A/Ns: Whelp, I feel both vindicated and like a jerk. I appreciate those who piped up in regards to my request for comments/like buttons! I also knew (I really, really did, in the part of my brain that isn't lying to me all the time) that there were probably reasons for the silence. Good reasons, even. The best reason, though, didn't occur to me at all. I'm sorry for getting cranky at you guys for not reviewing when a decent chunk of you were busy re-reading the story . That's, uh, that's a pretty damn good reason. My bad, y'all.

Keep "pushing" that like button now and then, please! :D

Chapter References: If you do not recall the unofficial deal/truce/"I'll scratch your back, you give me a hand job" partnership the boys entered into with Crowley, refresher course can be found in chapter 51. Season 2: Chapter 18 All you really need to remember from it is that last bit, though ;D

Chapter Warnings: The boys are drinking beer and playing pool while Hell's making its first, second, and third counter play, and Crowley's lining himself up for a hand job. :D

-o-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 28

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

The bar was noisy for a Thursday night, but being one of only a handful of bars in town – a college town, mid-summer, no less – and certainly the dive-iest of those establishments, meant there was almost always a particular clientele available for drinking and billiards. And tonight, Dean and Sam were taking advantage of that.

The older Winchester slid back into his chair with two pints and a grin from ear to ear.

"Did you get anything other than the bartender's number?" Sam, droll as always, asked with a sardonic eyebrow. Dean pffted.

"I'll have you know, I'm a professional." And he was. A thirty-something professional in a twenty-something body that still occasionally (more than occasionally) thought it was a teens-something body. Seriously, he'd had to crank one out that morning. Even late twenty-something was ridiculous. So he waved the napkin in front of his brother's face, the bartender's number written in fresh blue ink. "I got her number professionally."

"In case she 'remembers anything useful'?" Sam's tone said pretty clearly what he thought of that, and Dean pfft'ed again.

"You're no fun." He leaned forward into the table, chest coming close to the foam-topped glasses of beer. "You remember fun, Sammy? It's that thing you do, with girls?"

"That's sex, Dean."

"They're synonyms." The older Winchester looked personally offended, pushing his brother's drink across the table to him.

Sam rolled his eyes, taking his beer and casting eyes around the bar again far too nervously for Dean's taste. "You remember why we're actually here?"

It was the older Winchester's turn roll his eyes, but he supposed Sammy had a point. Despite the cute (and promisingly loose) bartender, they were out on a Thursday night indulging in alcohol and (maybe) women, and for once the reason wasn't a celebration of a hunt well done.

-o-o-o-

-Twelve Hours Earlier-

The knock on the motel room door was not exactly expected, but it wasn't a surprise either. It was late enough for housekeeping to start making rounds and Dean had made a pretty pointed comment to the manager on their way in last night that their towel quality left much to be desired. Like, four inches of coverage and about a half inch of thickness.

The face that greeted Dean when he opened the door, absentmindedly rubbing at his chest as he did so, was a surprise.

"Morning, Squirrel. Where's Moose?"

Well, at least that explained the aching sternum.

Sam, fresh out of the shower with only a towel around his waist, nearly dropped his toothbrush from his mouth as he came out of the bathroom in time to see Dean standing in front of the open door with none other than the King of the Crossroads smiling way too charmingly on their stoop at nine in the morning.

"Ah. There he is. And he comes with a view."

Sam definitely, definitely, didn't blush. The demon, however, grinned that much wider, and Sam's forehead did that 'Danger, warning, abort, abort!' bit where it smoothed completely out and brown eyes turned murderous. But his cheeks were still dotted that lovely shade of red and the King of the Crossroads wagered, eh, worth it.

"Crowley?" Dean asked incredulously, like he thought maybe his eyes were tricking him. As Sam hastily went for a clean set of clothes, Dean leaned out into the corridor, looking left and right like he expected to find Ashton Kutcher and a camera crew. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The demon, after checking the floor and ceiling for any tricksy devils traps, invited himself into the room. With an annoyed look and a sweepingly sarcastic gesture, Dean closed the door behind him.

"You ask for my number, but you don't even call. Really, Dean, I'm insulted." Crowley eyed the heavily fish-themed décor of their most recent crash pad as Dean crossed his arms over his still-aching chest, thoroughly unimpressed. Not like Crowley had actually given them a number to call. (Not that Dean would have called, anyway.)

