-Summary: It's the end of the world and they've got one last card to play. Castiel sends Dean back: back before everything. Now he has time to stop what's coming, but no friggin' clue how to do it. Time travel should really come with a manual. TIMELINE AU

-Chapter Warnings: Mild violence, demonic possession, blazing guns (and yelling obscenities)

-o-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)

Chapter 7

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

Jess woke from dreams wrought with red eyes, demons made from writhing smoke, and flames that licked at her from every side. She woke gasping and sweating, immediately sickened by the smell of bacon and the sound of it cooking.

Dean was in the 'other' room (what could be called a second room in a one-room cabin) next to the ancient stove, sipping on a beer and cooking up what meager supplies they'd brought with them from Bobby's. The boys had pretty much dumped the contents of his fridge into a cooler and called it done. Which meant every meal after this one would consist of beer, rot-gut whiskey, and more beer.

And maybe mustard. She was pretty sure she saw Heinz Yellow in there.

Bobby was out like a light on the cot next to her bunk, snoring up all kinds of a racket. Jess wondered if it was his demonic breathing that had inspired her vivid nightmares instead of the events of yesterday. He sure as hell sounded like the devil incarnate.

Sam was sitting upright on the old red thing that passed as a couch only because of how exhausted they'd all been when they'd arrived late last night. He was fiddling with his laptop, but she could tell from across the room that he was frustrated about something.

"Morning, Sunshine." She turned her attention to Dean, who gave her a surprisingly cheerful smile for someone who had spent the night in a dusty sleeping bag on the hard, uneven floor. She groaned, pulling herself out of bed to tromp across the cabin and plop down in the creaky armchair beside the coffee table.

She wasn't a morning person to begin with, and certainly not after the nightmare of a day, and night, and another day that she had had. At least she wore bitch-face with style. Sam didn't even try to say morning to her. Just pushed his mug of coffee her direction, forfeiting the liquid gold for the sake of the group.

Jess curled up into the chair with the acquired cup and pretended the world didn't exist for another eleven minutes while Dean finished making up breakfast.

The older Winchester was, indeed, chipper this morning. He felt great; not only had he not dreamt the night before, but he'd slept well despite dreading the aches he would feel after a night on the hard wood floor. He'd practically sprung up the next morning in all his gorgeous, young glory. Being twenty-six again freaking rocked. And sure, his body had hurt some from the unforgiving boards, but nothing compared to the creaks and groans he was used to suffering just climbing out of a bed every morning.

Youth was so friggin' wasted on the young.

He cracked the last egg on the wood burning stove (and my god, he forgot how ancient this cabin was) and went about flipping the bacon. Sam was moaning about something, Jess was focused solely on the warmth between her hands, and Bobby was grumbling that they were all too loud as he finally roused.

Dean grinned as he listened to the old hunter gripe, flipping the eggs and dividing the bacon between four plates. He paused, watching the older man as he made his way outside for the facilities. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Dean glanced to Rumfeld with a raised eyebrow. The dog was sitting patiently next to the fridge, inching forward every few seconds, tail twitching at the sudden attention.

The hunter snagged a piece of bacon off of Bobby's plate and snuck it to the dog. Rumfeld snatched it away and took off with his prize, tailing whipping back and forth in victory. Sam let out a surprised yelp as the dog jumped onto the couch with him. His cry turned quickly into disgust as Rumfeld proceeded to slobber all over his half of the furniture.

"Dean!"

The hunter snickered, distributing the eggs and grabbing plates. He handed one to Jess and the other to Sam, ignoring bitchface # 2 ('Ew, Dean, gross!'). Grabbing his own sustenance, he started shoveling food into his mouth as obnoxiously as possible, just for added effect.

Bobby came back in, snagging his plate off the counter. He frowned at the single piece of bacon, compared to the others' three, and the one very happy dog eyeing Sam's plate. He decided that was one fight he wouldn't win, so tucked in to his meal in silence.

"What's the plan, boys?" he asked between bites, eyeing the brothers. Jess hadn't touched her food yet, leaving it on the low table in favor of coffee. Sam was glaring at Rumfeld, holding his plate protectively to his chest and insisting 'No' as if that was going to do a damn thing to deter the dog.

