A/Ns: Boy, did I struggle getting this one up today, guys. Partly because I was very busy this week with RL which is being quite difficult lately and then Halloween prep for a party last night. But also partly because I was very listless today and it took me the entire day to edit this. Bah Humbug.

Posting Delay: I am off to paint a mural in my sister's nursery next weekend (I'm going to be auntie to another niece! (for anyone confused on turnaround times, it's two different sisters (okay, it's a sister and a best friend but, really, no difference there))) which I am very excited about. But it means I'll be very busy traveling and getting covered in paint, so they'll be a two week delay between this chapter and the next. Luckily, this is another very long chapter! And it doesn't even really have a cliffhanger for once! Well...mostly.

Chapter Warnings: Andy continues to have not good times! Because I'm apparently a monster. Dean and Sam are on their way, though. Not that it's going to end up helping, it turns out, because I am a monster.

Actual Chapter Warnings: Nothing as descriptive as last chapter, but there's a couple paragraphs involving some blood, of the spitting-up-oh-gross-my-throat-just-got-slashed-and-also-fried-and-it-turns-out-that's-quite-nasty variety.

-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 48

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

When Andy woke up he was alone, the sun was lower in the sky, it was freezing and absolutely none of that meant anything to him because he hurt. God, the pain in his neck was unbearable. Andy immediately tried to climb off the ground he was lying face down on. The movement alone had him doubling over as he got to his knees, forehead pressed to the dirt in a silent scream. Tears leaked from his eyes and he couldn't touch his neck – wanted to so badly, wanted to grab that stinging, stabbing, burning pain from chest to cheeks, rip it out of his skin and throw it far, far away – but he couldn't.

Oh god, it hurt. Death would have been better than this. He would have been fine with dying if it meant not waking up to this.

Andy's stomach heaved and he was damn lucky he hadn't eaten anything in more than a day and a half, because just the bile alone coming up through the damage almost knocked him back out. His vision whited as he hacked and spat onto the dirt. Globs of blood, both congealed and fresh, spattered the dirt like a Halloween rendition of the world's worst water balloon fight. Andy was pretty sure chunks of flesh came up too, given the gooey, bloody, disgusting mess beneath him and the additional searing, raw agony inside his throat.

Oh god, he was going to throw up again.

It was the longest five and a half minutes of Andy Gallagher's life. On his hands and knees, fingers clawing at the dirt, tears streaming down his face as he fought each panic attack that came with every bout of nausea, Andy tried to focus solely on breathing. But even that hurt. Everything hurt. His hands looked like they'd lost a fight with an overly aggressive paper shredder, his head was pounding, and his heart didn't feel right. It pounded away in his chest, way too fast and painfully hard beneath too-tight muscles. It kept skipping erratically, setting a harsh, unpredictable beat beneath his ribs.

Andy gave it a minute, and then another dozen, before he tried just a simple, single swallow. His fingers shook against the hard ground in anticipation of the pain, and the pain did not disappoint. His throat convulsed, neck straining as he unconsciously stretched his head forward to physical get away from the clamping sensation of his neck internally strangling itself. His eyes slammed shut, face and body clenching up at the fresh wave of pain, searing and unbearable. Oh god. Andy dug his fingers into the ground, dirt caking under his fingernails, and tried not to scream. Not that anything would come out if he did.

It took time – what felt like hours but was surely only minutes – for the pain to subside from an eleven back to a meagre nine, and Andy made a mental note to just not swallow. Or breathe Or move at all. How hard could that be?

Slowly, and with his eyes only, not daring to turn his head, Andy chanced a glance around him. He was still in Cold Oak, but he was alone. It was growing dark around him, the sun touching the tips of the trees that surrounded the mining town. The ground beneath his palms and lodged beneath his fingernails was hard and frigid. Far colder than when he'd woken up here the first time. Andy shivered in his t-shirt, wishing once again for the jacket he'd left behind in Rivergrove, blood stains and all.

He didn't see Amanda or Scott anywhere. Or Jonathon, for that matter, though he was significantly more relieved for that.

Even slower, and with still trembling limbs, Andy climbed to his feet. He kept his head stuck out in front of him like a turtle, moving his neck as little as possible as he got legs that felt like jelly beneath him. Gingerly, very gingerly, he reached shaking fingers up to prod around the least painful sections of skin on his lower neck. The damage was incredibly localized, but the pain wasn't. Just that light pressure on clear skin made him flinch, and he quickly pulled away. His fingers came back sticky with partially dried blood, and he looked – slowly – at the ground he'd been lying on.

