalypse again?" Sam sent him an unimpressed glare. "Too soon?"

"The fact that you even have to ask that makes me think you're going to be useless if Brennan ever decides to fess up," Sam told him archly. "So, I'll stick around here in case that happens – you can go traipsing through the cornfields."

"No way, man, I finally found a pair of boots that's comfortable for this body," Dean protested. "You go wade through cow shit."

They exchanged unimpressed glances, and then Sam raised a closed fist in the universal invitation to play for it.

An hour later, Dean found himself on the outskirts of town after the sun went down, searching around with a flashlight and muttering curses about Sam cheating at rock-paper-scissors.

The field was quiet but for the insistent chirping of crickets in the distance. He couldn't sense anyone nearby, but that didn't stop him from leaving the motor and the lights on the Charger running just in case. He wandered through the tall stalks, ignoring how the entire situation reminded him of that time he'd been running for his life in an apple orchard.

'Huh. Also in Indiana,' he thought. 'I think there's a message in this…'

He finally made it to the section of cornfield that had been flattened into the crop circle and shone his flashlight around. At this point in time, he knew it wasn't very likely he'd find anything the cops had missed, but there was a small possibility.

He started at one edge of the circle and began to work his way inward, wandering in a circular pattern until he had gone through almost the entire section.

There was shuffling sound to his left, and Dean made a move for his gun. Out of nowhere, someone grabbed onto him, crushing his hand until he loosened his grasp on the weapon. He swore as his assailant threw him backwards, relieving him of the gun and his flashlight.

"I don't think you're gonna need that," a familiar voice said, and Dean heard the sound of his gun being tossed away into the distance. Recovering himself from the surprise assault, Dean squinted into the darkness that was lit only by the faint flow of the car's headlights, his mind and his vision giving him a better idea of his attacker.

"Are you kidding?" he groaned. "You're the moron from this morning. Dick, right?"

"Rick," the guy corrected, and Dean could hear the grin as he advanced, "And you, lady, just aren't too bright. Coming out here all alone?"

Dean laughed, injecting a taunt into his tone so as to hide his unease at the situation. He and Sam had sparred with each other in an attempt to get a feel for their new bodies, but he had yet to test out his reflexes on someone of Rick's girth. "Buddy, I've sneezed out bigger things than you. Do the smart thing and head back to town. I don't have time for this."

"I'll bet," Rick said. "Been watching you and your girlfriend all day." Dean bit back his need to correct the man who was trying to intimidate him. "I was gonna try again with her, but when I saw you heading out here all on your own? Too good of an opportunity to pass up." He stepped closer. "That was an interesting move you pulled this morning. You've got some fight in you. I like that in a woman. I'm going to enjoy this."

"Yeah? I bet I'm going to enjoy it more," Dean answered with a mocking smile.

Rick came at him with his hands out, ready to grab hold of him. Dean ducked his grasp, moving around behind him as he tried to come up with a plan of action. In terms of strength, Rick probably outclassed him at the moment, but he still had his speed and his reflexes. He just needed the right opportunity –

Despite Dean's dodging routine, Rick's big fist snapped open in the direction of Dean's face. The blow would have broken his jaw and several of the guy's fingers, except Dean jerked his head aside just enough to let it brush by his left ear.

In the same instant, he stepped in and swung his shin upward with precisely controlled force, aiming for Rick's crotch.

"Let's play Nutcracker," Dean grunted, before bouncing back lightly onto the balls of his feet. Rick bent and clutched himself for a moment. "Dude, didn't anyone ever tell you not to hit someone in the head with your fist? You'll break your hand before you break his head."

Rick snarled, and when he looked up Dean could see fury in his eyes. He seemed to have forgotten all pretence of actually getting a hold of Dean for any other reason than to beat on him. He lunged, whirling into a sweeping kick, which was well executed but went a little long.

Dean ducked, the foot sweeping over his head, and slapped his hand up, palm on the other guy's thigh. He pushed sharply, using more of his strength than he normally would have, and sent Rick flying backward on his ass.

Once he was on the ground, Dean's heel slammed down – not in Rick's face like he really wanted to do, but a deft blow to the gut with enough force to seriously wind him.

"Here's what's going to happen," Dean said, looking down his nose to the gasping heap of jerk. "You're going to go back to town and we're going to forget this ever happened. You're also going to stay away from me and my…sister. Because I don't think you want anyone to know you just got beaten up by a girl."

And he turned and walked away, heading back toward the car.

'Not like there's anything out here to help the case anyway,' Dean thought with annoyance. 'This whole trip has been a huge, stinking pile of noth – '

Fingers like steel rods gripped his throat from behind, digging in on either side of his windpipe. Dean choked, his hands reaching up instinctually to claw at the hand which held him, while another encircled his waist, pinning his arms to him.

"Here's what's going to happen," Rick's angry, wheezing voice hissed into his ear. "You're going to lie there and take this, and maybe you won't become another missing person."

Dean fought to drag air in through his mouth, his feet slipping and sliding in the mud and flattened corn stocks beneath him as he tried to gain purchase.

'Don't fucking pass out,' he told himself coldly, trying to force himself to calm down. He knew there were a number of ways out of a hold like this, but they all relied on strength he didn't actually have at the moment.

Thoughts racing, he allowed himself to go numb in his assailant's arm, like he was giving up.

"That's more like it," Rick said, chuckling like he was pleased with himself.

Instantly, Dean jerked his head backwards, aiming with as much strength as he could toward where his assailant's voice had come from. Rick's scream of pain was loud in his ear as the back of Dean's skull connected with his nose. He loosened his grip, allowing Dean to slip out of his arms.

Not bothering to pull his punches this time, Dean lashed out, aiming again for the guy's now shattered nose and then for his gut. After a flurry of kicks and punches – which were fueled by his own anger and frustration at the entire situation – Rick was back on the ground, definitively unconscious this time.

Wiping blood from his knuckles, Dean glared down at the guy. "Stay down, bitch."

He waited several seconds to make sure that Rick wasn't going to come after him again – because at this point, civilian or not, Dean was angry enough to actually kill the bastard – and then flipped out his cellphone.

Sam answered on the second ring. "Find anything out?"

"Just that this town is full of douchebags," Dean grumbled, massaging his throat. "Might want to call the sheriff's office and tell them there's a would-be rapist knocked out in a cornfield."

"What?! Are you okay?" Sam's tone hovered in the dangerous area of 'please share your feelings with me', and so Dean was quick to head him off.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good. Pissed off, but otherwise great. Have I mentioned how much I want my body back?"

"Only ten times a day," Sam answered, his voice still holding that worrying tremor to it. Dean cursed inwardly, knowing his brother would want to talk about this later on.

Already trying to think of a way to avoid that conversation, he asked, "How's it going on your end?"