Ha.

"I want to go into town," the younger Winchester said, glancing up from his battle to protect his breakfast. "I want to check for demonic omens, see if we can figure out where the demons are. This place doesn't have internet, Bobby."

The older hunter shrugged at the young hunter's accusatory whining. "Don't think Rufus knows what internet is."

Sam groaned and Rumfeld took the opportunity to steal half his bacon, almost tipping the entire plate and instigating a slapstick struggle on Sam's part to keep from losing the rest of his breakfast to the floor. He glared at the dog who sat, happily chomping. The giant of a man got up off the couch with his surviving meal and moved to lean against the wall instead.

"I'll go with you," Jess spoke up, eyes watching the dog in a detached way that worried Sam a bit. She turned her gaze to him with a light, weary smile. "I could use civilization like I could use a shower."

His answering smile was apologetic and hurting, and she couldn't look at it for long.

Dean finished his breakfast with a loud burp, pushing his plate onto the coffee table. "I'll go with."

Sam raised an eyebrow and he shrugged. "We need a food run. And I can spend whatever time you two need at a bar." He let the patented Dean Winchester smile shine through. "Maybe I can hustle up some pool."

"Dude."

"What?" He matched Sam's bitchface (#7: 'Really, Dean? Really?') with one of his own. "We're low on cash."

"It's not even noon," his brother groused. "No one's going to be playing pool in some dive bar."

"Oh, Sammy." Dean's smile only grew as he stood and stretched. "You don't know my people."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Thank God for that."

Rumfeld chose that moment to make a dash for Jess's still full plate on the table. Bobby gave a holler but he took off with the whole thing, eggs and bacon flopping up and down and everywhere as he ran. Jess cracked a smile and Sam handed the rest of his plate to her.

-o-o-o-

Dean did not hit up the nearest dive bar once they'd gotten into town. After he dropped Sam and Jess off at a local coffee shop to do their tech-geek thing, he headed to a small diner just off the main drag.

He ordered a second helping of breakfast (now more like brunch) and a coffee. He sweet talked a pad of paper and a pen off the haggard waitress, who seemed more generous after a few well-timed compliments and the promise of a good tip.

Now he was staring down at the pad of paper lying on the table and the ballpoint pen in his hand. Where the hell did he even start?

Stalling, he wrote at the top: 'Original Timeline'. Then Dean sat, staring at the title for a while (long enough to get a refill on his coffee) before he put his pen to the first line.

11/2/2005: Jess death, Stanford.

Guess starting at the beginning was as good a place as any.

-o-o-o-

While Sam immediately got to work on checking for demonic omens (and Jess was still not thinking about what that actually entailed), Jess settled down across from him at small table in the coffee shop and opened up her laptop.

The blinking password field atop her darkened desktop seemed somehow surreal to her. The icons, still open Word Document for her psych final, and saved browser tabs were even more so. This laptop belonged to a different person: a Jess that existed last week. A college kid that didn't know about the things that went bump in the night. A twenty-one year old woman who wasn't being chased by monsters, whose biggest concern was passing Calc next quarter.

She ran a hand down her face tiredly. Her skin felt tight across her bones and her eyes would not stop aching despite the six hours of sleep she'd managed last night in that rickety bed. She'd pulled her own share of late nights and stressful stretches since she'd started at Stanford, but none of them had left her this bone-weary and tired. Of course, nothing in college had turned her life quite as upside down as finding out the boy sitting across from her hunted monsters.

Jess logged into the school website and pulled up her e-mails. She needed to message her advisor; she was going to miss the start of next quarter for sure. In fact, she was thinking of maybe taking it off entirely to get her head back on straight. That was, of course, if demons weren't still trying to kill her three months from now. God, she couldn't imagine living this way for months. But going to classes after all this...it seemed absurd. It was everything she desperately, desperately wanted – a return to normality, to safety – but somehow now absurd.

