A/Ns: Apologies for missing the update last week. The chapter started out at 20 pages, and despite my best efforts last weekend, including tag-teaming the editing with Forestpelt while in line at Disneyland (and also playing the app version of Carcassone because what are theme park lines for but board games?!) I did not successfully finish the edit in time. For some reason, this chapter was a doozy of fixes. Apparently I wasn't in the zone when I wrote it.ﾠ

But it's better now! And…also…half the length? I, uh, might have went and adjusted the length of the next four chapters too, which were all about 20 pages. While I'm sorry y'all have normal-length chapters to read now, the good news is I have a much larger stockpile! Ha…haha….ha….

Actually, that is more important than I'm making it out to be. I was getting a bit low. The muse has really been struggling/fighting me with the season finale. Every time, man. Every time we finally get to a part I'm so excited to write, a part I have been waiting years to write, and the Muse panics, then hides her panic with nonchalance and disinterest. Ugh, she's such a bitch, but she's too good at her job to fire.

Chapter Warnings: Dean's getting in some late night exercise (much to his chagrin), Cas is losing her patience, Gabe's right there with her for different reasons, Bobby's getting unwelcome visitors when he really has better things to be doing, and Sam's… well, Sam's trying out his throwing arm on unexpected foes.

Yeah, that tracks. Let's go with all that.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (This Time Around)

Season 2: Chapter 93

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Where the hell is my brother!" Dean yelled the minute he realized who was leaning against his car, and what her presence at the gas station meant. Sam was missing and Yellow Eyes had sent his messenger to collect in his stead.

Azazel's girl just stared. She didn't appear to be very concerned about the gun trained on her or the hunter approaching one cautious step at a time. At least, not until he got within a dozen feet of her, then she bolted.

Dean hesitated for only a moment, caught between shooting the rapidly retreating creature or giving chase. That hesitation cost him both the shot and his best chance at catching her. With a vicious curse, the man from the future – now very damn worried it was about to repeat itself – lowered his gun and started running after the supernatural bitch who'd kidnapped his brother this time around. She was fast – really fast, considering her legs had to be a whole foot shorter than his (hell, this chick was shorter than Jo) – as she fled towards the street at an all-out run. Dean followed, boots splashing through pooled rainwater as the chase turned onto the wet road.

The two disappeared from sight as the street curved into the dark forest around them.

-o-o-o-

Arcs of electricity – a sea of deep-rooted ocean-blue surrounded by rivers of white – pulled Gabriel's attention away from his television set as Dean Winchester took off after some mystery demon chick. Beside him, sparks quite literally flew off Castiel. Anywhere Gabriel's grace was in contact with her skin, Castiels's manifested itself like the sparks coming off a welder's torch. Bolts of pure energy arched from contact point to contact point until the little angel that could was all but glowing with the materialization of pure grace.

And deep within her core, those spiderweb cracks were growing.

"Hey, knock it off," Gabriel snapped at his sister, but Castiel wasn't listening. She may not have even heard him, for all that she reacted to his words. Those blue eyes, glowing as fiercely as the rest of her, were locked on the television screen.

When those cracks became fractures, the archangel straightened.

"Back off, Cassie. I'm serious." Gabriel reached out and grabbed his sister by the wrist. Energy jolted up his arm, buzzing through muscle and bone like a swarm of angry bees. Her gaze snapped to his and the ferocity in that glare actually caused him to loosen his grip.

It took a moment to shake off the shock. He'd seen Castiel endanger herself more than once now in an effort to escape her binds, but every time was just as surprising. The angel should know when she was caught. To keep fighting, to the detriment of her own health… it didn't make any sense.

When energy crackled again – Cassie's eyes still locked on his, testing more than material boundaries - Gabe finally lost his patience.

