A/Ns: Thank you to everyone who took my April Fool's joke in good humor (and sorry to those it pissed off). We are officially back now, though! I have a mostly-healthy stockpile of chapters (missed my goal a little bit; Jo Harvelle is turning out to be one stubborn little lady to write) but the next two months, at least, should see weekly updates!

Chapter Warnings: Did ya miss me? Did ya, did ya? Let's be honest, we all know you're here for my silly little ramble at the start of each chapter. Don't be shy, you can admit it; I'm a comic genius (snort) We're kicking off Season 2.1 right this time (apologies again for my no good dirty rotten April Fool's prank), with Rakshashas, carnivals, and family feuds unfolding! We've a killer clown (poor Samy), but first, there's nothing like an excuse to go see the Harvelles! Plus, Azazel's back on the playing field, he's brought his bouncing baby boy along, and we kick off the mystery portion of our program right away as Hell's wrench-in-the-works makes her first Season 2.1 appearance.

Here. We. Go!

-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)

Season 2: Chapter 26

(for real this time)

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

They stopped at the Roadhouse first for intel. As impressive as Dean's future knowledge may seem to anyone else, he really didn't know most details when it came down to it (who would, ten years later. Was it eleven now? He'd been in this time for almost a year now. Damn. He really didn't know how to feel about that.) Memory on cases tended to be pretty hit or miss for him. The big stuff was usually a given, but the snippets he recalled here and there seemed entirely random, and never felt liked the important stuff they could really use.

The town the carnival was in could be any one of a dozen – Dean wasn't even sure it was in the same state as the Roadhouse – and the name of the traveling company was utterly lost to him over the years. So really, they needed Ellen's information. Plus, it was an excellent excuse to see the Harvelles, something Dean would never get tired of being able to do.

"Tell me it's not really a clown killing these kids' parents," Ellen started with as she handed over the folder. The sharp red ink on the outside sparked a moment of déjà vu for the man from the future. He accepted it with an award winning grin Ellen just snorted at.

"Can't say for sure."

His answer was obviously bullshit, despite Dean trying to keep a straight face (Ellen and Sam's identically narrowed eyes gave his failure away pretty quickly). But he was having way too much fun to care.

The brothers didn't stay long; mother and daughter were getting the place ready to open for afternoon business and Sam and Dean didn't want to get in the way of their actual paying job. The four of them caught up briefly, with Ellen wanting to know how they were doing since their daddy's death and Jo curious about the hunts they'd been on in the two months since they'd last been at the Roadhouse.

"Asa was asking after you." Ellen changed the topic less than subtly as the two Winchesters started recapping what they'd been up to. Lately, she had taken a particular dislike to the overly eager gleam in her daughter's eyes when hunters started talking shop.

Dean straightened predictably, and Sam coughed something that sounded like 'man-crush' into his hand.

Ellen managed to look unimpressed and endlessly amused all in one half-lidded stare. "He wanted to get ahold of you boys. You alright I pass him your number?"

Dean's grip on the table top turned knuckle-white with excitement. "Yes!" he immediately responded, way too eagerly, and backpedaled almost as quickly. "I mean, yeah, sure, that's cool. You do that."

Jo snorted. "Smooth."

"Shut up," Dean snapped back. "Like you don't have his number on speed dial."

The bit of red that crawled up her neck was telling, but she rolled her eyes and her head with a huff anyway.

Ellen, however, was now regarding her with a look that screamed 'lecture incoming,' complete with the patented mom-hand-on-the-hip. "Joanna Beth, he is way too old for you."

Now Jo was sending Dean a death glare, but he only grinned and leaned against the counter, body language clearly saying 'good luck snarking your way out of that one.'

"We talk about hunts, mom. Relax."

Ellen eyed her daughter with a judgmental hum, expression possibly turning even sourer, but the woman let it be, turning to the Winchesters, instead. "You boys oughta head out. Catch the carnival before it closes for the night."

Dean tapped the rim of the folder against the counter with a nod. Right she was; they had almost an hour drive and the afternoon was getting on. Not to mention, Dean's plan kind of relied on their so-called 'clown' actually being around the carnival for them to take care of. He remembered the guy killed at night, but it wouldn't hurt to scope the area out and they definitely wanted to be there well ahead of his next planned kill. Dean handed the folder to Sam, who'd give him a reminder read-through while they drove (and fill himself in on things Dean either hadn't mentioned or didn't remember).