"Well, this is homey." The demon turned to face them, hands in his pockets. "Azazel is looking for you."

"Tell us something we don't know," Dean said as Sam also replied, "Because we went off grid."

"Oh, but it does come with such nice surround sound." Crowley raised a hand to tap his ear mockingly before strolling about the small room, poking at this and that. It was hard to say which brother rolled his eyes harder. Ignoring them both, the demon settled at the little kitchenette, where Dean's cell phone and their duffel of weapons lay open on the table. The demon felt both hunters tense behind him, so close to so many things that could kill them easily. It was Crowley's turn to roll his eyes – though he did enjoy their oh-so-delectable fear and distrust – and he reached out to tap a finger loudly on the phone casing. "Not off grid enough, it would seem."

He gave them a pointed look and Dean frowned, brain turning over as Crowley's hint found home base.

"Shit," he grumbled, and Sam sent him a questioning look. "That woman who called. The 'wrong number'?"

Dean remembered thinking it was weird. He hadn't recognized the number or the voice, which had been slightly accented. An odd one Dean couldn't place. Something vaguely Jewish, but like middle-eastern, old-time Hebrew Jewish, not Larry David with his putz and his schmucks and his bald-headed American Jew glory. Nothing worth reporting to Sam, especially once Dean decided the whole thing was weird but not outlandish. He'd written it off as nothing more and the brothers had gone on with their day.

The hunter now turned to Crowley. Realization dawned on Sam's face as the older Winchester asked, a little miffed, "That was one of yours?"

The King of the Crossroads shrugged. "Azazel's, not mine. I'm just the messenger. Speaking of, I am going to have to give him something, so..." Crowley mockingly spread his arms in a regal, sweeping gesture. "I'm here as a courtesy heads up. This is me, scratching your back, boys."

Sam grimaced as he recalled the rest of the saying Crowley had mutilated that night at the crossroads. The demon just grinned, all smarmy. He swiped Dean's phone off the table, punching a couple of the keys before tossing it to its owner.

"I'll call when I want that return favor."

Crowley sent a wink Sam's way, enjoying as the brunette definitely didn'tblush again. Dean caught the phone with yet another unimpressed glare (Crowley had been right, he was going to see that look a lot now that they were 'partners') and glanced down at the device. The demon had entered his number under the name 'The King'. Dean rolled his eyes yet again, but Crowley was already gone.

Sam eyed his brother and the phone in his hand like it might detonate. If Crowley was telling the truth – and what could he possibly gain from lying about this? – then Azazel would be on his way shortly, and that meant nothing good for them. For Sam. "What do you want to do?"

The man from the future stared down at the small screen for a minute, long enough for it to darken, before he tightened his fingers around the plastic. His brother's lecture about running away was still pretty fresh in his mind. "We trap the room. Leave the phone here, spend the day on the hunt, like we would if we didn't know. Tonight we'll waste time at a bar."

And when they came back, maybe they'd have a yellow eyed bastard caught in their snare.

-o-o-o-

-Present-

Dean eyed his moody brother before he leaned back in his seat, using it as a convenient move to scan the crowd around them. No one seemed particularly suspicious. No one watching them. Dean had hoped Azazel – or whatever flunky he sent after them now that Meg had eaten a bullet – would either fall into their trap at the motel or realize they weren't home and wait for them there. But, he supposed, one of the reasons they'd kept to strictly public places today was in case they were followed. The college town wasn't huge, and while it might not have been easy to find any one random person among the several thousand living here, hunters weren't all that hard to locate when they were on a hunt.

Court houses, public libraries, cemeteries, morgues, the cheap motels. And bars.

Still, no one stood out, and Dean didn't see any point in wasting the evening just because demons might be on their tail again. He wished he could get Sam to loosen up a little, though. Kid was wound tighter than a girdle on a Baptist minister's wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. And yeah, alright, he had some fair reasons to be that high-strung. But Dean also knew from experience that stressing about the shit-storm perpetually about to rain down on them didn't change when or where that raincloud dumped.

Besides, they were supposed to be playing innocent, here. Acting normal. Blending in. Sitting there, externally brooding and internally panicking wasn't exactly the ticket.

"I'm gonna go make some cash," Dean announced, grabbing his beer and standing up from the table. Sam eyed him like he was crazy. "Next rounds on you. And try to relax, will you? You look more suspicious than anyone else in here! Fidgeting like a tween who forgot his fake."