There was a puddle of red already turning into an ugly brown, drying across the ground in a disturbingly large spread. Although it was speckled with the fresh blood he'd just spent the last however-hellishly-long coughing up, the majority of it didn't look fresh. Whatever Scott had done to him clearly stopped the bleeding, but given the pain he was in, it had also damn near killed him.

Still might, he figured.

Maybe that had been Scott's intention. Maybe he'd been trying to kill Andy. The psychic started to shake as he looked around again. He was still alone. If that was true, if Scott was just as bad as Jonathon, then Amanda was in danger, if she wasn't dead already. But Andy didn't know that for sure and, despite the possibility and overwhelming pain he was in, he didn't want to believe it. Scott hadn't seemed the type. Unlike Jonathon.

Yeah. In hindsight, turning his back on that one had been a serious misjudgment.

Andy stared at the two roads running through the abandoned town. There were four directions to choose from, and just the energy it would take to make that decision sounded exhausting. He needed to try and find Amanda and Scott. Try to learn what had happened after Jonathon attacked him. But the task seemed monumental. Insurmountable. It would be dark soon, he was unarmed and utterly unprepared to defend himself should Jonathon (or Scott (no, not Scott, he'd been trying to help, Andy was sure of it)) still be around. In fact, death pretty much awaited him in every shadowy doorway and darkened window. It really wouldn't take much at this point. The next stiff breeze had as good a chance of offing him as anything else, Andy figured.

Even now, alone in the cold and the dimming light, he was pretty damn close to passing out just from standing. There was no relief from the pain, which pulsed away at a steady, unbelievable nine. No give and take, surge or relief, and Andy really didn't know how much longer he'd be able to stay conscious. Keeping his feet under him and body upright was already possibly the hardest thing he'd ever done. Walking sounded so much worse. Searching was out of the question. Even breathing was a struggle, forcing air through the damage that burned and seared and cried for an end with every inhale. He was pretty sure his trachea was partially collapsed, if not sliced up and then somehow sealed shut in the most painful procedure ever. Andy shook just remembering the pain.

So now he was faced with a choice he never, ever wanted to make. A choice that wasn't even a choice, but still Andy faltered to make it. Dean had told him to survive. Whatever it took. And right now, he wasn't even sure he could make it out on his own. Half bled out, shaking like a leaf and about an inch and a half from being back on his ass, Andy knew he wouldn't be any good to Amanda or Scott even if he did find them.

That still didn't make leaving them behind any easier.

The Jedi stared at the town around him, water filling his eyes for an entirely different reason. Survivor's guilt was already kicking in, even though he certainly hadn't survived yet and didn't know the state of anyone else. Swallowing past the lump in his throat almost sent him to his knees. That was probably the only reason Andy managed to pick a direction at random and stagger down the road as fast as he could. He would head for the forest and his original plan to hike out of this Hell.

-o-o-o-

He found the skillet lying in the middle of the road two hundred feet from where he'd first woken up. There was no evidence of a struggle, no trail to follow or clues as to how it got there. Just an iron pan lying, abandoned, in the middle of an equally forgotten ghost town.

His fingers and resolve shook as Andy picked the weapon up from the ground, but he resumed his path for the trees.

-o-o-o-

There was something in the forest with him.

Andy was sure of it. He'd left the town behind, surrounded on all sides by endless trees that only grew more ominous with each inch of light lost. His breath puffed out in clouds of misty white as dusk fell around him, and he'd spent the last fifteen minutes of his walk rubbing at his bare, goose-pimpled arms. At least he was still cold. That was good. Awful. But good. Andy knew it was when he stopped feeling the cold that the real danger of hypothermia set in.

The ground was hilly, more than he'd hoped when he'd first set out of the relatively flat mining town. In the limited light, he struggled over the uneven terrain, rocks and roots catching at his feet from under a thick carpet of dead leaves. He'd fallen once, and that was just about the worst experience of his entire life (not really, but he wasn't in a mood to reflect on the actual worst experience of his life). The landing had jarred his entire body and snapped his chin right into his neck.