"Enough!" he roared, archangel voice filling the room like a physical presence. The lights flickered and dimmed, Jack started barking from his donut bed beside the TV, and the littlest angel that-already-had (or "that not only could, but just did) finally stilled. Silence, tense and oppressive, reigned. "Just… enough. Dear Dad, are you trying to hurt yourself?"

Gabriel collapsed back into his Lazy Boy, annoyed. Annoyed that Castiel couldn't get this through her thick skull, annoyed she was going to break herself trying. Annoyed at the reality she was refusing to accept, annoyed at the truth. There was no fighting this. No stopping it.

What a mess. One, big mess.

The archangel knew the end of the world wasn't a joke, no matter how he chose to talk about it out loud. Deep down, fine, alright, he knew that. It wasn't going to stop him from filtering everything through his own way of looking at the world – through jokes – but he did know how serious this all was.

Even so, Cassie was seriously killing his vibe, man.

From his slouch, he glanced over at his sister. She was still staring at him fiercely, but her energy levels were stable. She refused to look away, to be shamed for her actions. Well fine, two could play that game. So Gabriel started a staring contest. One that the other angel, of course, didn't know they were playing. Which was why he was going to win.

Except he kept getting distracted. His gaze was repeatedly pulled to her chest, where the core of her grace was fluttering and sputtering after that most recent bout of stupidity.

Guess that was the shortest staring contest ever. Sheesh. What a mess, indeed.

"No more of that, or you're going back in the closet, got it?" Gabe declared, keeping his voice firm with another hint of that archangel power he did actually possess under all the jokes. Just a hint this time, though. He shook a finger her way, the ultimate demonstration of seriousness.

Then he leaned over and pressed a hand to her chest. Castiel flinched, but was unable to pull away. Gabe wouldn't lie; that stung. But given he had just yelled at her with the big-scary-voice and threatened to lock her up in a closet… again…. Alright, fine, she was entitled to think he might rough her up a bit.

But that wasn't the plan. Instead, Gabriel infused some of his own grace into her, thinking healing thoughts as he did. Restoration and repair. The energy seeped down into her core, wrapping around it with soothing intent. It filled in all those stupid fractures that had only gotten worse since he'd first seen her.

She was supposed to be safer here, with him. Not making her condition worse.

Gabe pulled away, unsure which he was angrier about; the guilt he felt over the state of his sister's grace or that he was honoring a promise made to the Winchesters mooks. But he was sure that thinking angry thoughts while instilling grace in his sister wouldn't help her. Besides, he wasn't healing her for the Winchesters. He wasn't. He would have healed her regardless of any promise he'd made to those flanneled morons. Because he was her older brother and that's what older brothers were supposed to do.

He may not be much of an angel, damnit, but he had always been a good brother. The fact that he'd ended up promising Sam he would do just that was… coincidental, at best.

"I got it," Castiel said out of nowhere, voice oddly calm and muted given the little light show she'd just put on.

Gabriel chanced another glance her way, needing a moment to place that response. He stared at the littlest angel that could, trying to read the intent behind those stupidly blue eyes. Eventually he gave up, guffawing and turning his attention back to the TV.

Gabe decided to ignore her for the rest of the show. Served her right.

-o-o-o-

Bobby was loading the last duffle full of weapons – this one packed to the brim with shotguns, handguns, and damn near all the ammo he owned – into the back of his truck when the cars came screeching through the Salvage Yard. Mostly SUVs, black with government plates. Bobby bit the inside of his cheek as they came screaming to a halt in front of his house. Men in suits piled out all armed with government-issued SIG Sauer handguns and flashlights.

Feds.

Victor Henriksen climbed out of the lead car a lot more leisurely than the men around him, most of whom were already entering Bobby's house regardless of a lack of permission. Which meant a warrant.

Sarge, sitting in the front seat of the truck, was barking at them through the rolled down window. With a gesture from Bobby, the Shepherd silenced, sitting back on his haunches in the passenger seat, though a low growl could still be heard coming from the cab. Golden brown eyes watched the men traipsing about his territory with a predator's sharp gaze, just waiting for permission to retaliate. Bobby gave that attentive head an approving pet.