Sam sighed. "The only thing this guy is up to is alcoholism. He hasn't done anything out of the ordinary. You know, maybe I should go try to talk to him again. If he is hiding something, I'm more likely to get anything out of him than you –"

The car's lights, which had until that point been illuminating the area, suddenly went out.

"Shh! Shh!" Dean hissed, looking around him warily. He didn't think Rick would be waking up any time soon, but just in case –

There was a whirring noise.

"What?" Sam was asking, tone worried across the phone line. "You see something?" Dean reached into his boot for the extra gun, which he hadn't had time to go for in the fight. "Dean, what's up? Is that guy back?"

"Hang on a second," Dean answered as the whirring noise returned, louder this time.

Suddenly, something bright and luminescent loomed overhead, illuminating the corn stalks and the circle Dean was standing in. Squinting against the glare, Dean could make out a vaguely saucer-like shape.

"Holy…" He took a step back, and the thing followed him. 'Oh, shit…' He took off into the cornfield. "UFO! UFO!"

As he ran, he could hear Sam still talking. "Whoa! Dude, stop yelling! You're breaking up – I didn't catch that last part."

"Close encounter!" Dean yelled as he ran through the stalks. "Close encounter! They're after me!" A moment later, he realized that he had just run further into the field, in the exact opposite of the direction of the car.

Knowing his only choice was to turn back and try to fight his way out of the field, he reached into his other boot for his switchblade, holding that and the gun out in front of them.

'No friggen way ET's taking me without a fight,' he thought, squaring his shoulders. "Come on!"

The bright light loomed closer, and then grew, until it blocked out the night sky and everything else.

(*)

"Dean?" Sam asked warily. "Are you there? What happened? Dean?"

The silence on the other end of the phone was not comforting, and Sam knew from experience what that usually meant.

By the time he managed to hail the only cab in town and make it to the cornfield, Dean was long since gone. The only clue that he had ever been there was the still running car, an abandoned flashlight and his cellphone, which Sam found only by calling it repeatedly.

Several yards away, he found a still unconscious and beaten body. As he shone his flashlight down onto it, he recognized it as the guy who had been hitting on him that morning. Remembering what Dean had said about him, Sam simply did the responsible thing and called in a tip to the sheriff's office. He had more pressing concerns right now, the foremost being that his brother had apparently been kidnapped by aliens.

Leaving the cornfield behind, he headed for the only person he figured would have any idea how to deal with an alien abduction.

He sped back toward Elwood, tearing through the city center so quickly he nearly hit Mr. Brennan as he was leaving the corner store, causing the man to drop his purchases on the street. In his rear-view mirror, Sam saw something like milk or cream spill out on the pavement.

The RV camp just outside of town had obviously been there before the alien craze broke out, although it looked as though it had recently started to hit capacity. Sam headed for the address that he had jotted down for Wayne Whitaker Junior and uncaring of the fact that it was about the time that people started to turn in for the day.

He rapped on the door of Whitaker's trailer, grateful when the heavy browed man appeared within the screen. "Oh. Miss Pesavento. Is there something I can help you with?"

"UFOs. They're real," Sam said, for the first time actually unsure of how he was supposed to break the news.

Whitaker didn't look surprised. "Like I said before, missy, the truth is out there."

"Yeah – that's why I came to you. You're the expert. How do I get them?"

"Come again?" Whitaker raised an eyebrow.

"You hunt ET's, right? Extra terrestrials? I need to know how to get them."

"If I knew that, I'd be a very rich man," Whitaker smiled gently. "If you want to look through thirty years of eyewitness accounts, they might –"

"Look, I already know they're real, my br – partner's been abducted, so I'm pretty much a believer," Sam ploughed on impatiently. "Now can you help me, or are you going to tell me to look at your badly punctuated and spuriously evidenced research again?"

"Young lady, I don't think I like your tone," Whitaker told him, his expression turning cold. "You seem upset. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time – ?"

Sam cursed himself for letting his worry overcome his usual people skills. Hadn't he just ribbed Dean about that this morning?

"No – No, tomorrow would not be a better time, I need to find hi – her now," Sam insisted.

Whitaker shook his head. "I can see that you're a little unbalanced. My expertise is clearly not the kind of help you need right now. I can recommend an excellent psychiatrist in town. He's given all of us free consults – "

Sam didn't try to hide his groan of frustration as he whirled around and stalked away. This was getting him nowhere!

"Have you considered the possibility of faeries?" a dreamy voice asked, and Sam glanced to the person seated by the nearest trailer. He recognized Marion Allen and her creepy lawn ornaments even without much light. She was sitting in an outdoor lounge chair, sipping tea from a dainty porcelain cup.

"What?" he asked, more out of the need to ask the question than any actual curiousity.

"Faeries," the dotty-looking woman repeated. "Sprites and spriggens. Bogarts and brownies. The little people have many names and come in many shapes and sizes. They're magical, mischievous beings from the realm next door."

Sam had been about to ask after the woman's sanity, but the word 'realm' made his ears perk up. "Realm?"

"The faerie realm," Marion nodded happily.

"So, it's like another dimension?" Sam asked, his heart beating faster at the possibility. "Like a…back door universe?"

"Exactly," she agreed, obviously overjoyed at the fact that he seemed to believe her.

"Why would they be abducting people, though?"

"Well, there are a few ideas, but obviously no one knows for sure. It's said that they only take firstborn sons, although if your sister was taken that proves that's just a myth," she chuckled, obviously failing to realize that this was something bad. "Personally, I think they're taken to Avalon to service Oberon, the King of the Faeries."

Sam didn't bother to point out that Oberon was a Shakespearean creation and hadn't actually been a part of any mythos until the romantic literature of the Middle Ages. Instead, he asked, "Say…say faeries are real…what can I do about them?"

"Sorry?"

"How can I interact with them? To communicate?"

Marion pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, if you want to win a faerie's favor, leave a bowl of fresh cream. They love cream."

Sam held back a growl of impatience. "Okay, great, I'll keep that in mind – and…and if I wanted to interact more forcefully?"

"Well, all the fair folk recoil at the touch of iron, and the dark faeries burn when touched with silver," she mused out loud. "Oh! You can spill sugar and salt in front of them – no matter how powerful, the faerie must stoop to count each grain."

'And that's maddeningly unhelpful. Makes me want to believe in UFO's again,' Sam thought, but fixed a polite smile on his face. "Well…that's great. Thanks for the tips, Marion. I'm…going to go see if I can research any of that."

"Oh, any time," Marion beamed. "My trailer is always open to company!"

Sam suppressed a shudder as he glanced at the garden gnomes.