Andy had curled up into a pathetic little ball and cried. Cried and cried and cried on the hard ground and wet leaves, and it hadn't even made him feel better. Mucus gathered thick in his raw, swollen throat, causing him to choke and hack up more blood and flesh. He wasn't even ashamed of his breakdown at this point. He was so far past that. This sucked, and as far as he was concerned, could end any damn time now.

Only, no, it really couldn't, because a branch snapped behind him and to the left, at least a dozen feet away. But that was about six thousand feet too close, and Andy was back on his jelly legs in a heartbeat, that heart beating its new, terrified, erratic rhythm as he surveyed the trees. It seemed that survival instinct had once more won out against his morose acceptance of the inevitable end. Andy couldn't decide if he was glad or annoyed. Mostly he was just exhausted.

Still eyeing the empty woods around him, knowing something was there even if he couldn't see it, Andy pulled out his phone and checked service for the third time. Still nothing. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, concerned about his slowly draining battery. Concerned about a lot of things, really.

It took a lot, most of what he had left, to get his feet moving again. To turn his back on whatever it was that was following him, and hope it wasn't hungry. At this point, though, he was focusing all his good will and happy thoughts on it just being normal. Like a raccoon. Or rabid, vicious wolf.

The next branch to snap a handful of minutes later was accompanied by the giggle of a small child and Andy froze.

Oh god. Oh god oh godohgod.

That was not a rabid wolf. Damnit, why couldn't it have just been a feral, bloodthirsty, dangerous animal?

'Because you're a Winchester,' Dean's voice rang out in his head, a memory of something he'd told Sam once when the younger brother had gotten a little tipsy and pessimistic one night in a motel in the middle of a nowhere hunt. He'd rambled on about the end of the world until Dean had gotten fed up, more hurt than angry, but with Dean it wasn't easy to tell. 'Our lives suck, it ain't fair, but we deal with it. Cuz we're Winchesters.'

The words had been for Sam, but Andy couldn't help but resonate with them. He wasn't a Winchester, but his life had sucked, it sure as hell hadn't felt fair, and the brothers had been there for him through it. They'd become oddly like family over the last so many months. More family than Andy had ever really had before. His adopted father was a decent man, but Andy kinda had a feeling any real bond they might have had died in that house fire along with the man's wife. He had raised Andy, but he hadn't been a father so much as a guardian. And he wasn't even going to talk about the evil twin brother thing.

While Andy sure as hell hadn't been happy chasing monsters and running from demons after losing the only person who'd ever truly cared for him, he'd still gotten something he'd never had before. He'd been a part of something, at least. He'd mattered. At least, Sam and Dean had made him feel like he did.

'They'll never know what happened,' Andy thought, fear freezing his legs and something a lot closer to sorrow tightening in his chest. 'They're coming, Dean said they would come, but even if they do they'll never find me. I'll be dead and rotting in some god forsaken forest!'

The anger in that, knowing the look that would cross Sam's face when they found nothing but an empty town, the fury that would overtake Dean until he started destroying whatever was closest until Sam got through to him, gave Andy a new resolve. A determination to live. To spare his brothers – more than Weber could have ever been – that pain. And if he didn't live, he'd sure as hell go down fighting like they would.

The Winchester's resident Jedi spun around, one hand fisted around the skillet, raising it defensively, the other reaching up to hover protectively over his neck. He couldn't help it, the thought of taking any more damage there terrified him more than death itself, he was pretty sure. But he would face whatever the hell was stalking him like a true Winchester. Stalking him and giggling. Creepy ass mother fucker.

There was nothing there when he turned. Andy wasn't really surprised, though he'd certainly worked himself into a tense, shaking mess. One thing he'd learned from fighting the supernatural was that even monsters wanted to make an entrance. So he kept his weapon raised, eyes surveying the darkening woods around him, and waited.

A light breeze, just the errant movement of air, across his back raised the hairs on his neck and Andy tensed. Slowly – god, so slowly – he turned again.

It was a little girl. A little girl with dirty blonde hair, an askew bow tying her tangled bangs back, and rags of clothing that might have once passed for a dress. A little Frontier girl standing two feet in front of him, staring up at him with innocent, dark eyes.

Oh, great.

Andy swallowed. A creepy…ghost, maybe? Andy hoped it was a ghost. Ghosts were nothing to scoff at, but at least some of them weren't homicidal. And iron worked against them. Iron was what he had. All he had. Andy's grip on the skillet tightened.

