Chapter 2 Back on the same road

I'm pleased to see this story is getting some interest and I thank you that you haven't gotten tired yet of this universe. Onwards to the next chapter. Let's meet some familiar faces :)

They're not mine and I very much suspect they'll never be. I own a few original characters, though Llewellyn is mine, for example, you might remember him. He was a Ranger who appeared in Towards a New Age, briefly.

Colony 10

The tenth colony on the border of Centauri and Drazi space was almost unchanged. It had gone through some difficulties over the past years. The Centauri and the Drazi had held extensive negotiations on who should actually keep the colony now that the Centauri had seceded from the Interstellar Alliance. The Centauri had folded, in the end, probably because their economy was so shattered from the war with the Alliance a few years back – or maybe because there was still a bit of reason and strategy in Emperor Mollari, although everyone who knew him from way back was saying that was unlikely. Anyway, the Centauri had demanded special dispensations for their people still living on Colony 10, and the Drazi were in a generous mood and conceded – actually, as people from the Alliance's inner circle knew, it had taken a lot of pressure from Sheridan and Delenn to make the Drazi agree. But the official line was that the Drazi had agreed to the Centauri's requests without much fuss.

Colony 10 was still the best place for the misfits of the galaxy. No one asked awkward questions, no one looked at anyone twice. There could be dodgy deals going on right next to other people and everyone ignored them. In many ways, Colony 10 was the underworld of the Interstellar Alliance. Making it the perfect place for Sam and Dean to renew some ties and do some digging of their own.

The two had not spoken much en route, not about Ralph's news, at any rate. Sam tried a few times, but Dean always shut him down, changing the subject or cranking up the music to unbearable levels. Sam was left to marvel how quickly the two of them fell into familiar patterns – the deflecting, whenever they were worried, the constant refusal to communicate, especially when communication was needed most. After Purgatory, after they joined the Anlashok, Sam was beginning to think Dean was getting cured of his phobia to share his feelings and anxieties with Sam. Certainly he had acted more open minded lately. But all it took was the possibility that their old life might be calling them back, and Dean clammed up. The transition from Ranger who understood the importance of discussing one's plans - albeit reluctantly – to the Hunter who rarely trusted anyone other than himself and, on occasion, Sam, happened so fast that it took Sam's breath away. And here they were, about to act as if Purgatory had not happened, as if their change in careers had not happened. And the fear was back again, the fear that, since the Hunting life had already taken everything from Sam, it would ultimately take Dean, too – for good this time.

They received a few terse messages from Tuzzanor, to which Dean responded equally terse that they were checking a potential danger to the Anlashok and would get back when they had more information, or when they solved the problem, whichever happened first. No, they did not need backup. They had all the backup they needed for the job. And when Sam heard that last bit, he felt warmed for the first time since their conversation with Ralph. Dean might not have wanted to talk to Sam, but he still trusted his brother as much as always. And that, Sam decided, that would be enough. That had always been enough.

They found their way to one of the bars – the same one Sam had been to back when he was searching for a way to get Dean out of Purgatory. The place was full, but they managed to find themselves a table with two chairs in one of the corners. Dean drew back a third chair, in preparation for their encounter. Sam watched him carefully.

"Do you think he'll show?" he asked uncertainly.

Dean shrugged.

"Why wouldn't he? It's not like this place is barred for him or anything."

Sam searched Dean's face as he was talking, but he could find nothing amiss. He turned his attention to his drink. Two hours and a couple of drinks later, the door opened to finally admit the one they had been waiting for. Sam broke into a smile and Dean's face brightened. They had not seen Castiel in a while, even though Dean always made a point of letting the Angel know whenever they were out of Minbar, so they could touch base.

Castiel looked unchanged – which was a strange way to think about an Angel, since they weren't exactly supposed to change. He was still wearing the same ratty trench-coat Dean always made a point of calling a few centuries out of date (to which Castiel would usually point out that, since Dean owned a ship that was several decades out of date, he was not exactly in a position to talk. Sam knew to get out of the line of fire when that particular detail was mentioned).

"Sam, Dean," Castiel greeted, reaching their table and sitting down. "It is good to see you. It has been too long."

"Hey, don't blame us," Dean was quick to point out. "We said we'd touch base two months ago on Mars. You were a no-show."

Castiel looked away.

"I apologize about that. I was…otherwise occupied."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Anything we should know about?"

"Not really," Castiel said stiffly. "No."