Agent Henriksen sauntered over to the pair, a smug smile on his lips.

"I assume you got your warrant, then?" Bobby asked, not even bothering with anger. If Agent Henkrisken had a warrant to search his home, then there wasn't much he could do about it. And, by the grace of Time herself, almost everything illegal that he owned was in the truck he was leaning against, waiting to go help the Winchester boys.

"Right here, Mr. Singer," the agent replied, pulling a folded-up piece of paper from his suit jacket. He handed it over, Bobby digging out his phone to use as a flashlight in the dim lighting of the Salvage Yard. He scanned it with the eyes of a man who'd read his fair share of law books.

They were looking for Andy. Proof of his presence at Bobby's yard came in the form of a phone number, pinging off the nearest tower and exchanging texts regularly with two other numbers suspected to belong to fugitives. Bobby bit back his reaction. Somehow, Henriksen had figured out the boys' phone numbers, and Bobby's personal one as well. Considering none of them were registered to their real names (or even aliases they used regularly), that was quite a feat.

He wouldn't say they'd underestimated the Fed, but they'd certainly have to up their game to stay ahead of him going forward. It was nothing but sheer (terrible, rotten, awful) luck that Andy wasn't in the very house they were currently searching.

The warrant didn't extend to any of Bobby's belongings, surprisingly enough. They couldn't confiscate anything, regardless of illegality or suspicion. The judge had been very specific about that part (which probably meant he or she had been reluctant to sign the warrant to begin with. Flimsy probable cause backed by a bull-headed Agent who wouldn't take no for an answer, most likely). Though they could use anything they saw as evidence to obtain a new warrant, of course. Not that Bobby was particularly worried about that. They weren't here for him; they were here for the kid.

And they weren't going to find him, for better or worse.

(But it was worse. So, so much worse. Bobby would rather the feds were hauling Andy out of his house right now than what was probably happening who-knew-where at the hands of demons and other psychic kids. Hell, they could figure out how to break the kid out of jail, but right now they couldn't do shit to save him because they didn't know where he was.)

Bobby folded the warrant up and handed it back without so much as a micro-twitch in expression. "There's no one in the house, Agent. Whoever it is you're looking for ain't here; you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Oh, I very much doubt that," Henriksen returned, smug smile firmly in place. He tucked the warrant back inside his suit jacket. "See, we've got evidence that says otherwise."

The old hunter just shrugged, leaning casually against the bed of his truck. There wasn't much reason to argue, or risk saying anything that could be used against him. Andy wasn't there; they'd figure that out for themselves soon enough. Of course, he'd have to wait for the feds to complete their search before he could head out for a search of his own. A friggin' annoyance, for sure, but not one he could do anything about at the moment.

Henriksen sauntered off to join his men, leaving a single Suit outside with Bobby, probably to make sure he didn't bolt or interfere. It only took another five minutes before Victor was charging back outside, directly for Bobby, both leisure and smirk conspicuously absent.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" Bobby parroted immediately, the picture of annoyed innocence. "I told you, Agent Henriksen, there's no one in that house. Just me and Sarge."

The dog gave a single, sharp bark beside the old man, head sticking out the passenger window, tongue out and panting from the stress he could no doubt taste in the air. Bobby reached over and scratched behind his ears, hoping the comfort would settle the good boy, though knowing it likely wouldn't.

"And this?" Henriksen held up a mobile phone – Andy's, no doubt – but Bobby just raised an oblivious brow.

"Is a cell phone, Agent. Kinda thought you'd be able to identify that without help, considering it's the whole reason – the only reason – you're here." Bobby tilted his head knowingly towards the agent's chest, where the warrant was tucked away.

Henriksen did not miss the slight dig at the weak probable cause that had barely gotten him that warrant to begin with. He lowered his hand, fingers tightening into a fist around the device.