Her eyes suddenly glossed over with a metallic sheen, the surrounding skin darkened to a terrifying black, like miniature black holes sucking her eyes into her skull, and her fingers lengthened into savage claws.

Oh god, definitely not a ghost!

The thing hissed and Andy scrambled backwards as she swiped at him. Her claws sliced into the iron skillet as he blocked her attack with it, creating a burst of sparks and the creature's entire hand exploded into smoke. She screamed – a high pitch, terrible, deafening noise that Andy would have sooner associated with a harpy than a… whatever she was – and flew backwards. The little girl didn't even bother with feet, just shot backwards, edges of her body blurring and fading into wisps of smoke.

A demon, Andy thought. Reactive to iron, body made of dark grey, blackish smoke. Wanted bloody murder and screamed for it. Yup. Definitely a demon. Probably a demon. Okay, Andy's guess was just about as good as a rock's at this point, but he didn't see anyone else around to offer suggestions. He was going with demon.

His hand shook around the skillet as he stared at the shifting body of a mostly corporeal and absolutely terrifying little girl. The smoke flowing from her wrist like a fog machine solidified into a hand, snapping into place in the same beat as the dread formed in Andy's stomach.

She launched another attack with a horrific screech, feigning right. Andy met that claw with the skillet, only to realize the trap too late. She latched onto his wrist with her other hand and slashed across his forearm. The hunter cried out, muscles in his arm spasming as flesh tore open beneath the onslaught. His tightly fisted hand, tendons straining under the weight of the heavy pan, flexed all on their own. The skillet dropped to the forest floor.

Andy tried to stagger back, knowing a second attack was coming and he was wide open for it, utterly unprotected. His t-shirt ripped beneath her claws as she made for a second swipe, but he managed to stumble away with nothing more than raised, red scratches across his chest and no broken skin. Thank god; he'd had enough of being clawed up and bleeding out to last a life time.

She jerked towards him again, clawing wildly back and forth as he dodged each swing the best he could. Whatever she was, she was fast. Fast enough to nick him more than once. Fast enough for Andy to realize, pretty quickly, that she was playing with her food. She kept him away from the only weapon that could harm her, abandoned and useless among the leaves. All Andy could do was keep his hand over his damaged throat to protect the one place he knew he couldn't take a hit. But he couldn't keep this up forever, and she knew it.

His left heel caught on a rock and he very nearly fell, staggering to keep on his feet. There was no way he could keep this up. Eventually he'd trip, or misjudge the distance, or she'd get tired of toying with him and just charge.

It was the right foot this time, tripping over an exposed root, that almost sent him down on his ass. This time, though, the little girl caught up with him. Andy cried out as he gained four new, freshly bleeding wounds across his thigh. He knew from experience now that they weren't serious, but they hurt. Everything hurt! He was clawed up and bleeding from numerous cuts and gashes. He was so damn done with bleeding out! He couldn't talk, he had nothing to defend himself with, he was useless, and he was going to die in some Podunk backwoods where no one would ever find him or know what happened.

The stupid little girl just grinned, holding her hands up like she was showing off how he would die. And he knew he was going to die. Worst twenty-four hour second chance to live, ever. The creature, whatever she was, launched herself at him one last time, and Andy, royally pissed off and utterly done, threw the hand covering his throat out in front of him like he could halt her with a friggin' traffic signal.

'Stop!'

He screamed it inside his head with everything he had left, loud enough that an instantaneous headache split his skull and Andy ended up clutching at his temples. The pressure there was unbelievable and the psychic staggered, trying to keep to his feet under the onslaught. Blood dripped down his nose. He could taste it on his lips. Had the little girl got him in the head or something? This was…god, this was worse. Way worse. How could this possibly be worse? He took it back, let him bleed out!

But as the pain started to subside enough that he could at least see straight, a second attack never came. He lowered his hands cautiously, expecting to find them once more spattered with blood. But they were clean. Well, they were filthy, running around in an abandoned down, napping in the dirt, sprawling on leaves, spitting up blood and covered in a dozen or more defensive wounds, but they weren't coated in the fresh, sticky red he'd expected.

Andy's eyes flicked hesitantly to the little girl, terrified of what he'd find. Another attack as soon as he made eye contact, or maybe even worse. But she was still in the same spot, the edges of her form wispy and her feet completely dissolved into dark grey, coiling smoke. The edges of her body spasmed as she stood there, more of her appearance lost to smoke before it would convalesce back into a little school girl. It seemed to be a cycle, like a record skipping. But she…she was just standing there. Er, floating there. Watching him with weirdly expectant eyes. Like she was waiting for something.