Feeling as though he was trapped between rock and a hard place – because between UFOs and faeries, this case had just gone from slightly weird to so far out of the norm for him and Dean that Sam couldn't think of any other metaphor, Sam got back in the car and headed back to the town center. He couldn't quite face the emptiness of the motel room right now, not until he knew he could get Dean back.

Instead, he drove aimlessly through the streets, trying to clear his thoughts.

He passed the place where he had almost run down the father of the first victim, and for a moment was consumed by guilt. He was allowing his protective feelings for his brother to get in the way of things again. What if he had actually killed the guy, instead of just knocking off his groceries?

Sam blinked, flashing back to that moment. Marion's words about cream returned to him, and he frowned at himself in the mirror. It wasn't the biggest leap he'd ever made, but right now he didn't have many options to consider. Sometimes it really was just a matter of a lucky guess.

The fact was, Sam needed to find Dean. And right now, Brennan was the best lead he had.

Deciding there was no other choice than to pursue it, Sam parked the car and started looking for Brennan. The watchmaker's shop was closed and dark when he got there, and so Sam went to the only other place he could think of.

He found Brennan in there, wallowing in a pitcher of whatever was on tap in the corner of the bar. Not bothering with the minutiae, Sam took the empty seat opposite him.

"Hello again, Mr. Brennan."

The man didn't even look up. "Leave me alone."

"I don't think I got to tell you earlier today how beautiful your work is."

"What?"

"The watches? They're pretty stunning – the amount of detail I saw in them? Just astounding – I've got to ask, though – you own that business yourself, right? So how do you manage to put out that much product?"

"Well, I – I just – "

"Made a deal with a bunch of faeries to keep your business going? Yeah, I kind of figured."

Brennan paled. "You're insane."

"Maybe, but I notice you're not denying it," Sam said angrily. "You know, I thought my dad was an asshole? At least I never had to worry about him trading me off so that his job would be easier."

"You don't understand! It wasn't like that!"

"Normally, I'd sit and listen to your reasons, but right now, my partner is stuck in Never-Neverland – or wherever," Sam said firmly. "So if you have any shred of human decency left – you know, that part of you that swims with guilt every day that you wake up and remember what you did to your own kid? – you're going to help me."

Brennan stared at him blankly for a second, but must have seen the resolve in Sam's eyes, because he nodded slowly.

"My grandmother…she told me all these stories when I was a kid. She told me how to summon them, to get favors from them – she left me this book, and I did the ceremony in my back office a few weeks ago. This…man…appeared and said he was a leprechaun."

Brennan cast a sideways glance, and Sam made a motion for him to continue.

"I asked him to just cure me – I've got the first stages of Parkinsons – but he said he would do even better. He'd make me more successful than I ever had been – that he'd help me save my business."

"In exchange for…?"

"A place to rest," Brennan said dully. "To take the fruit and fat of the land. I said yes – I figured he just meant…I didn't realize that he meant my firstborn. And not just mine – those other families' too." He put a hand over his eyes, a gesture of deep regret. "They're not stopping. They're not going to stop."

"Can't you reverse the spell?"

"Maybe – in the book. But it's in a safe in my shop and…they won't let me near it."

Sam frowned thoughtfully, and then met Brennan's guilty face. "Can you see them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. I'll cover you while you reverse the ritual."

"But I can't – !"

"Think about your son, Mr. Brennan," Sam said, using the same kind of 'everyone is counting on you' intensity that John Winchester had instilled in him from the age of three. "Think about all the people who've already lost loved ones – and who still will if you don't help me stop this."

"I-I don't even know if it'll help you," Brennan stuttered, looking about wildly as though expecting one of the other drunken patrons to rescue him.

"It'll be a start. I can handle it from there," Sam said. Something in his words must have sounded confident, because after a searching look and another deep gulp of beer, Brennan nodded and stood.

"Alright. Let's go."

They stopped at the car first, where Sam loaded himself up with a crossbow and as many silver and iron weapons as he could conceal on his smaller body. Brennan stared as he checked the safety on the crossbow.

"What the hell kind of reporter are you, lady?"

"The full-service kind," Sam replied, and gestured for the older man to lead the way.

They slipped into the shop through the back door. Sam looked around, frowning as he tried to see the faeries, although he knew he wouldn't be able to. It was rather like trying to see past a persistent blind spot. "Are they here?"

Brennan nodded to him, motioning with a finger to remain quiet, as the snuck through the back area toward the safe. Sam tried his best to keep watch, despite knowing he wouldn't be able to actually see anyone coming. He wondered if he'd at least be able to hear or sense it.

He heard the click of the lock as the safe opened, and glanced over to where Brennan was pulling out a thick, leather-bound book. Sending Sam a hopeful look, he flipped it opened a few pages. Sam wandered over as the older man began to read, his natural curiosity for old tomes getting the better of him.

"Leig seachad an ceangal sin, agus smàl an solus sin, agus fuadaich an sídhe air ais gu'n àite-breith – "

Brennan's words suddenly cut off in a wet gurgle as a sharp, wooden edge ripped through his chest. The older man crumbled forward, and revealing his killer.

Sam gaped. "You!"

(*)

The sensation of many hands reaching out to Dean, sharp and grabby, filled his awareness. Out of reflex he tried to pull away from them, and when that didn't deter he swiped at them with his knife. Exclamations and noises of surprise burst out around him, but try as he might, he couldn't see what he was facing.

The bright light that had overtaken him blotted everything out with painful intensity, forcing him to keep his eyes shut. Even then, it shone through the backs of his closed eyelids, causing tears to form and spill over his lashes in reaction.

Something or some things continued to reach out for him, trying to restrain him, but he kept thrashing wildly out of their way. Someone uttered a command and the voices faded away, until only whispers and a sound like music – haunting and hypnotic – filled the air.

His vision cleared and he prepared himself for a face-to-face with something resembling either E.T. or Predator, only to realize with shocked dismay that it might be worse than that.

Hundreds of glowing balls of light fluttered overhead, twirling, sparking and laughing. Where he stood, he could see dozens of the creatures, some of which danced and caroused in the strange light while others surrounded him.

"Son of a bitch," he murmured, staring around the space that was most definitely not the cornfield. 'Crazy cat lady was right. They're fuckin' faeries…'

They were very angular humanoid creatures of all shapes and sizes, with pointed ears and teeth. All of them had bright eyes and bright hair; even their skin shone, glowing pearly green in the eerie illumination. He was getting a pretty close look at that, too, because most, if not all, of them were naked.

Those closest to him stared, their gazes laced with curiosity or disdain, either toward him or his still-raised weapons; several of them bled dark green from where he had nicked them with his knife. He gripped both tools tighter, sure that they were his only protection right now.