"This is Andy Gallagher's phone," he insisted: stating, not asking. The man in front of him just shrugged.

"Afraid I can't say who the owner is, Agent." Bobby was careful not to lie outright, but wasn't worried about lying by omission. The phone had to be locked, otherwise Henriksen wouldn't be talking to him about it at all. He'd have the evidence he came for and would likely be on his own phone with a judge to have Bobby arrested for harboring a fugitive. "I got lots of phones lying around. Most if not all of 'em have former owners of one sort or the other."

"Yeah, I noticed," Henriksen answered dryly, recalling the row of landlines in the man's kitchen, each labeled with a different government agency. He would most definitely be coming back with a warrant for those, and a handful of techs to figure out how Robert Singer had made his lines untraceable and untappable. But that would have to wait. For now, he would keep the conversation relevant to their current evidence, the search, and what they were allowed to be here for via that warrant. "This phone, though, was down in your little bomb shelter."

And hadn't that been an interesting discovery. A vault, of sorts, tucked into a corner of Robert Singer's basement. Hand built, hardly structurally sound, in Henriksen's opinion. It might survive a tornado given it was underground, but not much else. Oh, and lined with occult symbols. Mr. Singer was likely as unstable as the Winchesters, at this point, even if Henriksen couldn't prove he was just as criminal.

The man only shrugged again. "Like I said, I got phones all over the place."

Henriksen bit back his growl of annoyance and instead gestured to another agent as the majority of the men he'd brought with him exited the house. He placed the phone into an evidence bag offered by the other agent. It was one of the very few things they could take with them; anything that could belong to their fugitive. They'd found men's clothes and shoes of various sizes, but given the array, there wasn't much to go off of for which might belong to Mr. Gallagher. The phone, powered on but locked (with a wallpaper of Robert Singer's German Shepherd) barely qualified under the search warrant's strict limitations. At this point, though, Henriksen didn't care.

Andy Gallagher had been here, of that much he was dead certain. How the two men had known the FBI was on their way, and where Gallagher was hiding now…. Well, Henriksen would find both of those things out. Just not tonight, it would seem.

"Pack it up!" he yelled, and the men started climbing into the cars. "We'll be back, Mr. Singer. I can promise you that."

"I can't wait," came Bobby's dry reply as he watched the FBI agents leave his property. Henriksen was the last to go, eying the house, the surrounding salvage yard, and Bobby himself for a drawn-out moment. Most likely meant as an intimidation routine, though it didn't work on the old hunter. He had plenty of other things scaring him right now than the FBI.

The moment he was sure the FBI had truly left, Bobby climbed into his truck, ran his hand down Sarge's neck to comfort him (and maybe himself, as well), and pulled away from the house. He had no idea where Andy was, but until Dean called (and Sam, God please let Sam be with him when the boy called back), he and Sarge were heading to them.

-o-o-o-

It was dark around him when he came to, jolting awake with a gasp. The air that filled his lungs was old; dusty with disuse. Sam coughed twice, trying to clear the sensation of dust from his lungs. It only stirred up more, causing the hunter to struggle into an upright position to get away from it. He got to his feet with a groan, body stiff and angry from whatever had landed him in this place. Which appeared to be the crumbling bedroom of an old, decrepit house.

Sam spun in a circle, but there wasn't anything apparent about wherever the hell he was. The '50s wallpaper was peeling, the furniture was sparse – an overturned metal bed frame and a dresser that had lost a leg and all of its drawers probably decades earlier – and the windows were dingy with dust and disuse. Sam crossed to the nearest one, noting that he was on the second floor of whatever this place was, and pushed up on the old wood frame. It did not so much as budge, let alone open.

He looked around for anything he could use to break the glass and quickly spotted the metal post of the bed frame, topped by a brass sphere. Well, it wasn't a bat or a club like he'd hoped, but he had a decent enough throw. And his target was only going to be a foot away. Sam crossed over to the bedframe and quickly unscrewed the post topper. It was heavy in his hand, and he gave it a quick toss to judge weight and balance. Then he threw it as hard as he could at the glass.