Andy took a step back, and then another. The girl – was it a demon? The smoke was kind of demon-esque – didn't move. Just watched him with glinting, dangerous eyes set in a blank face.

The Jedi hunter blinked. Then blinked again.

Had…had she stopped because he'd told her to? Or was this just a trick? Pointless trick, really…. She'd had him. He'd been good as dead, and now she was just…floating.

'Can you…hear me?' he thought very cautiously, not really sure what he wanted the answer to be.

The little girl blinked metallic eyes but didn't move, and Andy thought…holy shit.

Holy. Mother of Effing. Shit.

He was shaking again, but shaking was great. Shaking meant he wasn't dead. Wasn't bleeding out in the frenzied attack and spray of blood and pain that he'd fully expected to be his end. Andy raised a trembling arm and wiped his bleeding noise with the back of his hand, still staring disbelievingly at the demon.

Holy shit.

Andy took another unsteady step backwards, but the demon (probably a demon…) didn't move. Growing more daring, the hunter tried for a step to the left. Then another. It wasn't until he tried one forward (diagonal, actually. No way in Hell was he getting closer to the thing that had definitely almost killed him) did the demon shift. Her form broke, giving way to smoke which shifted and shuddered and swirled, reforming into a little girl back in front of him. She bared her teeth, but still didn't advance. Didn't raise those claws or attack him. Just…blocked his way.

'Let me pass,' he thought, swallowing roughly through fear and pain. He remembered what Weber had been capable of. What he'd made Tracy do without uttering a word. What he'd promised to teach Andy. Well, his goatee-less evil twin could suck it. It looked like he'd figured it out all on his own. And all it had taken was almost dying. Twice. Twice and a half (the throat thing totally counted.)

The little girl bared her teeth again, smoky edges vibrating with displeasure. Andy could tell she didn't like that order one bit.

'Let me pass,' he repeated, trying to keep his thoughts firm. He was in charge. He was in charge.

She hissed, head jerking forward in displeasure and Andy scrambled back a half dozen feet before he could stop himself.

Yeah. Right. He was in charge. And also the Queen of England.

Hands shaking, Andy gathered every last inch of false confidence he'd ever possessed, and straightened up, shoulders back and chest out.

'Let me pass!'

"Hungry!" the thing suddenly hissed, breaking apart in a mini smoke explosion had Andy damn near wet his pants at the realization that it could talk. Jesus. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and Andy shuddered. "Want blood!"

'Yeah, well, you're not getting mine,' he bit back darkly, not even sure the demon could really hear it. Or understand. But the way she sort of imploded back into the shape of a little girl, whose glittering eyes shifted over Andy's shoulder to the woods behind him and the town beyond that, made Andy think she had heard him just fine.

She was setting her sights on the food she could have.

'No.' Andy moved an inch to the right, into the demon's eyeline, blocking her view from whatever she was contemplating. And given the glint in those eyes, Andy really, really didn't want to know. Amanda and Scott could still be back there. Or in the woods. He couldn't let this thing go after them.

"Hungry!"

'No!' Andy yelled again, his head exploding with pain at the furious cry. The demon's smoke form burst back out, edges vibrating in contained anger, but she didn't move. Andy's shoulders sagged under the tension in his neck and head, the pain partially whiting out his vision, but he pushed through it. With a hand to his forehead, pressing back against the explosion contained behind his skull, he straightened up and glared at the creature for all he was worth. 'They're just kids!'

But the demon didn't care, and Andy could tell he was losing his tentative control over her. Okay…Okay maybe a compromise. She clearly needed…uh…blood (Andy was not thinking about that. He wasn't, he really, really wasn't). Maybe there was another solution. Morally speaking, not a great one, but Andy was running a little low on options and a lot low on patience, energy, and fucks.

'Okay,' he thought, eyeing the demon warily. 'Okay, you can kill, but only Jonathon. Only the one who tried to hurt the others. You only get him.'

Andy was offering up another human being on a silver platter. Jonathon. His life for Andy's. For Amanda's and Scott's. Maybe, if they were still alive, if Jonathon hadn't gotten them yet or if they'd managed to escape, the decision might even save their lives.

…Yeah. He was okay with that. Sort of. Mostly.