"I could go with you," Jo suddenly said, edging forward against the bar a little too tellingly, expression trying for nonchalant but missing. "If you guys need an extra hand?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond, Sam shooting him a questioning look, but Ellen beat them both.

"You have responsibilities here," she admonished, the look in her eye and the tone of her voice making it pretty clear this wasn't the first time they'd talked about this. It probably wasn't the first time they'd talk about it today. Dean had been present for some of those 'talks' and they usually involved more screaming than talking.

"Mom-"

"No, Jo. You're not going and that's that." Ellen might as well have physically put her foot down, for the overwhelming sense of finality in her words. Jo, arms crossed and face reddening in anger, didn't look like she was going to accept that lying down. "I'm sure the Winchesters can handle it."

Sam and Dean exchanged an awkward glance. That was their cue to go. Dean used the folder to tap Jo on the shoulder as they slipped passed. He kept his voice low and apologetic as he said, "Next time," but he knew he would have found a way to keep Jo out of the hunt same as Ellen.

He knew better, though, when it came down to it. Jo was going to start hunting, and soon, no matter what he or her mother had to say about it.

-o-o-o-

The carnival was just like Dean remembered it. Noisy, filled with screaming kids and the smell of stale peanuts, greasy food, and old hay. He was not disappointed in the slightest that they wouldn't be hanging around this one for long.

"Okay, but it's not really a clown, right?" Sam asked, apparently continuing their conversation from the bar that Dean never had finished. When his older brother didn't answer again, he grabbed his arm, stopping him. The kid actually looked nervous and Dean was loving every second of it. "Tell me it's not actually a clown, Dean."

"Oh, it gets worse." The older Winchester offered a sympathetic smile. "The clown was abused as a kid. Never got enough hugs. The only way we were able to send him on was for you to give him one, giant, Samsquatch squeeze."

By the last word, Dean was barely even trying to keep a straight face and Sam glared at him with every fiber of his being. He didn't even manage fifteen seconds before he was cracking up.

"It's the blind guy with the throwing knives. He's a Rakshasa." Dean managed the words between full-hearted laughs, doubled over by his own shenanigans even as he waved in the Rakshasa's direction, tossing daggers over by the fun house. "Man, your face!"

Sam looked stormy, at best, a forehead free of wrinkles screamed high danger levels. "That's not funny, Dean."

"'Course you'd think that; you didn't see your face."

-o-o-o-

When he'd remembered the clown case was up-and-coming, Dean hadn't actually known what flavor of monster the blind dude was. There were way too many years of hunts between then and now for that knowledge to stick around. But knowing he liked to play dress up, ate mommies and daddies, and could go invisible (yeah, like Dean was likely to forget that funhouse of friggin' horrors), was enough to get him started. There'd been something about bugs, too, which helped. Even if Dean didn't remember what exactly, it helped narrow things down once he'd gotten a list going of possible monsters that fit the bill.

Which was why he and Sam were now armed with brass daggers, waiting just outside the carnival grounds after hours to take down a supernatural knife-thrower who didn't know they were coming this time. Not aware of hunters in the area or any new faces around the carnival, the not-so-blind guy (dressed in Sam's worst nightmare) was easy to catch off his guard on the dirt road that lead away from the back gate. Dean managed not to tease his brother for the way he stiffened – and glanced at Dean no less than three nervous times – when the clown suddenly rounded the bend and they had a stare off in the middle of the road.

The Mexican stand-off was not very Mexican and not very standoffish. The Rakshasha charged before Dean had even gotten the dramatic music going in his head.

-o-o-o-

He couldn't stop the grin stretched across his face if he wanted to, and oh, Dean definitely didn't want to.

"Like a little girl," he giggled, probably for the fourth time in half as many minutes. Sam glared at him something fierce and definitely pissy over the top of the Impala. Dean just laughed louder, opening the driver side door and climbing in. "I've heard girls scream less like girls, Sam."

The struggle had been brief. The clown hadn't known who he was dealing with, clearly. Sam took an elbow to the face, Dean skirted a throwing knife by less than an inch, but it ended with a clown dead on the ground, dagger sticking out of his chest.

Sam's doing, which his brother figured was probably pretty cathodic for the coulrophobic kid. All in all, a clean, quick kill, case closed. They'd be in and out in under seven hours, and five of that had been waiting around for the Rakshasha to leave the carnival in search of his next meal.