It bounced off with a dull clink, clattering to the ground with several more bounces and more noise. Sam stared at the window, first in surprise and then the kind of annoyance one has once they realize they should not have been surprised to begin with.

Wherever he was, it was escape-proofed. Really, he should have been expecting that.

A creak sounded behind him, and Sam spun to the open doorway, the door itself half off its hinges and stuck open. He could just barely make out a hallway beyond, empty as far as he could see. He knew better – knew to trust his instincts – and quickly moved to the wall beside the door, scooping the metal topper up from the floor as he went.

It would be practically useless as a weapon, but it might serve as a distraction long enough for Sam to get the upper hand in a fist fight. He gripped the ball tightly in his hand, prepared to spin into the hall and lob it at whoever was sneaking across the floorboards on the other side of the wall.

A second creak sounded, closer this time, and Sam used that as his cue. He rounded the wall in a low stance, arm wound back, eyes immediately locking onto the dark figure approaching. Whoever it was, they were keeping a hunched form along the left wall. They had bulky clothes and a baseball cap shielding their face, and Sam's hunter instincts immediately identified the person as a threat. The lurking kind.

Target located, Sam let his arm whip forward, launching the metal ball straight at the approaching threat. It hit the man in the shoulder, causing him to stumble back and spin to the side, clutching at his bicep. The only noise was the thunk of metal on flesh – which was unexpected; a hit that hard usually got a grunt, at the very least – followed by the bounce and roll of metal on hard wood. Sam was already charging, preparing to tackle the man about the waist when he got close enough to his adversary to properly see his face in the low light.

Sam almost tripped himself in order to stop his forward momentum as Andy Gallager brought his free hand up to his cheek, throwing out an explosive gesture.

"What the hell!"

"Andy!" Sam straightened up, arms wide from his near tackle, ending on either of the kid's biceps – covered in a heavy jacket the younger Winchester now immediately identified as Bobby's – as he only just barely managed not to run full-on into the other man. He resisted the urge to pat Andy down for injuries. Well, other than the one he'd caused. "What are you doing here?"

'Oh no,' he thought in tandem, his brain supplying the answer before his surrogate little brother could. His grip on Andy's arms tightened as his chest did the same. 'No. The Battle Royale. It's happening.'

"Sam!" Andy exclaimed, dropping the hand wrapped around his own bruised arm in order to free both hands to talk. Sam was forced to loosen his grip so the kid could communicate properly. "Where the hell is 'here'?!"

"I don't know." Sam lowered his hands, looking around the hallway. His gaze snapped back to Andy when the kid smacked him in the bicep.

"Ow, by the way," Andy Signed, gesturing towards his arm which would surely be bruised come morning. Sam winced and raised a fist to his sternum, rubbing a circle there.

"Sorry," he said, both in Sign and aloud. Then he got his first good look at the kid and blinked. Andy looked… well, ridiculous. He was wearing that bulky jacket of Bobby's, a knitted scarf that was wrapped around his neck several times, effectively covering the lower half of his face, and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. "Why do you look like you're trying to rob the world's coldest bank?"

Before Andy could answer, there was a loud thud, followed by a knocking that quickly escalated into panicked pounding. The muffled yells for help from a female voice followed, and Sam and Andy both took off in the direction of the sound.

They clambered down a set of stairs that creaked concerningly beneath their shoes. The pounding quieted the moment they did, and Sam was afraid something had happened to the owner of that voice. But then it started up again, twice as loud as before and more desperate. As they made it to the base of the stairs, Sam realized it was coming from the closet space under the stairwell.