It took her a while to word the e-mail correctly and not sound crazy, or desperate, or in need of some serious counselling. Instead, she went with the succinct and simple family emergency that would require at least a month off, maybe more. Her advisor was a pretty damn awesome lady, so she was fairly sure she'd be able to swing her some sort of deal that would keep her on track for her courses.

She answered a few of the e-mails she had, a couple from teachers, one from the volleyball club that reminded her to also tell them she wouldn't be back. It broke her heart to decline a work study she'd worked her ass off to apply to and get, but it couldn't be helped.

Finally, she pulled up her Myspace and Facebook accounts. The latter had only just gone live to non-college students a month ago, so the traffic on it was fairly light compared to her Myspace. Mostly just club events and campus parties. Not that she had a lot to respond to on Myspace, either. She really only had it because all of her friends had bugged her non-stop about it until she'd finally made an account.

Last week she had been trying to convince Sam to join Facebook so she could change her relationship status and show off her cute boyfriend to the world (the world being all her college friends who already knew they were dating, of course). Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Her stomach twisted unpleasantly, threatening to ruin the actually halfway decent breakfast Dean had cooked them. She hadn't expected him to know a spatula from a spoon in the kitchen, but he'd proven a pretty decent chef, much to her surprise (and Sam's: "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my brother?")

She shut down the two social media tabs without looking at them again.

A ding from her computer meant she had a new e-mail in her personal account. The only people who e-mailed her there were high school friends and her parents. Who she should probably send an e-mail to concerning the whole 'skipping next quarter and I lost my phone so don't call, my boyfriend totally didn't destroy it so demons couldn't track us or anything and, oh yeah, I'm not even in California right now but I'm absolutely safe and not in any trouble at all'.

Her to-do list sucked.

Sure enough, the unread message was from her mom. She clicked on it, already mentally preparing her reply before she read the first line.

Sam's search on crop death in the greater Iowa area was abruptly interrupted when his girlfriend launched herself from her seat hard enough to knock it over. The look of horror on her face had him by her side before the clatter of the chair hitting the floor silenced the coffee shop.

-o-o-o-

Dean wrote a list.

And then he crumpled that list up, tossed it to the side, and wrote another list. And another. He was on his fourth crumpled up piece of paper when he realized he was going to need more than one list.

There were hunts he needed to recall, witnesses they had to save, information vital to the case they would need, and things he had to remember to avoid. Like getting electrocuted on a rawhead hunt.

There were enemies alive now that they'd killed so many years ago. Weapons and books and information he couldn't recall enough of to be sure it was reliable. Events were coming that were paramount to the apocalypse but would seem unrelated, and he had to remember it all.

They'd need the colt and the knife. Even if the colt hadn't worked on the devil, it had killed Azazel. So they needed it. It would have to come first, anyway. He had no idea where Ruby had gotten that knife, so he'd have to wait till she showed her ugly mug before he could take it off her. And then kill her well and good before she sunk her claws into Sam.

But before that, he was going to have to take care of Azazel. And Meg. And Lilith. The list was insurmountable, and he had to remind himself several times that they'd done it all before, and over a five year period at that. This didn't have to happen overnight. He had time, and he could do this.

It helped chase the panic away, but did nothing for the heavy knot in his stomach.

He crumpled his fifth paper up and tossed it aside. This wasn't working. There was just too much.

He tore out ten sheets of paper and lined them up in a row. Then, along the bottom of each he drew a line. At the end he wrote "5/25/2016: Amara fight" and at the start he rewrote "11/2/2005: Jess dead". From there, he filled in the big things he had dates for. Dad's death (10:41 am – he could still hear the doc calling it), Sammy's death and his deal (he'd never forget that date). When his deal came due (possibly harder to forget than the first one). The day Cas pulled him out of hell. The day Sam released Lucifer. The day Sam and Lucifer went into the cage.

He went ahead and filled out the rest of the years too, though he furiously told himself those things wouldn't come to pass – wouldn't matter. But they could still be important: things they'd learned that might help them stop this shit show before it ever got started. People they could go to for help that they hadn't met this time around. Or who hadn't died yet.