Even though he had never expressed disapproval at the Winchesters quitting hunting and joining up with the Rangers – and had actually professed to understand where that came from – Castiel sometimes made a point of reminding Sam and Dean the supernatural world was not really their business anymore. If something had been happening in Heaven, if there was news of any weird things wreaking havoc in the world, Castiel rarely mentioned them. But all this was going to change. Because this time Sam and Dean needed information. The Rangers were being targeted and they needed to know why.

"Cas, we have a problem," Dean began. "And I think you might have heard something about it. Demons. Eliminating informers of the Rangers. Ring any bells?"

Castiel hesitated. He nodded, slowly.

"Some bells, yes," he admitted. "I heard the rumor and was worried about you. Were any of them your men?"

"No," Sam answered. "That's the strange bit. From what we managed to find out, our informers are mostly safe and accounted for. It's other Rangers being hit."

"For now," Dean completed.

Sam inspected Castiel thoughtfully. He wondered if he should not ask the most pressing question. Dean still appeared to want to avoid it, but they could not skate around the issue for ever. Sam leaned forward.

"Castiel," he began hesitantly. "These attacks…do you think they're a message…for us, I mean?"

"Sam," Dean said warningly.

Sam pretended to ignore him, his eyes fixed on Castiel.

"Cas?" he insisted. "Is this about us?"

Castiel was silent for a while. Sam was beginning to think he would refuse to answer. In the end, however, he shook his head.

"You could say this is about you, but not in the sense that you think. This is not about you as Hunters. It is about you as members of the Anlashok."

Dean frowned, once more interested in the conversation.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Castiel did not answer right away. He looked around him. To the untrained eye, the encounters in that small bar on that backwater planet were the same as ever. Nothing was changed. But someone who looked closely could feel the subtle shift in view. The Interstellar Alliance was relatively new – six years was not long for a political body. Yet slowly but surely it was changing the world – altering perspectives, providing understanding where usually there would be only deception. Offering guidance without being overbearing. At times Castiel wondering if Sam and Dean – or anyone else who worked for the Alliance – could understand the entire magnitude of what they were doing. They were creating something unique and incredible and – for those who preferred things to be as they were – terribly threatening.

"Long ago the Angels and the First Ones divided the galaxy between themselves," Castiel said. "I believe I mentioned this before."

Sam looked baffled, but Dean nodded.

"You have. In Purgatory. You had a lot of nerve, if you ask me – all of you."

Castiel shrugged. He accepted Dean's accusation. Lately it seemed to him, too, that instead of tending their flock as they were supposed to, Angels preferred to use humans, some even disdainfully. After years spent with Sam and Dean, Castiel could see that was wrong. He also knew he was the exception.

"The First Ones have been gone for some years. And many have started whispering that they have left a vacuum – one that demands to be filled."

Sam and Dean exchanged concerned looks.

"Who thinks that?" Sam demanded. "Angels?"

Castiel nodded reluctantly.

"Angels – demons…practically everyone who considers they could do a better job taking under their wing those formerly in the care of the First Ones."

Dean slammed his fist against the table.

"Are they ever going to let us go our own way? We don't need to be under anyone's wing. Least of all some dicks who were planning to end it all a few years back anyway."

The words made Castiel look even more uncomfortable. He avoided catching Dean's eyes.

"There are some factions that still think not ending the world then was a mistake…they believe humanity – and not only – is too lost to go on."

Sam shook his head. His mind went to Babylon 5 and to Tuzzanor, where people of all races were tirelessly working to keep the world together – following a dream they believed in so completely, they were willing to give everything to keep it standing.

"Cas, to me it seems like we're just beginning to find ourselves."

Dean nodded. Normally he would have teased Sam mercilessly for such overblown phrases. But he understood where Sam came from – and agreed wholeheartedly.

"We're going to find whoever's doing this. And we're gonna take the son of a bitch down. Him and everyone that agrees with him – so if any of your Angel buddies are in on this…you tell them they'll have the Winchesters to worry about."

Castiel finally looked Dean in the eye.

"Not only the Winchesters," he vowed.

Dean's lips twitched with the beginning of a smile, understanding full well what Castiel wanted to say. Sam looked at their friend, concerned.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Cas? After all…you've always been a little…wary when it came to the Minbari. Forbidden territory and all."