Forcing himself to focus, his eyes flicked around the place where he now found himself, looking for some clue as to where there might be a means of escape. Wherever he was, it was neither outside nor inside, and seemed to exist beyond natural day or night as well. It looked like the inner hollow of a tree, judging from the bark-like texture of the walls, but he was pretty sure there was no tree in existence big enough to hold what this one did.

Large sections of the bark walls were covered in tapestries of woven grass and flowers, while a reaching football field-sized expanse of floor stretched out beyond him. It was made of some sort of earthy, marble stone, but was both less and more grand. The reflection of the hundreds of glowing balls – more faeries, he told himself – shone in the smooth surface, and the air itself gleamed in response.

'No Exit sign, then,' he thought, tensing up in preparation for an attack. It was a mystery to him why he hadn't been swarmed yet.

"Calm yourself, boy," someone said, and Dean inexplicably shuddered in reaction. The voice was like the sound of the wind and the thrum of a bass and the purr of his baby's engine, all rolled into one amazing package. "There is no need for weapons here."

"Oh, I think there's a nee –" he began, turning to face the one who had spoken, only to have the ability to talk disappear.

In the middle of the hallway, there was a throne of black onyx; on it sat a woman that Dean could barely find words to describe. She wasn't even his usual type, yet he still felt himself going a little weak-kneed.

He told himself it was just because she, like the rest of the faeries, was naked.

Instinctively, he knew that this was a primal creature, a lot older than it looked. The woman was tall and willowy, with a perfect hour-glass shape and pale skin. Long dark hair fell in wild tangles down her back and over her full breasts. She was smiling at Dean in welcome, although from the mischievous quirk of her full lips it looked almost more like a suggestion. Her bright eyes were an intense blue that made him think immediately of Castiel, although he had never seen the angel look at him with that particular hunger before.

'Cas,' Dean reminded himself, his thoughts jarring as he came back to himself. He couldn't let himself become distracted right now, even if there was some really hot faerie chick giving him come-hither looks. He needed to get back from wherever the hell he was so that he could find Cas. 'Focus, Winchester.'

He looked away from the woman, trying to regain his composure, but she seemed determined not to let him.

"Dean," the woman whispered his name, and he couldn't help but look back at her, surprised that she knew his name and recognized who he was despite his new packaging. "Don't look so confused. The Fae are creatures of Nature…of Change. We know when something has been altered." The woman smiled wider and wandered toward him, her gaze holding his. The music seemed to grow louder. "You look tired, boy. Come, sit – eat."

She gestured beside her, and unexpectedly Dean was confronted by a richly decked table, with every kind of food he'd ever eaten in his life upon it. Fruits and vegetables grown almost to bursting point rested on intricate glass plates, succulent meat cuts of every kind glistening with gravy and sauce, sweet-smelling breads and – oh, hell - every pie imaginable had been laid out before him.

Even if he hadn't been before, Dean was suddenly famished.

"Uh…yeah, sure. Sounds good," he found himself saying and letting her lead him over to the table.

He frowned, inwardly. His response didn't seem right. For whatever reason, his instincts were screaming at him, but he couldn't for the life of him think why. It felt as though he was in a fog, unable to see beyond the woman and the table of food. The sensation was annoyingly familiar.

He found himself allowing faceless creatures to ease the weapons from his hands and then the woman was gently guiding him down into the chair that had appeared just as mysteriously. Someone hissed in the distance, and dimly his brain registered the sound of something dropping – the knife, he thought – but it was only a vague sense.

Dean was fully aware of the fact that he'd lost control over himself. Whether it was the strange music that continued to echo within the cavern, or the voice of the woman, he wasn't sure, but the feeling itself was disconcertingly familiar.

Dimly, he remembered that the last time he had felt like this was in Bedford, Iowa, a year before.

'Siren,' he recalled, grimacing with effort as he tried to focus his thoughts. This hazy sensation was a lot like that had been, only he knew he hadn't been dosed with any mind-control spit or had anything like the angelic-fingers-of-mind-whammy placed on him.

So what the hell was going on?

The faerie woman took a place beside him, watching him with hungry intensity. She made a gesture to some of her attendants without looking away from him; the gaze was unnerving enough that Dean had to break it, or he might go mad. His eyes fell lower, zeroing in on her breasts in an ingrained habit only to find his attention momentarily captured by the tiny, red globule that hung from a cobweb-thin strand above her cleavage.

It reminded him of something…

Blood.

'But these things bleed green,' he thought. 'So who…?'

The skin on his knuckles stung and he then recalled splitting them open on that douchebag Rick's teeth. He blinked with effort and looked down, staring at the wound healing there. It shouldn't really have meant anything to him, but at the back of his mind he remembered…

Kali.

The Hindu goddess had been able to bind a person with their blood. Maybe he had ended up in a similar situation with this faerie chick.

"Dean," the woman murmured, and he was forced to look back into her eyes; her gaze was pleading. "Won't you stay with me? Time passes differently here…it's been centuries since I had a visitor. I'm so lonely."

The sadness there sounded real, and it was on the tip of his tongue to agree, but something kept getting in the way.

'Sam,' he reminded himself, focussing on the one thing that trumped everything else. 'Just got him back. And we have to get Cas and Adam. Can't stay. Family.'

The woman appeared to sense his thoughts, because she smiled sympathetically.

"So much responsibility, Dean Winchester. Have you not done enough?" she reached over and stroke the left side of his face. It was an odd sensation, the rub between her cold fingers and his softer-than-usual cheeks, and a shiver of anticipation shot through his treacherous body. "Your loved ones will survive without you. Why should you be asked to descend back into the Pit again? You served your time."

Dean shook his head, the motion thick and heavy like he was immersed in a swamp. "Doesn't matter…family…"

The words somehow meant less than they usually did, and it was getting harder and harder to remember why. The smells from the table were becoming hard to bear, along with the woman's too pleasant touch.

She leaned in close to him, her lips hovering close to his left ear.

"Sam is safe, Dean – he'll discover what happened to your friend. Together they will find your youngest brother – none of them will begrudge you peace. You saved the world, after all. You deserve it," she whispered, bringing her hand down in a slow caress. She trailed is suggestively down his neck and collar bone, and Dean felt his eyes roll back a little in pleasure. "Come now – sit back, eat something. Stay with us. Stay with me."

She continued to trail her fingers downward, over his shoulder and his arm –

The pleasure abruptly turned to seating pain as she touched the shoulder that had once born an angel's brand. A sharp, electric sting of agony flitted across his senses, as though she had poked an exposed nerve –

' – Dean – '

'Cas,' Dean thought dimly, his body reacting to the ache automatically. He shoved himself backward, knocking over some of the delicious looking food and drink. All around him, faeries expressed surprise at his sudden outburst, and even the woman looked alarmed when a goblet of some kind of liquid upended over her, drenching her down the front.