Dean was writing down Charlie's name when the waitress came over to refill his coffee yet again. She eyed the papers he was frantically drawing across.

"You a writer, hon?"

He looked up at her with a harried expression, startled by her presence though she'd hardly snuck up on him. "What?"

"You writing a novel?" she repeated, gesturing with the coffee pot at all his little papers and scribbles. She gave him an encouraging, if somewhat pitying smile. "Looks like a depressing one."

Dean looked back down at the papers as she wandered off to see to other customers' needs. Each mark he'd made along the timeline and all the notes at the top were generally death dates. He swallowed tightly at the amount of loss he was looking at in the next few years.

His brain short-circuited for a minute, coming to a full stop.

Writing. Chuck.

He'd forgotten about the damn Prophet of the Lord.

Truthfully, he hadn't thought of the man as the writer in a while, not since discovering he was a hell of a lot more. Fucking bastard. Dean gave the idea of going to God for help all of about three seconds of consideration before shoving the thought and the hope that came with it far, far away. He knew better than to think that asshat of a dad was ever going to step in.

It had taken his own imminent death to even make him consider helping them with Amara. And he still refused to apologize or take any blame for the damn apocalypse – or anything that had happened after. No, 'Chuck' wasn't going to help him here.

He was on his own.

The hunter moved on to trying to fill in details. In the lines above the timeline, he listed everything he could remember happening in between major events. He wasn't sure of the order of most of the stuff, but the hardcoded dates along the timeline helped.

He knew Meg went after their friends for the colt. He knew she tried to trap them to get to John Winchester. Both happened before his dad's death, obviously. At least one was after they got the colt from Elkins, though he couldn't remember if the old hunter had ate it before or after Meg showed up the first time. He was pretty sure it was after. They'd seen Dad at least once by the time they met up in Colorado over the vampire nest. That meant all of it happened in 2006. He marked Meg trapping John with a little '1', Elkins with a '2', and Meg killing their friends with a '3'.

It was a start.

He'd gotten as far as Dad's death and the car accident when his phone rang. He was still missing huge gaps, and he could only remember a handful of the hunts he and Sam had done (and almost no definitive dates to pair with them), but he'd written them down all the same. It would have to be enough going forward.

"What's up, Sammy?" he answered the phone without looking. He frowned at what he heard over the line. "What? Where are you? Stay there, I'm coming to you."

He snapped the phone shut, gathered the dozen sheets of paper and shoved them and the pad of paper they'd come out of into his jacket before heading out of the diner.

-o-o-o-

A demon had Jess's parents.

Sam had met Frank and Anne Moore for the first time four months ago when they had visited their daughter and her semi-serious boyfriend they'd heard non-stop about for almost a year. The small group had gone into San Francisco for a day of touring and a wonderful dinner down on the Embarcadero.

He'd liked them immediately, despite being mostly preoccupied with not making a fool of himself. This was the first 'meet the parents' he'd ever had to face outside of that one Thanksgiving at Stephanie Belmont's house back in sixth grade. And while he was definitely nervous back then, it was nothing compared to how his leg shook under the table all throughout dinner.

Jess's hand on his thigh certainly had more of a calming effect than Stephanie's had as a kid.

Frank was an avid fisherman, with his own boat and lobster license too. He worked in construction management and owned a small, but very successful company in Northeastern Boston. Anne was retired, and spent much of her free time volunteering at the hospital where she had spent fifteen years of her Administrative career. The two were somehow still madly in love, had date nights once a week, and we're infamous in the family for their bouts of public dancing (particularly on date nights).

Nothing on earth except a demon could make Frank Moore's face take on such hideous glee while he held a knife to his sobbing wife's throat.

Jess hadn't been able to look at the photo attached to the email since the coffee shop, and had eventually left the safety of Rufus' cabin for some fresh air when the boys and Bobby wouldn't stop talking about it.

Not that it mattered. She'd told them in no uncertain terms they were going. They were going to Boston and she'd give the demons whatever they wanted and they would save her parents. Neither of the brothers had argued or even so much as blinked at the demand.

"Of course we're going," Dean had said before Sam could.