Dean couldn't have been happier to book it back to his Baby and slide inside before anyone happened by a pile of polka-dotted fabric, ruffles, and a clown wig in middle of the road, sans a body. It looked like someone had taken out some anger management on a piece of nineteen-seventy's couch upholstery. Rakshasha's died weird, man. At least they didn't have to deal with burying a body. He supposed they could have taken the time to toss the clothes, but it's not like anyone was going to call the cops on some discarded carnival dress-up.

By the time they got to the car, Dean was practically whistling. Playing roadie last time had not been one of his fonder memories, and he was beyond happy to be leaving the carnival behind with its cloying smell of peanuts, old straw, and animal piss. Sam, face red and murder still in his eyes (which had Dean cackling yet, even if that murder was definitely aimed in his direction currently), didn't bother answering the last of his brother's taunts.

God, he hated clowns.

"Tell me that's the only one."

Dean raised his eyebrows as he revved his baby's engine, spun the Impala around, and pulled back out onto the main road. He knew what Sam was asking (the kid knew Rakshasha's were lone wolves) and wondered how best to put it.

"Last one for now, probably not forever. How do you feel about exploding rainbow glitter?"

-o-o-o-

The Roadhouse door closed behind them and Dean breathed in deep. Ah, peanuts, stale beer, and good old human piss. Home sweet home.

"Joanna Beth Harvelle, don't you walk away from your mother!"

Complete with family feuding.

Sam and Dean exchanged harried looks, barely over the threshold of the bar and considering sneaking back out before they'd been spotted. But it was late – late enough that the only customers of the bar were passed out drunk on its horizontal surfaces (Ash, pool table, what else was new) – and Dean had kind of been hoping to crash the night there rather than find a motel. In another lifetime, Ellen had offered spare beds to them before. He figured the offer probably stood across time.

Now both Winchesters were kinda wishing they'd called her from the road and let her know long-distance that the clown was toast and all was right in the world (or, as right as it ever was.)

"When are you gonna listen to me, Mom? I could have helped them today – I should have helped them today!" Jo spun back around and Dean winced, realizing just what this fight was about. Not that the fights between these two women were ever about anything else. Still, he'd kind of hoped. He'd heard enough of these in his previous life to know exactly where they led. "Better yet, I could have handled that hunt on my own!"

Ellen was fuming, and both men could see the fear fueling that anger, clear as day. "You want to go and get yourself killed on some dusty back road, you find a different roof over your head, young lady. I won't allow it under mine."

"Maybe I will!" Jo bit out in rapid-fire, snapping back at the finality of her mother's sharp words. "I'm not a child. I want to go, I'm gone."

"You want to go somewhere, why don't you try goin' back to school!"

Dean knew better than to get in the middle of this. He did. But still…

"I didn't belong there! I was the freak with a knife collection!"

"Ellen-"

Both Harvelle woman turned in surprise at the presence of the two hunters, having been a little preoccupied to notice their arrival. Ellen cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her bar apron and trying for a smile in their direction. Jo just crossed her arms over her chest angrily and made no such attempt to cover up her ire.

"Bad time, boys," Ellen bit out, clearly still pissed off, though the tilt at the corner of her mouth softened the blow.

"Yes, ma'am." Sam, ever the peacekeeper, placating hands raised up, one of them landing on Dean's shoulder. A clear nudge to leave this be.

Ellen's eyes lost a little more of their edge and she sighed. Forcing normalcy into her tone, she asked, "No more clown?"

Sam smiled weakly, trying to play along for their sake. "No more clown."

Dean, an expert on avoiding conversations he absolutely did not want to have, knew he should let this one go. But as he glanced over at that fiery young woman, his friend, full of passion and fury and life, he found that he just couldn't. "Ellen, she's gonna go off on her own, either way. It'd be a hell of a lot safer to have a home to come back to, someone ready to patch her up."

It was the wrong thing to say. Which Dean kind of knew – had definitely known – but there wasn't any other way to say it.

The older Harvelle woman's eyes shuttered into something dangerous, something mama-bearish that any halfway intelligent man with semi-decent survival instincts would know to run the hell away from. "Over my dead body," she bit out, and Dean flinched so violently Sam picked up on it right away. "And not to be rude, but you barely know us. This is a family matter; you got no business interfering."