'You let the others leave,' he added, realizing that orders to a demon probably had to be pretty damn specific. Loopholes had probably been invented in Hell.

The demon bared her teeth again, wispy edges agitated. She didn't particularly sound or look like she was pleased with this arrangement. But after a minute (a damn tense eternity), the smoke convalesced fully back into the little girl, solid as any living, breathing kid. Then she smiled. The freakiest, creepy smile Andy had ever seen in all his life and would surely have nightmares about for years to come.

For a terrifying moment, Andy wondered if he'd just screwed himself. His hands weren't exactly clean. He'd hurt people; he'd killed people.

But the thing just giggled – giggled, the sound echoing in the empty trees, and yup, Andy was definitely going to have nightmares – and smoked away, zigzagging back towards town in an eager stream of grey and black.

Andy turned to watch it, not quite ready to believe that was the end of it. That he was safe. For now, at least. The last of the adrenaline that had definitely, absolutely just saved his life, was draining, and fast. Shivers wracked his frame and, once they started, he couldn't make them stop. Andy wrapped his arms around himself in a pathetic hug – it did little – and gave it another minute – gave himself another minute – before he started moving again. He picked up the skillet, having to waste precious seconds and even more precious energy searching the leaves for it. It felt even heavier in his hands, and Andy wondered how long he'd be able to carry it.

The hunter moved at as fast a pace as he could manage, limping on his newly bleeding thigh, and watching the ground with the kind of concentration that bordered on obsessive. He was pretty sure if he went down again he wouldn't be getting back up.

He just had to make it out. Out into the world of cell service, shotguns, demon-warded Impalas, and Sam and Dean.

-o-o-o-

The Winchesters were gunning down a barely paved single lane road Dean remembered well. If you'd asked the man from 2016, he never, in a million years, would have ever thought he'd be flying down this road again at borderline dangerous speeds beneath quickly darkening skies in hopes of rescuing a missing brother from Cold Oak a second time.

With his luck, he'd be doing it a third time when they went after Sam.

"Anything?" he asked, glancing sideways as his brother lowered the phone from his ear, shaking a mop of brown hair.

"Still not going through," Sam answered, voice tinged with frustration and worry. They'd hoped as they got closer and closer to the abandoned mining town and still had service themselves that they might reach Andy. They weren't talking about the possibility that his phone was dead, possibly along with its owner.

A ringtone bursting out in the dead silence of a tense car caused both Winchester's to jump. The younger practically fumbled the phone in his hand in an attempt to answer it, telling himself it was just going to be Bobby, not to get his hopes up, but as he turned the phone over it was Andy's name and goofball face flashing up at him. The kid had stolen Sam's phone a month ago, when the younger Winchester had been on a food run, and taken about three dozen selfies. Half of them had been with a trying-to-act-annoyed-but-actually-more-annoyed-that-he'd-never-thought-to-do-this-himself Dean in the background. As punishment, Sam made one of those pictures his contact photo for the idiot.

"Andy!" Sam yelled as he hit the green call button, immediately switching the phone to speaker so his brother wouldn't crash the Impala trying to listen in.

The line crackled with static. It was very obvious the connection was shoddy. Wherever Andy was, it was right on the edge of a tower, and Sam immediately worried they might lose him again. But there was something else down the line. They could hear the background noises of a person moving – walking through undergrowth – and heavy, labored breathing.

A long, utterly irritated noise – a frustrated huff – broke the minimal sounds coming from the other end of the line, and Sam and Dean shared a worried look. The frustration in that breath of air was worrying but, worse, it was damn near heartbreaking for the Winchesters, who could tell something was very wrong.

"Andy?" Dean tried, clenching his hands around Baby's wheel and trying not to imagine one of a thousand terrible, horrible scenarios for why their friend wasn't – couldn't – answer them. "Andy, man, you there?"

They got a series of noises, almost grunts, that were desperate and pained, like someone struggling to speak, and Dean's stomach dropped straight through the seat to be left sitting on the road miles behind them. But then a new noise – an exclamation of air alone that could only be described as a non-syllabic eureka – came down the line, followed by shuffling, more huffing, and then the sound of a tree branch snapping, right next to the phone if the volume of it was anything to go by.