That had been that. The details of it didn't matter to her, and she couldn't be in the same room with them has they hashed it out and wasted time her parents didn't have.

The delay was about how to go. Dean was insistent they drive. And only partially because he hated flying and had only successfully managed it twice now. Mostly it was because how the hell were they going to get an arsenal of weapons through security?

But Sam insisted they didn't need their gear. He was new to the demon-fighting game, he freely admitted it, but what could they use against a demon other than holy water and exorcisms?

Bobby didn't like the way Dean's knuckles tightened on the table, like he was restraining himself from saying anything.

It didn't stop him from saying all sorts of things, of course. Like how bullets might not kill the damn things, but they sure as hell slowed them down. (They really didn't, but Dean didn't like going into a hunt without at least one weapon).

That was the point where Jess left the cabin.

In the end, they decided to fly. Whitefish was remote enough as it was without trying to drive halfway across the country. The trip would take them at least two days, and none of them had had enough sleep in the last three to safely traverse the country and take on a demon at the end of the road.

If they flew out that night, they'd be there in the morning and could hopefully catch some sleep on the plane.

Bobby didn't like it much either, but he could bend to reason and was a fair bit more flexible than Dean Winchester would ever be. He promised to make some calls and get them at least a minor arsenal and a car for when they landed. It appeased Dean somewhat but left him with nothing else to fight accept his abhorrent fear of flying (which Sam had easily deduced (for the second time) and still found moments to tease him, despite the situation)

So that afternoon Bobby drove Rumfeld into town and checked him into a dog boarding ranch under a fake name, a fraudulent credit card, and some bullshit excuse of last minute vacation for the girl at the front counter. He didn't feel good about it – felt worse at the look his buddy gave him as they dragged him into the back – but it was what it was.

They left for the Kalispell airport that evening.

-o-o-o-

Sam and Bobby got some sleep on the plane. Dean spent the flight trying to put dents into the armrests with his fingertips. Jess stared out the window at the passing lights far below them and focused her not inconsiderable brain power on not thinking anything at all, lest she spiral into the panic that awaited her at the endless horrors that could be happening to her parents.

-o-o-o-

Dean was a stressed out mess by the time they landed, and only barely managed not to fall to his knees and kiss the ground. At least this plane didn't almost crash. It was a lot better when they didn't almost crash.

As promised, Bobby had contacted a couple hunter friends of his in the Northeast, and they agreed to meet the group with a clean car they could use and some weapons on loan for the job. Neither of the two hunters offered their assistance, and the group didn't ask.

They dumped their duffel bags into the back of the pickup and climbed into the old Ford truck. Dean had fidgeted all the way through security as the officers eyed him and his four empty canteens, two rosaries, two bibles, one gigantic tomb older than all four of them combined (and was there some reason the Key of Solomon couldn't come in an edition smaller than a freaking flat screen TV?), and draw string bag filled to the brim with rock salt. Sam had elbowed him more than once and muttered under his breath to chill out before he got them all thrown in Gitmo.

Jess gave them her parents' address, and they headed out. No one talked much half hour drive. Dean said he had a plan, Sam was fidgety about the lack of details, Bobby had given up trying to get in the middle of the two of them, and Jess didn't want to hear it.

They arrived at the somewhat secluded 1228 Quail Road in Andover, MA at 9:28 that morning. Dean pulled the car off to the side of the backroad street as far from sight as he could and they all stared at the house set back in the wooded area with trepidation.

It didn't look like a demon had moved in. Then again, it never did.

"How do we know they're in there?" Sam asked. There was a car in the driveway, but it wasn't like demons needed motor transportation.

"They're in there." Dean sounded completely sure, and Jess glanced at him. She tried to take comfort in his confidence, but only succeeded in minuscule amounts.

Sam didn't want to ask what his brother was thinking, not in front of Jess, because he didn't want her to know that there was a high likelihood this wouldn't go in their favor. He may not have faced a demon before (Brady didn't count, that demon was already in a devil-proofed trunk by the time he got involved), but he had grilled Dean and Bobby every chance he'd got in the last four days. He needed to know what they were up against.