It hurt. It hurt so damn bad, for so many reasons, in so many ways. Dean had that immediate sinking feeling he always got, particularly this past year, when he realized he'd made things worse again. And she was right. In this timeline, in this world, Ellen had known them for all of two months, and spoken to them only a handful of times.

The Dean Winchester that should be standing in front of her didn't know them. Which pretty much just sucked for the Dean Winchester actually standing there.

"Dean," Sam muttered beside him, hand dropping to his elbow and tugging at his jacket. An even stronger suggestion they should leave.

"Maybe you're right," the older Winchester choked out, doing his damnedest to sound normal. To sound like his insides weren't cement and crumbling into pieces somewhere down by his boots. "I'm sorry."

Sam tugged on his arm again and Dean went without a fight.

As they left, they heard Jo turn to her mother, arms crossed over her chest and a pointed look in her eye as she spat, "Nice."

-o-o-o-

It didn't take long for Sam to ask. Dean knew he would, and was already working on a response he didn't want to give but knew he owed. Unfortunately, his mouth wasn't on track with his brain and he ended up shaking his head when nothing came out.

"You can't keep doing this," Sam replied, but he didn't sound angry. He sounded tired, pitying. Angry would have been better. "I'm not trying to start a fight, Dean, but you gotta talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me, but someone."

When Dean didn't answer right away – that whole mouth-to-brain thing still putting up one hell of a fight – Sam continued. "I mean, yeah, it might actually help if you talk to me, so we can be on the same page..."

Which, fair point.

"It's not gonna happen this time." Oh, great, now his mouth had things to say. And they were the wrong things. "I won't let it, so why tell you about it?"

Sometimes, Dean really wondered where his tongue got the nerve to work without his say so. Sometimes, Dean also wanted to bash his head into the nearest solid, vertical surface. Had he not just agreed with himself that Sam deserved answers? Had he not, less than a week ago, told Sam they'd figure out how to stop keeping secrets?

"How are we supposed to stop it, if I don't even know what it is?"

Again, point.

Dean tightened his grip on Baby's leather as he harshly – too harshly – put the car into gear and pulled away from the Roadhouse. He prayed to no one (it wasn't something to bother Cas with, and no one else out there worth praying to) that Jo wouldn't do anything stupid because of what he'd said. That time would keep things the friggin' same in their favor for once.

"Jo starts hunting on her own, Ellen can't stop her. And later…" Dean let out a haggard sigh, running a hand down his face tiredly. It never failed to remind Sam of the extra decade weighing on his brother's soul. "They go with us on a suicide mission. Pretty sure the only reason Ellen came was because she sure as hell couldn't stop Jo, and no way was she letting her go alone."

Just saying it caused his chest muscles to tighten. He rubbed absently at the aching warmth in his sternum, wondering if this one was all him or if Cas had just as unpleasant memories of that night. He'd been the one to spend most of the evening with the women. A drinking game, if Dean remembered right, and they'd nearly run Bobby's house dry trying to get the angel drunk.

God, his chest ached.

"We were gonna stop Lucifer from raising Death. Shoot him in the head with the Colt and kill the son of a bitch devil once and for all." He heard Sam's sharp inhale, an inhale of hope, and Dean's anger flared further. It wasn't fair, the shit that had happened, the shit that might happen, and his job to tell his kid brother all of it. "It doesn't work. Turns out, there are five things that gun can't kill."

Dean pulled onto the interstate, keeping his eyes on the road as he continued, anger and guilt and decade old grief eating at him. "Jo got nabbed by a hellhound. Ellen went out with her to buy us time. And it was all for nothing."

Talking about it now, even years later, felt just as damn painful as that day. Dean didn't think he'd ever said it out loud before.

"Dean…" Sam sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he tried to frame the never-ending mess that was time travel within his own reference of understanding. Hunting, he knew. Running away from home and a family that wanted a different life for you, those things he could start with. The rest of it – the lost friends and an apocalypse...– well, he supposed he'd have to get there eventually. "Look, just because you have knowledge and a new found talent for advice-"

"Hey!"

"-doesn't mean people will listen." Sam angled him with a pointed, but understanding look. "Sometimes people have to make mistakes for themselves, no matter who tells them how it will work out. No matter how right that person may be. Sometimes we have to learn the hard way in order to learn at all."