Sam watched, mildly insulted and trying to stop his anxious movements, as Dean lumbered off to the billiards table. He watched the first game, his brother setting the stage as the out-of-towner well on his way to being drunk. Sam idly traced the logo on his pint glass and worked on not glancing around the bar every ten seconds. Dean was right; a demon would be crazy enough to approach them in this public a space.

But the younger Winchester didn't trust Azazel to be sane, either.

Realizing he was doing nothing but warming the beer, Sam finished it in a single chug – it was more Dean's flavor profile anyway and not particularly strong – and headed for the bar for something that might take the edge off. He wasn't a fan of that page in his brother's book, but he couldn't seem to lose the nervous twitch of his fingers or the way his gaze jerked to every loud sound in the crowded bar. Maybe a little liquid courage would help him do as Dean said and relax.

He waited at the bar for his drink – something stronger than Dean's pick but nothing to lose his wits over in case there was a demon waiting for them back at the motel – when he realized the guy next to him was staring. Sam glanced over, but there was nothing particularly remarkable (or suspicious) about the blonde. Except maybe his choice in strappingly tight black t-shirts. Sam gave him a grimace (the kind of smile that said 'stop smiling at me before I punch you') and angled away from him none-too-subtly. He felt the guy's gaze on him another moment longer, long enough for Sam to consider muttering 'Christo' under his breath just to be sure, but then the bartender returned with his drink and he, thankfully, left the bar and Mr-I-Wear-Shirts-Two-Sizes-Too-Small behind.

Only to crash right into someone. Sam winced at the sound of breaking glass and the cold slosh of a drink splashing over his hands.

"Shit!"

He looked down at the person whom he'd crashed into (who had crashed into him?) and had to look a lot further down than he anticipated.

"Shit, I am so sorry."

It was a woman, and she was short. Well, everyone was short compared to Sam, as his brother reminded him often. But she was particularly short, top of her blonde head not quite making his shoulder as she swapped the broken cocktail glass in her hand for the napkin that had been wrapped around it. Sam didn't even realize he was bleeding until she'd taken his free hand and started dabbing at the small cut just above his thumb. Her drink must not have been particularly strong – the alcohol dripping off his fingers didn't even sting.

"Shit," she swore again.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. Her fingers were warm on his, almost tingling, actually, and the hunter felt tension ease out of his shoulders and away from his mind like a handful of water he couldn't hold onto. As she dabbed at the cut, he received a glare – probably for laughing – but there was no heat in it, and it made him grin wider.

She had blue eyes to go with her blonde hair, and the immediate reminder of Jess threatened Sam's smile. The love of his life had glared at him like that, too. Only, she'd done it from about six inches higher.

The woman's grip still tingled and he laughed again, the painful thoughts drifting away like the rest of that handful of water. He felt lighter than he had in days. Too light to question it, actually. Maybe he'd grabbed a stronger beer than he'd thought.

"It's alright." He set his glass back down on the bar behind him, ignoring Mr. Tight Shirt, who was watching their commotion. Sam took the broken glass out of her hand and set it on the bar as well, even as she kept the napkin pressed to his injured one. "No harm."

"You're bleeding. I think that counts as at least some level of harm."

She had an accent; it was subtle, but Sam was used to picking up things about people quickly. Yiddish, maybe, though he was hardly an expert ear. It was unique, whatever it was.

The woman pulled the napkin away, examining the cut which had already slowed to a sluggish smear. She seemed to think about it for a moment before she relinquished his hand. "I suppose you'll live."

"I sure hope so." Sam chuckled, reaching back for his beer and shaking the last of her spilled drink off his fingers, ignoring the cut. It was minor – practically nothing – after all. "Can I get you a replacement?"

"Shouldn't I be buying you a drink?" The sass in her tone was nothing short of adorable, as was the way she crossed her arms over her chest, stance wide like all five feet, two inches of her were ready to fight him on it. The hunter had a feeling she'd kick his ass if he voiced as much, though. He also entertained the thought she might even succeed.

Short, but fierce, Sam noted with a grin.

"Mine didn't spill," he countered teasingly, raising the glass in a toast. It wasn't until he was taking a sip that he realized, with a mental jolt, he was flirting. That was what people did, in bars, at night, when they randomly bumped into each other, wasn't it? It was with a second jolt Sam realized he didn't feel nearly as bad about that as he thought he would.