"Andy?" Sam tried again, equally worried as his brother about what condition their friend was in that left them with a mostly on-sided phone call. At least the latest noises, a shift from frustrated pain to invested pain (not much of an improvement, but Winchesters took what they could get), steered them away from worrying that Andy might not be alone on the other end. That this was a ransom call instead of a rescue. Or a butt dial during a life or death struggle. "We can't really hear you. Are you hurt? Where are you?"

A series of taps – short and flat – started coming through the phone. Dean took his eyes off the road to stare at the device. It sounded like…like Andy was tapping something against the phone. Sam blinked down at it, equally confused.

"Andy, man, talk to us. You still there?" Dean voice cracked with a whole new level of concern as he glanced at Sam.

But the younger Winchester was staring at the phone, brow furling as the taps kept right on coming. Suddenly, the younger hunter was a flurry of movement, reaching into the backseat for his backpack and digging through it as he talked into the phone, "I got it, Andy, we hear you! Hang on, let me grab something to write on!"

"Sam?" Dean asked, bouncing his attention between the road, his brother, and their injured friend coming through the phone. That attention was no nowhere near equally (or safely) split. "What's going on?"

"Morse code!" Sam exclaimed fervently as he landed back in his seat, a worn notebook and pen in hand. He tore the cap off with his teeth, spitting it out to be found at a much less important date. "He's tapping Morse code. He's trying to talk."

Dean frowned, but the minute the taps started up again, he realized Sam was right. "Son of a bitch. Andy, keep going. Where are you?"

The taps stopped, then started up again, and Sam wrote out each letter. Thank god both kids were total nerds, Dean thought.

"Cold Oak," was the first thing out of Sam's mouth as he got the word almost completed on the open page.

"Okay, man, we're already on our way. Ten minutes out, Andy. We're coming for you." Dean leaned over to speak closer to the phone, voice almost at a shout, which was completely unnecessary. Andy could clearly hear them, he just couldn't talk back. The amused, if not still frustrated huff they got in return was evident of that. Dean lowered his voice, but remained leaning into the passenger seat, all but talking into Sam's hand with eyes still (mostly) on the road. "You keep walking, we'll find you. Are you hurt? Why can't you talk? Are you safe? Or being followed?"

"One question at a time, Dean," Sam admonished from the passenger seat, knowing that they'd only get confused. "Andy, are you hurt?"

But the kid was already tapping back, and as Sam recorded the responses and read them aloud, 'K', 'Yes', 'Throat', 'Safe', and a long pause, then 'ish'. Dean couldn't help but laugh. Andy was still Andy, and the relief alone flooded Dean like friggin' morphine. Or really good pie.

"Okay. Okay, buddy, hang tight, keep walking, we'll be there in no time."

The tapping started up again, this time faster and a little more frantic.

"Hang on, hang on," Sam muttered, trying to keep up with the taps and translate multiple words into a half-stringed sentence filled with short hand. "Okay, wait, Dean, he's not in the town. He's in the woods."

The Impala came to a stop with screeching breaks and a painful lurch to the passengers within. Sam didn't say anything, but he did have to catch himself on the dash to keep from meeting the windshield up close and personal.

"Shit, does he know where he is?"

Another huff of air through the phone was easily interpreted as, 'He right here and can hear you, you know.' Dean ignored it as the tapping started up once more and he watched Sam's hand intently on the open page of the notebook.

The long answer was something about southwest out of Cold Oak and an approximation of how far he'd walked. The short answer was Dean dug out his phone, pulled up the network website on a data stream so slow he almost chucked the phone through the windshield multiple times, and activated the GPS on Andy's phone, complete with a map of his location. They'd probably ring up a small fortune in data charges, but Dean didn't give a shit about that right now and it wasn't like they planned to pay them anyway.

"Okay, Andy, you're about a half mile from the road we're on," Sam translated Dean's bark of 'go left' into something the clearly exhausted and hurting kid could actually use. It was the younger Winchester's turn to lean into his brother, reading off his phone. "Head to your left, as much of a ninety degree turn as you can, and just keep walking. Even if you don't manage a straight line, you'll hit the road."

A long tap, a short tap, and a long tap followed.

"K," Sam translated aloud, not that Dean needed him to for that one.

The older Winchester slid the car back into drive and handed his phone to Sam, GPS location of the Andy's cell still pulled up. They would track it as they drove and meet him wherever he came out. Sam kept a running dialogue to the silent kid on the other end of the phone, Andy only stopping his trek through the woods when responding was imperative.