If she'd been a regular woman, the sight might have been tantalizing, but all Dean could register through the quickly ebbing pain, was that the little globule of blood had been washed away.

He shook his head, feeling his senses sharpen again. His mind rebooted itself, focussing on one thing: escape.

"Right…well, thanks for the invite, but I'm gonna have to pass," he said slowly, inching away from her with difficulty. "It's a real nice set-up you got down here – out here? In here? – Anyway. I've got to get going."

"Don't be silly," she purred, following him even as he backed away. She moved with all the grace of a cat. "You should eat something before you go."

Dean made a face. "Yeah, lady, I may not know much about Tinkerbelle, but one of the first things my old man told me was not to take food from strangers. And if you're not strange, I don't know what the hell is."

He began to edge away from the table, looking for his weapons. He cursed himself for allowing whatever magic was at work here to lull him into a sense of security. 'A rookie mistake Sam'll never let me here the end of. 'The day Dean was kidnapped by faeries and punked out'; I can see it now…' "

"Come now, Dean, don't be silly – "

"Can it, Lady Godiva," Dean snapped, sensing more of the creatures beginning to surround him, cutting off all possibility of his running away. "Your Jedi mind tricks aren't working anymore, so if you don't want to be in a world of hurt, you'll point me to exit."

This was going to be messy, especially without any kind of weapon. He probably still had a flask of holy water in his jacket pocket, but he didn't think it was going to do anything about faeries.

The woman's eyes narrowed, and in an instant her body lost the alluring quality to it. Her skin seemed to harden, taking on the same texture of the walls, and her curves turned into harder edges.

"I'm not an angel, boy," she told him coldly. "I'm allowed to use coercion to fulfil this covenant."

"Yeah, well, I didn't spread my legs for the archangels, so don't hold your breath about me doing it for you."

"That's too bad," she sighed. "I would have made it worth your while." She shrugged, a gesture that didn't seem to fit her primal aura. "But pain is also an excellent motivator, I've learned."

Before he could even blink, the faerie woman had darted forward and clutched his shoulder tightly, fitting her grasp over the part of his deltoid where Cas's mark had been.

Against all logic, pain exploded across his synapses.

(*)

Sam was having a little trouble making his brain work past the disbelief.

"You're the leprechaun," he intoned incredulously, levelling his crossbow at the newcomer.

The man he'd known as Wayne Whitaker Jr. smiled coldly as he cleaned off the blade he'd used to impale Brennan. Gone was the fanatical gleam in his eyes that had marked him as a UFO chaser, and he was watching Sam with calculating gravity.

"Indeed I am," he simpered. He inclined his head a Brennan's crumpled body. "Sorry about the mess, but your friend here went back on his deal."

"Well, you weren't very clear with him on the terms," Sam replied stiffly.

The leprechaun chuckled. "Now, now – no lawyering from you. He knew there was a price."

"Which was?"

"Once we come, we come to stay. It's how we've been doing things for millennia."

"I doubt you've been using UFO cover stories for abducing people for millennia," Sam said, trying to put together the pieces. If this thing had been around for as long as it said, if was probably the 'guy' that Aggie had sent him and Dean to find. However, Dean's disappearance notwithstanding, the creature – or creatures, as there were probably many of them – was causing mayhem.

Which meant Sam had to find a way to stop it.

"Maybe not always, but in this day and age, where even reality can be faked? It works out great."

"Hate to tell you, but your cover's pretty much blown now," Sam pointed out, his mind racing to come up with the next part of his plan. The book Brennan had used to try to banish it was far enough away that if Sam tried to make a break for it, he'd probably end up on the business end of the leprechaun's blade.

"Blown? To whom?" the leprechaun chortled. "Brennan's dead and your brother's cooling his heels back on the ranch." Off Sam's startled expression, he continued impishly, "Oh, yes, Sam, we know all about your particular situation. Nice disguises, by the way. Pagan handiwork, I take it?"

"How did you – ?"

"I knew there was something a little off about you two when you got here," Whitaker said. "You're both marked by something beyond this world, and that's before taking into account our friend Aggie's particular signature. Dean's a bit more obvious – it rolls off him in waves. But you?" Whitaker shook his head in mock affection. "You, I had to concentrate on. I thought it was just proximity to your brother, but that wasn't it."

"What are you talking about?"

The leprechaun laughed again. "We faeries folk are all about the energy. And the human soul gives off a certain perfume – one that changes based on where it's been. And judging from your particular bouquet? You've done some time." He shrugged. "Of course, I can't tell where or how long – someone's gone and covered it up. Probably for your own good."

Sam tightened his grip on the trigger of the bow.

He had had a suspicion there was a reason he couldn't remember his brief stint in Hell, but he had expected it to be his mind repressing the memory to protect him. Apparently whatever had brought him up had done it purposefully. It was yet another point in the 'Castiel column', because the angel knew what it had been like for Dean after he came back from Hell; it would be just his style to try to save Sam the pain. Or at least to save Dean from having to see Sam's pain.

"Now," Whitaker said, businesslike, "let's talk shop. Hunters don't really investigate UFO flaps – not since that whole Roswell thing, anyway, and let me tell you: someone did some seriously excellent PR for us on that one!" He grinned reminiscently, before continuing. "You wouldn't be here if someone didn't send you, and judging by the stench it was the Phrygian. We haven't heard a peep out of her for almost four thousand years, so you must be in the market for a big favor."

Sam did, but he had his priorities. "I want Dean back from wherever you took him."

The leprechaun smirked. "I doubt that's why you drove out to this little hick town, though. Let's talk about big brother later."

Sam pursed his lips to keep from replying angrily. Alienating the asshole leprechaun right now was probably not a good plan. He needed his help – and even if he didn't, he still wasn't quite sure how he was going to kill the thing if it decided not to be helpful.

"We heard you knew a way into Hell," Sam said at last, knowing that the faster he revealed why they had come to Elwood, the sooner he might be able to convince the leprechaun to return his brother to him. He refused to consider the idea that he wouldn't be able to.

"Which one?"

"What do you mean, 'which one'?"

"Smart boy like you should know there's more than one hell realm out there, boy," Whitaker chided. "Are we talking Norse, Buddhist, Abrahamic…?"

"The last one."

"And why do you need to get to that hell? There's not exactly a waiting list for folk who want to take a cruise in that direction," the leprechaun remarked. "So you're either looking for something…or someone."

"Our brother. Adam. He's down there."

"Well, that's rather anticlimactic," Whitaker snorted. "That's easy work – hardly something befitting my people. Go find one of your crossroads demons."

"Not an option. We were told you could do this," Sam said firmly, not wanting to go into detail about the many reasons a crossroads deal was a bad idea.