"Forbidden by the Vorlons. The Vorlons are gone. Besides, you have always been telling me about the importance of making your own choices…I've said before that it has made an impression. The Interstellar Alliance is about making your own choices – standing on your own. I think it is worth protecting."

Castiel looked from Sam to Dean, as if taking them in, assessing them and finding them unchanged in their ideals.

"I believe I will join you in this Hunt," he announced gravely.

Dean's smile widened. He gripped Castiel's arm momentarily.

"Welcome abroad, Cas," he said.

Motel on colony 10

After their talk with Castiel, Sam and Dean found themselves a motel for the night. Castiel had gone back to Heaven to "do some digging of his own". So far, he only knew vague rumors, and he probably would be unable to find out much more. The attacks on the informers of the Rangers were, after all, made by demons. They needed inside knowledge of a different kind. Which meant the Winchesters had to prepare themselves for a rather irritating conversation. Since it involved summoning a demon, it was better if they did that in the privacy of their hotel, instead of a crowded bar.

"Besides," Dean said as the two were working on the Devil's trap, to make sure their guest did not escape to attack them. "I ain't buying him drinks."

Sam chuckled.

"Don't really think Crowley's a drinks from a backwater planet kind of guy."

Dean grunted.

"I knew there was a reason I didn't like him." He paused and looked at Sam concerned. "You said this motel is good for this?"

Sam nodded.

"Apparently, you can murder someone here and they'll look the other way. If you know what palms to grease."

Or what necks to threaten to break, Dean mused. Since joining the Rangers, their finances were not as low– and most were legal. But that did not mean Dean had any intention of wasting them on bribing motel owners.

Summoning Crowley was always a risk – summoning any demon was, but Crowley was not just about any demon. Although, he was usually less inclined to kill the Winchesters – if he thought they could be useful to him in other ways. Unlike the usual blast-first-ask-questions-later garden variety demons, Crowley had the strategic thinking of a businessman. He always tried to find the solution that suited him best.

Sam recited the summoning spell and Crowley appeared in the room. His expression was one of fury – until he saw Sam and Dean. Then his face took on a look of exasperation, mixed with resignation.

"Really, boys?" he asked mildly. "I thought you were done with these games. After all, haven't you moved on to better things?"

He made to step further into the room, but found he could not move. He looked down and saw the Devil's trap. He rolled his eyes.

"That is not the way to conduct a polite conversation."

Sam and Dean stared back at him unmoved.

"It is with you," Dean said firmly. "Unless you convince us you're not behind the attacks."

Crowley did not appear perturbed.

"What attacks exactly? I am the King of Hell, after all. My department specializes in mayhem."

"Is your department also specialized in knocking off Anlashok informers just for kicks?" Sam challenged.

There was no hint of surprise on Crowley's face.

"Oh. That. I should have expected you to catch up when it hit that close to home."

"So it was you?" Sam insisted.

But Crowley shook his head.

"Now, why would I do a thing like that? I have no interest with the Rangers, or with whatever scraps the Vorlon and the Shadows have left behind. If you ask me, those two were always petulant. They forbade us to play with their toys, while they always stole ours when our backs were turned."

Sam's fists clenched.

"We're not toys, Crowley."

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"Aren't you? Because from where I am standing – that's exactly what you are. Have you forgotten your initial purpose? It wasn't to run around in bad imitations of medieval costumes playing with fancy pikes – no subtext implied, this time."

Sam heard Dean's indrawn breath beside him. He was losing patience fast. Not that Sam could blame him. Crowley had always this skill of annoying someone to distraction. Still, Sam reasoned, they needed him.

"So you're not involved in the attacks – at all?"

Crowley huffed.

"One, I would get no benefits whatsoever from attacking the Anlashok. Two, I know if I do so, I would have you on my back, and frankly, I could do without the hassle. Three, this is something much bigger. The attacks on the Anlashok, they're just the tip of the iceberg. You've been offline for five years, as far the supernatural is concerned. Do you think we've been idle?"

Sam and Dean exchanged questioning glances. Sam nodded minutely and Dean turned to Crowley. He took a step forward and erased part of the Devil's Trap. He eyes Crowley suspiciously.

"Talk," he demanded.

Babylon 5. Bar in Brown Sector

From his table near the counter, Llewellyn could see everyone entering and leaving the bar. So far, he spotted a few illicit transactions – drugs, he thought, probably Dust, too, which tailed with what his contacts had been telling him – some dubious deals involving ladies of the night, and something that may or may not have been someone paying an assassin. All small things, that were the job of station security. As long as no one has talking war or planning to overthrow the alliance, it was not Llewellyn's business.