He shouldn't though, should he? He wasn't cheating on Jess because she wasn't waiting on him. Because he wasn't coming back. And there was nothing wrong with a little flirting. It's not like he had any intention of turning this into something more. Just…enjoying himself, was all. Loosening up, like Dean said.

Plus, it was a good distraction from his current worries, which…didn't seem so worrisome right at that moment. Maybe his brother had been right; he just needed to relax. A distraction to get his mind off what he couldn't do anything about.

An… aesthetically pleasing distraction, he wasn't too shy to admit. She was cute: stout and curvy, in a tight black skirt and a sequined top that dipped low on a modest chest. Sam actually thought she looked uncomfortable in the shirt, like maybe it itched. He sympathized, even if he found it amusing. He particularly liked the pair of sneakers on her feet and what looked like some sketchily drawn eyeliner on her features which she'd tried to rub off instead of fix. Like she'd given up getting ready for the night halfway through the process. He could appreciate that in a girl.

"I'm Sam," he introduced himself, sticking out his "injured" hand.

The woman had a firm grip that matched her eyes and stance, but soft skin, and opened her mouth. Whatever she said in reply, however, was lost in the din as billiard balls smacked loudly into one another with a sharp break. Dean's triumphant cry of success – among a racket of anger – blocked out just about any other sound in the bar. Sam looked over at the pool table, where his brother was wearing the grin that usually got him punched or thrown out of places like this. More often than not with a wad of cash in his pocket.

The younger Winchester shook his head and turned back to the woman in front of him, trying to decipher what he'd made out through the noise. "Sorry, did you say 'Stephanie'?"

The corner of her mouth crooked up at him like he'd missed the inside of a particularly good joke. Before he could ask what that laugh might be, she said, "Call me Steph."

He nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the bar, Mr. Tight shirt no longer paying them any attention and the bartender off at the other end. Her broken glass had been taken away. "Are you sure I can't get you something?"

That smile turned more genuine. "No, but thanks. I was on my way out when I bumped into you. I should get going, actually. It was nice to meet you, Sam."

"Yeah, you too, Steph." Realizing that was that, with Stephanie already turning towards the door, Sam started forward a step and awkwardly tacked on, "Maybe I'll see you again? Uh, around town, I mean?"

'Jesus, just ask for her number, ya wuss!'

God, he was bad at this. He was really bad at this if his inner Dean was the one giving him advice. Granted, he hadn't had to deal with flirting in years. As is brother would tell anyone who would listen, he'd never been that great at it to start with.

She laughed and now he was certain she was making fun of him. "Maybe you will."

Still, he didn't really mind as she winked at him playfully and headed for the door. His hand was still tingling and he couldn't help the grin, despite his obvious fumble and overall awkwardness. Ah well, she'd been nice enough to meet. A good distraction, however temporary. He watched her disappear amid the bar crowd, then headed back to his table, drink in hand and worries temporarily forgotten in lieu of blonde hair, blue eyes, and a wicked smirk.

-o-o-o-

As Sam Winchester worked his way back through the establishment, the woman watched from the far end of the bar, path to the front door abandoned as she tracked the boy's progress. She glanced down at the cocktail napkin still in her hand, dotted red with his blood. False blue eyes glowed green for only a moment as she lifted the paper to her lips and sucked on the still fresh life force.

-o-o-o-

Dean got back to their table not long after Sam, neither bruised nor thrown out for once, with a fresh wad of cash in his hand. "Barely even had to shark them!" he announced gleefully, stealing Sam's beer and taking a hearty sip, much to his brother's protest. "Locals were over confident all on their own."

The older Winchester paused in sliding the glass back Sam's way, eyes narrowed on the kid. He had a goofy grin on his face and, even as he shook his head, he glanced over his shoulder towards the bar. Dean's eyebrows climbed towards his hair.

"I know that look. Did you get her number?" He scanned the place immediately, looking for whatever hottie got that stupid smile back on his brother's face. Sam just glared and Dean scrunched up his nose in defense. "What? Come one, are you gonna be celibate the rest of your life? It's been, like, ten months!"

"Eight and a half, Dean."

Green eyes narrowed as he eyed his brother up and down. "How are you even still alive?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Excuse me for not getting over the love of my life on a schedule more convenient for you."