"Help! Somebody help! Get me out of here!" the woman was screaming, pounding on the door as the two men rounded the base of the stairs in a hurry. The stairwell cabinet had been nailed shut with two planks, and an old entryway table had been dragged in front of it. Sam and Andy quickly moved the furniture to the side, pushing and pulling it across the uneven, damaged floorboards. There were marks dug into the wood floor, as though it had been slid into place in front of the small door often.

Sam decidedly didn't think about why that might be in this old, most-likely-haunted house.

Andy pried the boards off with the creak of old nails giving up their grip. Sam came around the table and yanked the closet door open as his brother tossed the last plank aside. Shock hit the younger Winchester like a body to the chest as none other than Ava Wilson tumbled out of that closet and into his arms, tears running down her cheeks.

"Ava?" Sam exclaimed, not quite able to wrap his head around the woman in his hesitant grip. She'd been missing for three months; how could she be here now? "Have you- have you been here this whole time?"

At the sound of her name, Ava's desperate prayers and hiccups stopped in abrupt surprise. She pulled away from her rescuer, blinking up at a familiar face. "Sam? Oh my god, it's you!"

Sam didn't get a response out before he was tackled into a second hug, this one tighter.

"How- How did you…" Ava pulled away again, staring up at the much taller man, doe-eyes watery from unshed tears. "I mean, how did I…?"

"Ava," Sam spoke calmly, trying to break through her panic. "How long have you been here?"

"What do you mean? I just woke up here, like…" she asked, glancing around them and only then noticing Andy, standing just off to the side. He offered an awkward wave paired with a sheepish smile, and she turned back to Sam Winchester. "Who's that?"

"Andy." Sam gestured to his mute little brother, then reversed the motion for Andy's sake. "Andy, Ava." Though his focus was more on the girl who'd been missing for three months now standing right there in front of him in a decrepit, likely-haunted house. "Ava, you've been missing. For three months. Have you been here that whole time?"

"Three months?" She blinked, shaking her head slightly. "That's not… what? I haven't been- Sam, I saw you like… two days ago."

The hunter's stomach sank, realizing that for whatever reason, Ava had been taken earlier than the others. Whatever Azazel had planned for her, it was different. Or maybe…oh god, what if Azazel's plan for her had been interrupted by Castiel exercising him to hell? What if Ava had been missing for so long because of the Winchesters? Because of Sam.

At least…. At least she didn't remember that time. That was a blessing, or so Sam hoped.

"Okay… um, that was…" he took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to tell someone they had missed that much time. "We met in December, right? Okay, well it's March now. You've been missing for three months, Ava. My brother and I have been looking for you everywhere."

"That's-" She laughed, then sniffed and wiped at her nose when Sam didn't laugh back. Her face fell. "That's not…. Okay, Sam, that's impossible."

"I'm sorry, Ava." Sam let go of her, shoulders sagging.

"But that… that makes no sense…" Ava bit her bottom lip and Sam felt terrible. Then her already large eyes widened further. "Oh my god. Brady! My- My fiancé. If I've been missing for that long, he must be freaking out!"

"Well… uh…" Sam's eyes betrayed him, widening slightly before his mouth thinned to a line. He looked away, shaking his head. How was he supposed to tell her the man she loved had been dead for all the months she'd been missing?

"Sam?"

A soft clap of hands pulled his attention away from Ava – whose eyes had started to question his hesitation – to Andy, who was trying to get his attention. He'd unwound the scarf from his neck, though it still hung across his shoulders, and he'd taken off the baseball cap while they were talking (Sam spotted it hanging atop the baluster at the base of the stairs), making him look marginally more normal.

"We need to get out of here," Andy Signed, trying (tactfully) to tell the two acquaintances to wrap it up.

"Right," Sam straightened, determination straightening his spine. He gave Andy a nod. "I couldn't break the windows upstairs. I doubt the doors will work any better. We need to find out where we are."

'Right,' Andy Signed with a nod. 'We find a name or address, any clue, I can send it to Dean.'