And now he was pretty sure they were screwed. There was no way they'd be able to take down Frank before he killed Anne in retaliation. Or just because he felt like it. He didn't even need to be near her to do it – he could snap her neck from across the room. The thought made him sick to his stomach, but he sucked it up and shoved it deep down.

"So what's this plan you say you have?" Bobby fiddled with his shotgun in the back seat, loading it up with shells. Beside him, Jess eyed the weapon nervously, despite the fact that they'd already had the discussion concerning a strict 'no shooting the parents' ground rule.

"It's rock salt, Jess," Dean had answered, and she'd found it odd that it may have been the first time he'd ever actually called her by name. "It'll sting like a bitch, but it's not fatal."

"But it'll kill the…demon, right?"

Sam had shaken his head while Dean looked reluctant to answer. "It'll slow him down a bit."

"Piss 'em off, s'more likely."

In response to Bobby's gruff input, Sam had wrapped his hand around hers, thumb rubbing against her skin in what was supposed to be comforting circles. "It'll keep him distracted – away from you and your mom."

Jess nodded, but hardly looked convinced. It took Bobby assuring her they'd use the guns as a last resort only (and giving Dean a pointed look as he did so) that finally settled the manner.

Now Dean was watching Jess in the rear view mirror. "You said it's an old house, right?"

She nodded and listed off the near-ancient date of its construction. The house had been in her mom's family for years, and though the Moores had done some serious remodeling over the years, they'd kept the historical bits the same. They said they liked the old feel and the history. Anne was proud of her Bostonian roots, and more than proud to own a house with two and a half centuries of history in its bones.

Including the sprinkler system from the early forties that Dean seemed oddly interested in. Jess's great-grandfather had been a paranoid nutball. He'd been incredibly proud of the newly installed system back in the day. Called it a marvel of technology and security. He used to tell any who'd listen that most homeowners could only dream of such safety measures.

He was also the reason there was an old rotted out bunker buried somewhere in the backyard with enough SPAM inside to last through 2046.

"Alright, then we spike the water." Bobby and Sam turned sharp eyes to Dean and he grinned at them. "The house is on well water, yeah? We throw a Rosary in there, purify the water, and then we set the house of fire."

"What?" Jess shrieked and the hunter winced.

"Okay, I didn't mean on fire. I meant we trigger the sprinklers."

"And the water that comes out would be holy," Sam added, sounding almost breathless as he thought through his brother's plan. That….That wasn't a bad idea. The water would damage a demon enough to at least distract it – at least long enough for Jess to get her mom out of there, maybe even start an exorcism. It didn't guarantee anything; Sam had little hope it would be enough to do the job alone.

That was what Winchester luck was for. It just needed a starting place, and holy water sounded like as good as any.

Bobby was staring at Dean again with narrowed eyes. Where the hell was the kid getting this from? Dean Winchester had always been a hell of a hunter, just like his daddy, but neither of them had won that title from cleverness. Both of 'em earned it out of sheer stubbornness.

But it was a good plan, so he sat back and said nothing. He'd save that battle for another time.

-o-o-o-

They went in guns blazing.

Well, Dean and Bobby went in guns blazing.

Well, Dean and Bobby went in guns blazing with exception to the whole 'we won't shoot your dad, we promise' bit. So really, they went in more like kicking down doors and shouting obscenities once Jess triggered the sprinklers.

Sam gave her a leg up (a pair of six foot tall shoulders more accurately) to pull herself onto the back patio roof about five minutes before the whole rescue operation was going down. From there, she slid her old bedroom window open and slipped inside. It was a trick she'd done a hundred times as a teenage girl sneaking out after curfew and back in before dawn.

A lifetime ago, Sam would have teased her for her delinquent days and she would have slid right up to him and whispered that she'd show him something delinquent alright.

Today, she was pulling a lighter out of her pocket and holding it up to the old pipes and metal sprinkler hanging above her childhood bed. For a moment, nothing happened and her racing heart practically stopped beating. Then water exploded everywhere and she dropped back to the mattress, face and hair soaked and the rest following as she heard the sprinklers kick in out in the hall too.