"And you were told correct. If I was so inclined and not completely bored by a task so routine, I could get him out for you. For a price, of course."

The matter of fact way he said threw Sam for a second. "How? He's locked in a box with the Devil."

Interest flicked in Whitaker's eyes, before he reminded him coyly, "Your devil, not mine."

"Maybe so, but I'm still finding it hard to believe that a faerie can do what angels can't."

"Angels," Whitaker scoffed. "Please. There's a reason you had to go to a pagan god to get your little body transplant, boy. What my kind does is real magic. Got a way of getting in back doors. And we'd be glad to help – but as I said, for a price. No such thing as a free lunch, and all that."

"And what's your price?" Sam asked.

"Leave town," the leprechaun said. "Right now. Just up and go and forget you ever came here – let us keep doing our thing and never come looking for us again. Pretend faeries are nothing more than stories in cute little Disney movies. You do that, we'll get Adam back for you."

"So basically you want carte-blanche to keep abducting people," Sam frowned.

"Oh, don't make it sound so terrible. The firstborns we take don't suffer – how could they? They get to be immortal and party in our realm for all time. Not a bad deal for them – especially the folks around here. Not many ever leave this dunghill. They'll end up poor and miserable in their middle age. We give 'em something better."

Sam shifted indecisively, and Whitaker took a step forward. He held out a hand.

"Well, Sam? What do you say?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at the leprechaun. "I'm still waiting for you to bring Dean back."

"He's already one of ours," Whitaker dismissed with a cold smile. "Meeting the boss and everything as we speak. He's part of the ones we've already taken, Sam. And like I said, it's not like he's suffering. Wouldn't you want your brother to be at peace?"

Sam tensed up, because he wanted nothing more but peace for Dean. He wanted his brother to never again have to deal with some great big scheme to destroy the world. He wanted him happy and safe and to never have to wake up to another day of screwed up reality. But he also knew that no deal was ever as good as it sounded. Even if that lesson hadn't been firmly burned into his own soul, he knew that Dean would find a way back from wherever he was right now and beat the shit out of him for agreeing.

It wasn't just about Dean, either. If he agreed to the leprechaun's offer, many other families would continue to be rent apart by the faeries presence. Along with finding the thing that had killed their mother, hadn't the whole point of his and Dean's upbringing been about making sure no one else ever went through what they had? Agreeing to the deal right now would completely invalidate everything that they had suffered through and fought for.

Losing Jess and Dad, Dean going to Hell, losing Adam and Cas –

There really was no other answer for Sam to give.

"I don't think you understand," Sam replied and fit his finger into the trigger of the crossbow. "You're bringing him back."

"Sorry, boy, but he's part of the price. Otherwise it wouldn't be a sacrifice, would it?"

"Guess I'll have to change your mind," Sam said, finally pulling the trigger on the crossbow. The bolt whizzed through the air and caught Whitaker in the right shoulder.

The leprechaun jerked in surprise.

"Silver! Painful," he spat, as smoke began to rise from the wound. Sam raised the crossbow again, fitting another bolt as he watched the leprechaun grab at the thing impaling him. With a quick jerk, Whitaker broke off the shaft and tossed it away, rounding on Sam. "Not a deal breaker, though."

Sam fired again.

This time he missed, and the leprechaun cloaked himself, disappearing from Sam's view. Tossing the crossbow aside to give himself more mobility, Sam unsheathed one of the silver knives he carried. Even if it wasn't going to stop the son of a bitch, it would still hurt him at least.

As he listened for the leprechaun, he began to inch towards the book. It seemed like the best option right now –

The air beside him moved, much the same way it did when an angel was appearing in the general vicinity only without the telltale flap of wings. Sam whirled around, jabbing towards where he thought the creature's torso would be. A vice-like grip stopped his blade, and although he couldn't see it, he could smell the leprechaun's breath on his face.

"So much for hunter reflexes," the leprechaun hissed in his ear. "That was a bad mistake, Sam. Let me show you why."

Sam felt an invisible hand on his head, and grasping, sharp fingertips dig through his hair and into the side of his face.

He lurched as images assaulted him from every direction, blotting out the real world. Invisible flames licked at his skin while a searing cold filled him up from the inside, the contrast creating a world of agony.

He couldn't hold back his scream.

(*)

It was like acid had been poured into him, filling up every empty space that had once been held together by an angel's grace. Prodding, clawing fingernails inched their way farther and farther within him, tearing him apart from the soul outward.

Dean jerked, trying to pull himself out of the faerie's grasp, but she held on with a determined grip. It was as though her palm was welded to his shoulder. The longer she touched his skin, the more pain he was in. It was almost like being on the rack, only not quite as bloody.

His senses blurred together and his vision swam with dark spots. He was going to pass out soon, and there was nothing he could do to stop it – or to stop those winged fucks from taking advantage of him in some way.

'Dean Winchester, Saved to World, Molested to Death by Faeries,' he thought through his exhaustion. But try as he might, he couldn't move.

He could taste blood in his mouth from where he was biting down to keep from screaming, and he could hear his heartbeat, thrumming a steady, relaxed beat.

Wait.

'Relaxed?'

He tried to tune out the scorching pain, focussing on the heartbeat. He could feel his own – inarguably racing in reaction to the agony the faerie's searching essence was instilling in him – but he could also hear that other rhythm.

Slow and peaceful, and somehow the most comforting sound that Dean had ever heard in his life.

He didn't know what it was or who it belonged to, but he grasped onto that feeling, holding tight. If his stay in Hell had taught him anything, it was that the only way to survive was to latch on to the least damaging pain he could and ride it out.

As he surrendered himself to that one, constant sound, he felt a jarring sensation, like a wall coming down.

The invisible force that was rending him open from the inside out appeared to hit somewhere they couldn't go. The woman let out a hiss of surprise and discomfort, jumping back. As Dean came back to himself, he saw that her palm was smoking where it had once rested on his shoulder.

"What's this?" she snarled in disbelief. "That should be gone!"

Confusion twisted within him, but Dean knew that if he didn't act fast, she would have time to recover herself. Whatever compulsion had paralyzed him before was gone, and although there was still remnants of the phantom pain from whatever the faerie bitch had done to him, his thoughts were clear again.

'Kinda wish I'd asked the crazy cat lady what kills these bastards,' he thought as he backed away from the woman and looked for some kind of weapon. He had no idea how he was going to get away from them or how to get back to the real world. 'Well, when in doubt, go for the old standbys.'

Those old standbys being silver and decapitation; he was fresh out of the former, what with his weapons having been commandeered, but he might be able to pull off the latter.

He moved quickly, seizing the nearest dishes from the table and shattered them against the edge. The shards in his hand were small, but sharp – not the most ideal weapon, but he had once beheaded a vampire with a box cutter. He hoped this wouldn't be any different.