Sam froze, realizing what Andy was talking about even if he only caught three quarters of the signs. He could contact Dean. Andy could contact Dean! They just had to get a location, somewhere for Dean to head to with the cavalry, and Andy could send an image of it to him.

He grabbed the kid by the arms once more, grinning. "Andy, I could kiss you."

"Please don't," Andy signed immediately, though he had an ear-to-ear grin himself. "I'm saving myself for the right man."

Sam laughed – really laughed – before turning back to Ava, who was staring at the two of them with the less-than-impressed side of incredulity.

"So… I take it you two know each other?"

-o-o-o-

They must have run a quarter mile down that stupid road – which wound its way deeper through the woods until the trees blocked out the moon (along with any hint of manmade light) – before Dean decided, screw this. He hadn't gained a foot on Azazel's girl, and he was starting to think that was friggin' intentional. She sped up anytime he did, and slowed down when he got tired.

The bitch was toying with him. This was nothing but a damn distraction, keeping him from looking for his brother.

Dean slowed to a stop in the middle of the wet asphalt, chest heaving, and raised his gun with grim determination. The hunter clenched his jaw and drew in a steadying breath, holding it to keep his burning lungs from messing with his aim. The hunter fired twice into the night.

The shots had felt true, but if he hit Azazel's girl it didn't slow her down. She kept running into the darkness, until Dean couldn't see her anymore. He looked around at the woods he stood in the middle of, the country road unlikely to have any visitors any time soon. Just him, and the quarter mile walk back to the Impala.

Dean spun on his heel and started back to the gas station.

"Son of a bitch!"

-o-o-o-

He made it back to the Impala at a decent jog, lungs burning and legs damn sick of running. The gas station was deathly quiet and still. No one had stumbled on the crime scene yet; two bodies were still lying, untouched and growing cold inside the store. Not a living soul in sight.

"Sam!" Dean called out, already knowing it was futile. Still, he had to try. He gave it one more second, one more desperate moment of hope, before he pulled open the driver's side door of his Baby and slid into the car.

Tired screeched as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. The phone was out, Bobby's number already ringing in his ear, before he made it back to the freeway.

-o-o-o-

Green eyes followed the '67 Impala as it drove out of the gas station and off into the night. Persephone stepped out of the trees across the street, still watching the taillights of Dean Winchester's car fade into the distance. Another vehicle pulled up seconds later, tires splashing on the wet road as it came to a stop in front of her. She opened the passenger door and climbed in.

"What have you done with Sam?" she asked the driver before the door was closed. Tom pulled the car onto the road, following the same direction the Impala had gone.

"What did you do to Dean?" Tom asked in return, sparing her a devilish grin. Those black eyes dropped to her shoulder, where her blazer was stained red around a suspiciously bullet-sized hole in the fabric. Persephone turned away, looking out the window with a roll of her eyes.

"Nothing."

"Well…" Tom drawled, one hand on the wheel, head tilted her way. Smugness poured off him in waves as black as his eyes. "Ditto."

Her lip curled into a snarl, but the demon's grin only grew. Then he returned his eyes to the road and Persephone took the opportunity to reach into the footwell. Before she'd had to dart off for a nightly run with the oldest of the Winchesters, she'd stashed her purse beneath the seat. She withdrew it now, keeping her peripheral on the demon beside her.

"Where are we going?" Surreptitiously, Persephone opened the purse to check its contents. The hex bag she'd made – following Chuck's written directions to the letter – was still tucked safely inside. Persephone swallowed her reaction, instead adopting a bored expression as she stuffed the purse back at her feet. "Another late night jog?"

"Appleton, Wisconsin," Tom answered, surprisingly straightforward for once. Enough so that Persephone stared at him in surprise. But the Hellspawn kept his eyes forward. "There's something there I want you to see."

Persephone watched her keeper for a moment more before turning back to the window. "Lucky me."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/Ns: It's allllll coming together, or should I say they're all coming together, mwaaahahahah!