Dean baulked, but it was mostly for show. He didn't bother digging back at his brother. Truth was, he may be twenty-seven years old again, but in actually, he was pushing the big 4-0 and he knew it. Even damn fine at thirty-eight and plenty capable of gettin' some (and unashamed to own it), Dean really hadn't gone after women like he used to. Not since Lisa.

'Yeah,' he thought, watching his brother with more understanding than he cared to admit. 'I feel you, kid.'

Of course, that didn't stop him from beaming the trademark Dean Winchester, 100-watt, I-am-your-older-brother-and-I-live-to-tease you smile. "So, did you get the standard seven, or did she give you a little five-digit action behind the bar?"

Ultimately, Sam decided his brother was missing a little bruising after all.

-o-o-o-

When the back door of the bar opened, the older man leaning against the side paneling in his worn jeans and farmer's flannel looked up from idly picking his finger nails. His eyes slitted yellow as a blonde haired, blue-eyed woman exited the bar, reaching up to silver charm hanging around her neck as she spotted him. Azazel pushed off the side of the bar with an expectant grin. "So what do you think? Some grade-A material right there, no?"

She yanked the necklace off, little silver charm dangling in the street light. Blonde hair bled into black, pale skin darkened to brown, and pretty blue eyes were overcome by an angry, glowing green. The woman chucked the jewelry at the demon, who caught it with a lazy smile, looking at the clever little thing.

"His blood has something foul in it." She crossed her arms over her chest, glare full of an unknown accusation.

Azazel pocketed the necklace. "Is it going to be a problem?"

Her eyes narrowed further, but his expression gave nothing away. "No. He is compatible."

"Great." Azazel started up a whistle as he turned his back to the bar and started across the parking lot.

"You realize this is not how it is done." The demon paused at the acerbic words, looking over his shoulder at the woman, her stance wide, hands fisted. "The ritual has never been performed on an adult."

Azazel turned fully around now, regarded her with a cant of his head, before he strolled almost nonchalantly into her personal space.

"Are you saying you can't do it?" His eyes flashed yellow as he loomed over her. "Because if you can't hold up your end of the bargain..."

"I am saying," she ground out between clenched teeth, "it has never been done before."

Azazel raised his hand and, were they human, it might be easy to misinterpret his intentions. A passerby might think he was readying to slap her. Instead, the demon twisted his wrist in an elegant little swirl and the thin gold chain from the motel reformed, this time around her neck, a length of slack dipping between them to connect to his wrist in a delicate little loop.

Those green eyes glowed fiercely, but she did not retaliate.

"I am sure I don't need to remind you of our deal, Princess." The demon lowered his hand, the little chain jingling. "You do as I say, you stay topside. If not, you got back into your hole."

"You going to drag me back yourself, demon?" She spat the word at him, fists tightening. Not that he had anything to fear from so mundane a weapon, or, indeed, any weapon she possessed. But, then, he hadn't sought her out for a weapon.

"Oh, I won't need to. A well placed rumor here, a little whisper there. I'm sure news of your freedom would reach those pesky uncles of yours in no time at all."

She might have hid it well, but Azazel was good at recognizing fear, and the woman reeked of it, soaked in fury as it was. Finally, she finally looked away. "I can do it."

"Great!" Azazel turned and started across the parking lot once more. Behind him, the woman frowned and did not move.

"Am I not binding him tonight?"

The demon didn't pause this time, already impatient as it was, and popped the last consonant as he answered, "Nope!"

"Why not?"

Azazel let out an aggravated and dramatized sigh. He stopped once more and turned back to the infuriating woman, though he maintained the space between them this time. More often than not when dealing with her, the demon wished he could strangle the creature to death. If he approached her now, the temptation might just be too strong.

They should have raised one of her siblings. If only Lilith had known where any of them had been buried instead.

"I don't believe questions were included in our deal."

Green eyes narrowed, that fear that had been so sweetly pungent moments before now cleverly hidden behind ferocity. She closed the distance between them, coming within his space, this time. He could appreciate the gall.

"Neither was my silence."

With that, she pushed past him and away from the bar, leading the way. Azazel grinned something feral, and decided maybe, just this once, he could strangle her after all. It's not like she'd die from it. The demon followed almost lazily until he'd caught up (his current host had significantly longer legs). He grabbed her by the elbow and then they were no longer outside.