And then they were on him – coming from many different directions, shrieking and hissing and laughing as they attacked him, and the woman disappeared into the myriad of many bodies. Dean lashed out automatically, trying to fight off the barrage of faeries.

It was harder than usual to fight off a hoard of assailants; he decided to blame that on his new body rather than the numbers, just to pander to his pride. Every time he landed a blow on one or slashed through an outstretched limb, another creature took its place.

Dean couldn't think, couldn't worry if his body was about to give out. He ducked and dodged, executing sloppy yet forceful moves that made his opponents yell in anger and frustration. Not pain, though. It seemed like there was nothing here that could hurt them, and yet Dean could feel himself bleeding as nails like talons dug into his flesh.

He managed to get through the throng of bodies, only to find himself in a dead-end.

His glass weapons were knocked from his hands and something shoved him up against the mossy wall of the hallway.

An unearthly calm settled over the area, and Dean continued to struggle against the faceless faerie holding him back. The crowd cleared and the faerie woman was coming toward him again, all slink and seduction, but with a definite air of pissed-off anger.

One of his hands was being held close enough to the pocket of his jacket that he could dig it inside, wondering if he might not have salt or maybe grab the holy water he knew he had. It wasn't much, but he'd at least get one last move in before he inevitably died – or worse. Because there were things worse than death.

His fingers closed around a rectangular metal shape, and Dean's eyes widened. His lighter.

He might be able to make a distraction and make a run for it, if only he could…

"Why are you struggling, Dean?" the woman asked him, as though she was really curious to know the answer. "You know how this is going to end. And as admirable as your bravery is, it won't do you any good."

"Makes me feel better," he grunted, finally managing to get his lighter out. He tried to angle his hands toward the wall, figuring if it went up in smoke the creature holding onto him might let go –

He flicked the lighter to life.

"What are you – ?" the fat faerie asked, shifting as he felt Dean move. The lighter caught against the moss, and Dean could smell burning – and then the faerie let out a shriek and released him.

Dean moved away, surprised that that had worked – and then felt his jaw drop.

The fat faerie must have touched the fire, because he was burning, literally. Flames raced up his skin and across his body, encompassing him until he disappeared into a shrieking wisp of smoke. The effect was not unlike salting and burning a spirit's body.

The other faeries let out shrieks of dismay and agony, and Dean glanced down at his lighter as he registered this new information.

'Faeries are flammable. Good to know.'

Even the faerie woman had stopped and was staring at him with wide eyes, obviously having not expected this development.

"Here's the deal," Dean said, gripping the lighter threateningly. "You're going to let me back to the real world. Or I'm going to torch this place so badly not even clapping is going to bring it back, hear me?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You think we can't stop you before you try?"

"I'm thinking I can take out enough of you before you do. And sweetheart, you're the first one I'm going for. Cutting off the head of the snake and all."

Her expression remained fixed, but he could see a glimmer of wariness in her eyes.

"I thought you wanted our help, Dean? Is that not why you came here? To try to save your brother? Did you think you wouldn't have to pay a price for that?"

Dean paused for a moment, letting that sink in. "What do you mean?"

"It's the way it had always been, Dean Winchester. You are the Given Sacrifice," the woman said. "Agdistis sent you here because she knew what we could do – and she knew what you were willing to give. If you want us to bring Adam up from his cage, the price is you. I did not lie when I said Sam would find a way to return Adam. I just neglected to mention that it was your sacrifice which would allow him to do so."

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach. He'd known all along that catch would be something like this. And he knew that he was inclined to make this sacrifice, too. Except…

"And Cas? Can you find him?"

"We do not meddle in the affairs of angels," the woman said stiffly. "And even if we did, the angel that rescued you from that hell is no more. Surely you feel that? His grace is gone."

"No," Dean insisted. He thought about the strange, calm heart-beat he had heard and the way the woman had recoiled. "He's still alive. I know it. Somewhere, he's alive."

"Even if he were, why should it matter? He is not part of the agreement we are offering."

"Then I'm not taking it," Dean growled. "It's bringing Adam up and finding Cas, or it's nothing."

"Then I suppose it's nothing," the woman retorted. "The innocent boy will continue to rot in the Pit. And you may keep that on your conscience. There's the way out." She pointed at a doorway, made up of stone and vine.

"What the hell makes me so important to you freaks, anyhow?"

The woman snorted. "Are you joking? Dean Winchester, Vessel of the Jealous God's Sword? Do you realize just how much bargaining power there is in that, even to us fair folk?"

"Hate to break it to you, but Michael's on the bench. He won't be coming off it any time soon."

"Not in your lifetime, maybe. But the end of all things will come eventually," the woman said. "And not just the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse. This planet – the earth around us – will shudder and die, and with it all of us. Everything." A look of extreme sadness flickered on her face. "Think of watching your brother die, Dean. And magnify that by billions. And that is what we will experience when the end comes."

"And what exactly am I supposed to do about that? I'll be dead and gone."

"Only if you leave," she told him beseechingly. "If you remain here, you will be immortal. You'll be at peace, and by dint of your sacrifice, so will your loved ones. They will live their lives and then pass to the next world as they are meant to. Isn't that what you want?"

Dean hesitated, for a moment unsure. He glanced from the door to the woman, and then asked. "Would you have to collect now?"

She cocked her head to one side. "What do you mean?"

"Say I said yes – would I have to stay here now or would I get a period of grace?"

The woman smirked. "We are not Crossroads Demons, boy. If you make the sacrifice, you do so immediately. But the results would be immediate too. We would pull Adam from Hell right away."

"But you couldn't find Cas."

"No. He is gone, and I can't even sense where."

"Then I'm going to have to say 'no'," Dean said heavily, and headed toward the stone doorway. "We'll find another way."

"Know that you've shed blood in the realm of faeries, Dean Winchester," he heard the woman's voice echo as he headed for the door. "Even as we send you back, this is not the last time you will see us. You're marked."

"Get in line behind the demons, angels and hunters already on my ass," Dean muttered to himself.

(*)

The pain was unlike anything Sam had ever experience – the kind of agony that couldn't be understood without experiencing it firsthand. The fire was as sharp as a knife, slicing across flayed nerves and veins, scraping and sliding against his skin, brutal and loving at the same time –

Lucifer was still within him, but he could also see the bastard's face, the same face he had seen before he said 'yes'. He smiled beatifically at Sam, and another wave of pain rolled over him.

"You have no one to blame but yourself, Sammy," the Devil told him with a smile that was anything but kind. "You could have stopped all of this – but you're so selfish. Your entire family's so selfish." He chuckled. "Good thing we have some time to cure you of that, huh?"