Still, Llewellyn felt uncharacteristically nervous. He had no idea why. It was not as if he was on the frontier. He was on Babylon 5, to meet an informer and then move on, probably to Mars. He hoped it would be to Mars. It would mean touching base with his mother. He had not seen her in a while.

As he sat there, in the relative anonymity of the shady bar, he could not shake off the feeling he was being watched. He looked around him, but could see nothing amiss – except the usual, but none of that was any threat to him. He shifted, restlessly. His contact was late. It should not have bothered him. Mr. T – as the young, would- be king of the Babylon 5 underworld liked to call himself – was not exactly the most reliable person. Probably a lot of people would not have considered him a trustworthy informant. But Llewellyn searched for the potential in people – years of serving first under Jeffrey Sinclair, then under Delenn had taught him that. And he knew Mr. T, despite less than stellar beginnings and bad choices, had plenty of good in him. Llewellyn trusted him.

Twenty minutes after the set meeting time, Mr. T finally appeared. Heads turned as he passed. Mr. T had his usual extravagant purple suit hanging on his slim frame, giving him the appearance of a scarecrow. The fedora was a new touch, and it clashed horribly with his suit. The sunglasses were missing, though. Perhaps someone had finally gotten through to him with the truth that one did not need sunglasses on a space station.

Despite his appearance being completely Mr. T, Llewellyn could not help noticing that his behavior was rather strange. His flamboyant swagger was gone. Instead he walked stiffly, as if he was no longer used with his lanky stature. His constant, slightly idiotic grin was gone. His eyes passed over Llewellyn twice without apparent recognition. Only the third time he nodded to him and made his way to the Ranger's table.

"You're late, you know," Llewellyn pointed out without much rancor – anger was usually wasted on Mr. T.

"I know," Mr. T replied soberly.

Llewellyn raised his eyebrows. Usually his informant used this remark as a pretext to enlarge on some tall tale, probably invented, but that never made it any less exciting. Llewellyn tolerated these flights to fantasy. He had the impression that, despite Mr. T's claim to importance, he was actually small fish among the bandits of Babylon 5 – and he was lonely. But this time, apparently, there would be no story.

"Well," Llewellyn said, rather at a loss. "You said you had something important to tell me – and only me. A message of some sort."

Mr. T hesitated. He looked around him at the crowded bar. He shook his head.

"Not here. Let's go somewhere more private."

Llewellyn frowned.

"You never liked privacy. You always need to be the center of attention – to be seen."

Mr. T shrugged.

"I need privacy for this."

The tendrils of suspicion were getting worse. Something was wrong with Mr. T and Llewellyn could not really put his finger on what it was. Could he be in danger? Had someone threatened him because of his association with the Anlashok?

"All right," Llewellyn said, because if one wanted to keep people like Mr. T on retainer, one needed to humor them. "Let's go somewhere else, then."

He got up and followed Mr. T. out of the bar. The informer led Llewellyn further into Downbelow. Fewer and fewer people were around. Llewellyn was beginning to think he had made a mistake. He still found it hard to believe Mr. T was leading him into an ambush, though. It was not his style.

They walked on, until they rounded a corner. There was nothing there but broken machinery. Mr. T stopped, his back to Llewellyn.

"That far enough for you?" Llewellyn asked, barely hiding his irritation.

The figure in front of him straightened.

"Yes," he said, in a voice that did not belong to Mr. T. "Yes, this is quite far."

He turned around slowly. And as he did, Llewellyn froze. The man's eyes were completely black. He grinned, seeing Llewellyn's expression of stunned disbelief.

"I'm afraid your charming friend is unavailable for the moment. Probably for good, I suppose."

Llewllyn's hand moved to his pike.

"What the hell is this? Who are you?"

Mr. T – or whatever it was – flicked his fingers lazily and Llewellyn's pike flew from his hands. Llewellyn tried to back away, but the thing raised his hand once more, and sent him flying into a wall. He staggered to get up, with the black-eyed creature standing above him.

"No hard feelings," Mr. T said casually. "It really isn't about you. I just need a message sent to the Winchesters. And I think you're the right person for it."

He raised his hand once more. The last thing Llewellyn knew was that he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Right…sorry for ending this chapter like this. Expect updates once a week, give or take one or two days. At least for now. I'll let you know if anything changes.