Dean silenced for a moment, before growling low in his throat. Sure, he could see his brother's point, but what a pain in the ass! What was the point of time travel if people weren't going to let you change anything to start with? It was bad enough Time was working against him, his friends shouldn't be adding to the problem.

"Yeah, well, we know it's gonna happen this time," Dean said, loudly, clearing his throat before his brother could get anymore sentimental or comforting on him. Even if the comfort was appreciated (silently, of course). "So no matter if Jo goes off on her own, we won't take them on a suicide mission. No hellhounds, no bomb, Ellen and Jo keep breathing."

Beside him, his brother turned those pitying, puppy dog eyes back out the front window with a weak grimace, and Dean was grateful he didn't try and push it any further.

"Yeah." Sam's fingers were tight on the door handle, as white-knuckled and worried as Dean's own for a family he barely knew but really wanted to. "Yeah, we'll make sure of it."

-o-o-o-

The TV was on low in the motel room, a constant stream of character dialogue, commercials, and late night news casters that had been running straight for three weeks now. The steady noise didn't quite drown out the clacking of keys coming from the bed, where a laptop was spread out among piled blankets, scattered books, and yet another pair of mutilated jeans. Nor did it hide the jiggle of the lock and knob on the door before it opened on silent hinges.

The single occupant of the room – Sam's mystery woman and Hell's guest to an Apocalypse – didn't react as Azazel and another man filed into the room. The second was tall, broad chested in a tight black t-shirt, with dark blonde hair and cold eyes.

"Who's this?" She didn't bother looking up from the computer, continuing to type away. She didn't bother hiding her distaste, either.

"This here is Tom," Azazel answered as he crossed the room and set a plastic bag full of something rectangular and of decent weight down on the edge of the mattress. The woman spared it a glance, but nothing more. "My boy."

Tom smiled, all teeth and black eyes. She snorted.

"Demon." The word was like sludge along the bottom of a barrel. "What is it doing here?"

"He's here to babysit you." Azazel spared her a tight-lipped smile, holding a calming hand out to his side as his son got a little agitated with the creature's blatant disrespect. "And to get you anything you need."

Glowing green eyes finally flicked their way. "Need?"

"It's time to earn your keep." The demon's pale gaze dropped pointedly to the bag. "First task: reconnaissance."

The woman leaned over the top of her laptop to snag the plastic handles, pulling it towards her with a tight frown. "And the rest?"

"Will come in time."

She delved inside the plastic for only a moment, pulling out a paperback book quite unlike the others scattered throughout the room. It was smaller, for one, the print finer and cover more colorful. The frown tightened. "What is this?"

"It's called a book," Tom spoke for the first time, baring his teeth in what he probably thought was a smile. "You do know how to read, don't you? Or should we fetch you another professor?"

Her glare locked on his and the woman narrowed her eyes. "Only the bad words. Filth. Scum of the Earth. Petulant turd. I still require practice."

The demon just grinned.

"Tom will get you the rest when you've finished with those." Azazel nodded towards the bag and its remaining contents. There were four more books inside. "Read up. You'll be meeting Sam soon and I expect your performance to be perfect."

The yellow-eyed demon swept out of the room, leaving his child behind. Ignoring the remaining presence, the woman turned the book over in her hands, eyebrows raising at the two men illustrated on the cover. One of them was shirtless, long blonde hair blowing in a painted wind, as they stood in front of a black car.

Across the top, the title read, 'Supernatural'.

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

Season 2.1:Okay, so maybe not the most exciting or longest chapter to start with, but the next seven are pretty jam-packed, to say the least. (I'm actually pretty sure it's going to be the next fifteen - poor boys will not be getting a break anytime soon - I just haven't gotten that far yet :P And knowing me, my estimate is conservative, as always (verbose. as. fuck.))

Tom: There was a demon at the end of the first season that Azazel identified as his boy but Dean shot him with the Colt before he ever had a line. Weird thing was, the demon was named in the script (only non-speaking character to be so that I've seen). I thought… huh, I wonder if Tom had more of a story once upon a time, and it just got cut from the final edit. Well, I can work with that!

Welcome to the Island, Tom (aka replacement Meg)! Let's see how long he survives this time around :D

Up Next: A case of severed heads and cow mutilation strikes déjà vu gold for Dean, so the boys head for Montana. Too bad they aren't the only hunter to catch wind of the case, though…

Next chapter will be up on Sunday! Please review and remind me there's interest in this story, as it is what keeps me going :)