And Sam was somewhere long past pain and screaming, his throat raw like it was lined with broken glass, and he could taste blood and bile and maybe even brain matter from the torture that Lucifer was putting him through. He would shred him and then build him back up again, and only to tear him apart cell by cell.

It went on for hours…days…years…

Sam wasn't the only one there. He was aware of Michael, both the towering pyre of fire and the creature wearing his brother's face. Adam was only alone when the archangels decided that Sam's torture wasn't enough – that he wasn't being punished enough by being eviscerated and flayed by his own fingers.

At those times, they forced Adam to remain still as Sam took him apart.

He could taste the blood, warm and wet and rich, just the same way the demon blood had been on his tongue, but with a different aftertaste. Perhaps the taste of an archangel's power lingered in it. Sam was sick and his stomach heaved in response, in disgust and in hunger that wasn't his.

'Sam, please…' Michael made Adam beg, and God help him, Sam tried.

He tried to fight the archangel's influence, tried to summon up some of that strength that he had found when the Devil was crushing Dean's face in in that damned graveyard. And sometimes he even managed it.

Ten minutes.

Five minutes.

Two minutes.

It was getting harder and harder to fight the Devil, and Sam was getting more and more weary. He clung to those moments where he wasn't being torn apart by the one who shared his body, when he wasn't ripping into Adam, but they were so few and far between.

There was a reason for this. There had to be a reason, but he was starting to forget.

It had been years –

The leprechaun's grip on him faltered, and Sam could distantly hear the familiar trill of his blackberry. "Oh-Ho! So that's where you were. And you got out, but baby brother didn't. Well, you must feel extraordinary about that."

Sam let out a wordless yell and shoved the leprechaun away from him, panting harshly. The Hell memories continued to come at him, and he could feel tears inching down his cheeks.

Adam's face remained in his mind, and he felt the urge to vomit. He had been freed and Adam had been left behind. He had been there at least ten years – but by now, Adam would be the only one there. The only one for Lucifer and Michael to torture.

The phone continued to ring.

Sam dug into his coat, not to answer it, but to find another weapon. He knew he had another knife in his pocket, but his thoughts were so scattered right now, he couldn't remember which pocket. He cursed mentally as his fingers brushed the spare salt rounds he always kept there, but then his wits kicked in again.

His eyes darted to the book across the room, and he knew he could send the leprechaun back if he could get to the book. Then he would find Dean, because there was no way he was losing anymore family, faeries or not.

"Come on, lad, you've already gotten in your best shot," Whitaker told him with mocking sympathy, following Sam's gaze. "Why not just cut your losses and get out of here with your life intact?"

"Maybe you're right," Sam panted, disliking the raw quality to his voice. Reliving his memories had obviously been more vocal than he realized. He fingered the salt-round in one pocket and then finally found his knife. "So do me a favor, and count this."

He hauled out his chosen weapons and slit the round open with his knife, spilling salt all across the floor.

The leprechaun's face fell, twisting with horror. "Oh, no."

He was already going to his knees to count the grains of salt as Sam walked over him, bone weary. "Why the hell didn't I do that earlier?"

He grabbed the book and turned it around, squinting at the unfamiliar script as the sounds of the faerie's counting filled the watch shop.

"One…two…ass…"

It took Sam a few minutes to find the right passage – he had very little experience with any of the Gaelic languages, although he knew enough of the basics to at least have a passable pronunciation. Not for the first time was he glad that Bobby had drilled some rudimentary language skills into him and Dean.

" – air ais gu'n àite-breith –"

The leprechaun seethed, but couldn't do anything, "Damn it."

" – cum sabhailt aar naoidhein gun am breith, agus cum dùinte an geata uamhasach seo!"

There was a blast of white light, and when it cleared, Sam was the only one left in the work shop, except for Brennan's corpse.

He inhaled a shaky breath, momentarily unsure of what to do, before the phone began to ring again.

He dug into the pocket of his jeans, expecting to see Bobby's number flash before him. It would be a welcome sight, because then they could figure out how they were supposed to get Dean back now that Sam had just closed the door the Faerieland.

The number, however, was unfamiliar.

"Hello?" Sam rasped.

"Sammy?"

Relief and disbelief washed over him at the sound of Dean's voice – even though it was the female one he had only just gotten used to, it still filled him with a sense of comfort. "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me – Listen Sam, it's not UFO's, it's –"

"Faeries, I know –"

"How do you know?"

"Because I just faced off with a leprechaun, that's how," Sam retorted. "I managed to find a spell to close the doors on the place but – Dean, I thought you were stuck there, how did you…how did you get back?"

There was a pause on the other side. "They let me go."

"They…what?"

"Long story. I just…there was this deal they wanted me to take –" For a second, the bottom dropped out of Sam's stomach. He waited for Dean to tell him he had made yet another sacrifice for their family, " – but I couldn't. Not this time. I wasn't willing, so they let me go."

Sam swallowed, his knees suddenly feeling weak in the aftermath of the night's revelations. "Just…just like that?"

"Yeah, well, the usual threats…'you haven't seen the last of me', 'a pox be on both your houses'," Dean was trying to sound offhand and cheerful, but Sam could sense that he wasn't exactly relieved at the outcome. "No big."

"Not that I'm not relieved," Sam said after a moment. "But why didn't you take it?"

There was a pause, and then a heavy sigh.

"Terms weren't good enough," Dean told him, honesty fuelling his words.

Sam gritted his teeth. "So if they'd been good enough…"

"Think you know the answer to that, Sammy."

"Damn it, Dean, are you serious?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean told him. "The point is, this angle didn't work. We'll try another one."

Sam decided to let it go, for now. They had more pressing issues to worry about. "Well, we'd better do it fast. We have to find a way to help Adam."

"Way to state the obvious – "

"No, you don't get it," Sam interrupted. He took a deep breath and forged ahead. "That…the leprechaun. Before I managed to shut the doors on the faeries, he…he made me remember. I remember Hell, Dean."

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and then an exhaled curse.

"I was there longer than a day," Sam continued, knowing that every word was probably like a searing iron on his brother's already overburdened conscience. "It felt like…years. A decade, maybe."

"I think the closer you get to the Pit, the more time passes," Dean theorized, his voice carefully neutral. "Shit. We're definitely going to have to find Cas, and soon, if we're going to make any headway."

"But Dean, we have no idea –"

"Cas is still alive." The tone of voice dared Sam to argue with him, and he didn't take the challenge.

"How do you know?"

"I…I just know, okay?"

"…Okay."

"So bring that piece of shit car of yours and come get me so we can get the hell out of here," Dean ordered. "If these faerie fuckers can find a backdoor into Hell, I'm willing to bet there are others who can. And that they can find us our missing angel." There was a pause, and then he added, more determined than before. "We're going to get them back, Sam. Both of them."