Enraged screaming followed.

Jess threw herself off the bed, the time for stealth long gone, and broke out into the hall just Dean and Bobby kicked in the front door. True to their word, they didn't shoot her dad. Dean fired off a warning shot aimed more at the ceiling than anything else. Jess rounded the top of the stairs and barreled down almost to the point of falling.

She skidded into the living room in time to see her father facing off against the two hunters just as Dean cocked his shotgun for a second go around and leveled it at Frank. Jess didn't have time to pray that he'd stick to his word, and instead focused on her mom. Anne was huddled over by the sofa, her arms protectively covering her face and her shoulders shaking.

Jess slid to her knees as water pattered down on the ancient hard wood floors. The sprinklers had an automatic shut off after several minutes, but already it was starting to pool on the ground. Her mother was going to be pissed about the water damage when all this settled down.

"Mom!" She wrapped her hands around her mother's shoulders, shaking the older woman gently. "Mom, it's Jess. We have to get out of here; you have to come with me."

Her mother trembled under her hands, but raised her face to her daughter and Jess realized their mistake immediately.

Anne's face was red and blistered, her eyes a deadly black, and the grin that stretched her skin, demented.

Jess couldn't breathe, couldn't even yell. She snatched her hands away like she'd been burned, and with the gleam in her mom's once kind eyes, she might as well have been.

"Hello, Jessie," the thing hissed, breaking into a laugh even as she lunged for her daughter.

Jess went down hard beneath her mom, body still rooted stalk still. Only her mom called her that. Everyone else called her Jess, but Anne Moore had stuck to calling her daughter the same thing she'd called her in the hospital nursery unit twenty-one years ago, and every afternoon at the park down the street, and on every trip to the mall, and even still through teary-eyed goodbyes on her first day of college.

Jesus Christ, her mom was in there.

And that's when Jess started screaming. She kicked and pushed and shoved at the woman that was and was not her mom, who didn't move an inch other than to pull back and raise a knife – the knife her father held to her throat in that wretched photo – high above her head. Jess watched in terror as her mom tried to kill her.

She cried out, but blocked Anne's swing with her arm. The blade sliced through skin and muscle in her fumbled attempt at self-preservation. She grunted against the pain as the knife angled downward towards her heart instead. She wrapped her fingers desperately around her mother's wrist to stall its movement. This wasn't her mom – this thing was far stronger than the fifty-six year old yoga enthusiast who frequented the gym more for the social hour and lunch date with her girlfriends than the actual exorcise. Jess's muscles ached under the strain and her whole arm shook as she kept the knife away from her chest by inches only.

There was a blur of movement to her right and then Anne was suddenly gone in a spectacular tackle by her six-and-a-half foot giant of a boyfriend. The small woman did not go down easy, though, despite her opponent's size. She rolled like a nimble gymnast half her age, coming to a crouch with a barbaric hiss and a sneer at the Winchester boy.

Jess scrambled back, chest heaving from fear and exertion. Sam kept her behind him with an outstretched arm, a canteen in the other. He began reciting an exorcism, keeping Anne at bay with the holy water anytime she tried to get too close. She still had the knife, gripped tightly in her hand as the two circled each other.

When force-throwing Sam across the room and over the back of the couch wasn't enough to stop the exorcism, Anne let out a terrible screech. In a single movement, she spun and threw the knife hilt over blade before flinging herself from Anne Moore's body in a terrible trail of black smoke.

Jess screamed, her first thought for Sam and my god, she was going to watch her boyfriend take a knife to the gut. But when the blade flew past Sam, missing him by several feet, to embed itself in her father's side, she lost it. She didn't care that there was a demon inside of him – that was her father her mother had just stabbed.

Dean caught her across the middle as she hurdled herself towards the demon, who stared down at the knife as if it was nothing more than a nuisance. His body was already twitching and jerking with the exorcism, and wisps of black smoke leaked from the bleeding wound. Frank Moore looked up from the blade to his little baby girl as she kicked and screamed in the arms of the hunter.

He grinned as he opened his mouth and smoked out of the dying meatsuit.