He deposited her on the motel bed, enjoying the way she yelped as she nearly bounced clean off. Azazel unwound the chain from his wrist, securing it around the foot of the nightstand once more. With another wave, it disappeared from her neck and reformed around her ankle.

"Task number two is to watch the Winchesters. From afar." Picking the last of the Supernatural books off the bed, he tossed it into her lap just as she resettled on the mattress. He waggled a pointer finger at her. "No getting close, and no binding."

"How am I supposed to do that without the bond?" she spat back, tossing the book onto the covers. "They're hunters, and I am not invisible. They're going to notice."

Azazel just grinned, all teeth. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

With that, he turned and headed for the door, reveling in the fury radiating off of her. He supposed if he couldn't kill her, he could at least infuriate her as much as she did him. He left the motel room to something between a growl and a shriek from the creature, who scooped up the book and chucked it at after him. The Supernatural novel hit the back of the door as it closed behind him.

The woman sunk back onto the bed, crossing her arms and cursing the demon aloud in every language that she knew. It took a good long minute. She knew many languages. As she finally simmered, green eyes drifted down to the book, bent open and laying haphazardly in front of the door.

Huh, she thought, staring at the innocuous little thing. There was an idea.

-o-o-o-

The ringing coming from his jacket was hard to hear over the din of the bar, but Tom could feel it vibrating where his coat hung on the back of the bar seat. The demon set down the cocktail glass he was admiring, broken and jagged from the hit it had taken earlier that evening. Blood still stained one side, drying from where it had pierced Sam Winchester's skin. Tom grinned at it as he pulled out the phone, placing it to his ear without checking the number. Only one person had it, after all.

"Father."

"Tail the Winchesters." Azazel's voice was tinny through the speaker, particularly difficult to hear amid the noises around him, especially if one was human. But Tom was not. The demon glanced over his shoulder, spying the brothers at their table across the bar. "Don't engage and don't get caught. We're too close to the finish line to drag anyone's ass back out'a Hell. You get exorcised, you get left."

"It won't be a problem; I tagged their car. I can follow them from the motel."

"Unless they find the tracker." Azazel's voice was cold, unimpressed. "Do not underestimate them. Your sister made that mistake."

"I'm not her." Tom picked up the glass, tilting it and watching the now-matte blood change colors in the dim light. "And I have Sam Winchester's blood."

He could hear his father's grin and the pride in his voice. Finally. "That's my boy."

Tom hung up the call and finished his drink. He grabbed his coat, threw it on over the too-tight black t-shirt his vessel had chosen the day Tom had chosen him, and left the bar just behind the Winchesters, careful to keep his distance.

-o-o-o-

They got back to the motel close to eleven. The brothers were careful, expecting an ambush, but none presented. It was eerily quiet: entirely too still. The door to their room had been opened, the thin wire Dean placed between the door and the frame as he'd closed it that morning was now on the ground, but there was no demon inside. Either Azazel hadn't entered, or he'd used a human flunky to investigate the room.

Nothing was out of place, and if their wire trap hadn't shown that someone had, at the very least, opened the door, Dean would be lulled into a false sense of security by how damn untouched the room was. But he wasn't that naïve anymore.

They took the chip out of his phone, broke it in two and chucked the whole thing. Then the boys packed, loaded up the Impala, and left town. They'd call another hunter from the road to finish the case there.

As they drove away, they were careful to make sure they weren't being followed.

-o-o-o-

A rough thirty-two hours later, Chuck Shurley trudged tiredly to his front door way too early in the morning to answer a persistent knocking. He was expecting his mail lady, who always had a sharp, rapping knock, about as demanding and patient as the rest of her. He was not, however, expecting to open his front door to an equally severe looking woman whom he had never seen before in his life. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a business card in one hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Shurley, my name is Stephanie. Your publisher sent me."

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

A/Ns: Hehehe, I'm so excited about this, guys. Not only is so much stuff happening - stuff that has been planned for two friggin' years now - but this story needed more Chuck in it ;D

Up Next: Chuck and 'Stephanie' have a chat, we finally get to learn our mystery lady's real name, and God is not a happy camper about it. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean pull one over on Tom, unaware he's ready to pull one right back, as they head for Guthrie, Oklahoma to investigate a couple of suspicious suicides.