Six minutes later, Andy tapped that his battery was about to die. A minute and forty five seconds later the call dropped. Sam and Dean sat in a tense, rigid silence for the remainder of the drive, Sam's eyes locked on the GPS location of Andy's phone, blinking steadily on Dean's cell and moving ever so slightly every couple of refreshes. Dean kept glancing over, if only to confirm the little red dot was still there. Eventually, the Winchesters came to a point in the road closest to that marker, and Dean slid the Impala into idle.

It was the longest four minutes Dean had sat through in a long, long time. Then Andy was stumbling out of the woods to their left, onto the road a hundred feet ahead of them, right into the beam of Baby's headlights.

"Andy!"

Both Winchesters were out of the car, running to him before he could even turn their way. He was carrying something heavy in his left hand, dangling from fingers barely able to grip its weight. It was an old frying pan – an iron skillet – and it hit the ground with a heavy, flat clang as Andy spotted them. The kid was a wreck. His clothes were torn and dirty, his skin equally so. Multiple cuts and scratches marred his bare arms and face, and his neck-

"Oh god," Sam whispered as they got close enough to really see the full extent of the damage. There was something wrong with Andy's neck. Really, really, terribly wrong. Dried blood covered most of his throat, the neckline of his t-shirt completely soaked through with it, and beneath the blood, the skin was…it…was…melted.

Andy's legs gave out beneath him as soon as they reached him, most likely out of relief, and the Winchester's caught him, lowering him to his knees. His teeth were chattering, arms covered in goosebumps, and shit, he was in nothing more than a goddamn t-shirt.

"Jesus, kid," Dean breathed out, eyes locked on his neck even as he shucked off his jacket and his flannel, wrapping the kid in them. It was fucking November in South Dakota, for Christ's sake. Sam helped Andy get his arms through, and the shivering Jedi hugged the newfound warmth tightly to himself. He opened his mouth to respond, lips moving wordlessly, nothing but puffs of air coming out, before he frowned, the frustration on his face quickly morphing into so much more. Desperation and fear and pain and hurting.

Sam grabbed him by the shoulders, large hands curling over shaking, drooping shoulders like a gentle giant, trying to anchor him. They'd both been there. That realization that you'd survived. That the ordeal was over, but you shouldn't have made it. Never thought you would. And now you had to deal with everything you'd shoved to the side just to get through. It all came flooding back, and that could be just as terrifying, just as overwhelming and gut wrenching and heartbreaking as the ordeal itself.

"It's okay, Andy. It's okay. You're safe, and it's going to be okay. Just breathe." Sam kept the contact to just his hands on Andy's shoulders, not wanting to risk more out of concern for any post-traumatic reactions or injuries they didn't know about. And he definitely wanted to steer clear of that neck wound. God, he could see cartilage, matte and glaringly white through patches of abused, bright red, glossy skin.

Something had melted Andy's damn neck. No wonder the kid couldn't talk.

Sam looked at his brother. They needed to get him a hospital. This was far beyond their ability as hunters to handle. Andy needed professional help, major help, and soon. Dean understood the look, glancing back the hundred feet to his still idling baby.

"Andy, are you hurt anywhere else? Is your neck the worst?"

Sam patted down the kid's chest as gently as he possibly could, barely even putting pressure on his stained and ragged shirt, let alone skin or muscle. The slashes he'd last seen in Andy's shirt, sliced across his chest and soaked red, were no longer there. He had a whole new set of injuries and none of the old.

Andy started to shake his head, grimacing immediately as the movement pulled at his brutalized neck. He reached up towards it, but hesitated at the last minute, choosing not to touch it. Instead, he held the same hand out, palm flat, and shook it back and forth as a surrogate 'no' instead.

Sam met Dean's eyes and nodded. The older Winchester rose to his feet and took off ahead of them for the car, intent to drive her the remaining distance and get Andy the hell away from here. Sam started moving towards getting the kid back on his feet.

"Okay, we're gonna get you out of here. Can you stand?"

Andy gave him a look that told him to stop asking him questions he couldn't answer, but flapped the hand up and down as a 'yes' of sorts. The kid let Sam pull him up, the younger Winchester supporting his weight well before Andy actually got on his feet. Dean had reached the Impala and gunned her forward the last hundred feet, at way too fast a speed given the short distance. The car lurched forward as he slammed on the breaks, threw her into park, and hopped out to get the back door open.

But as Sam guided their injured friend towards the backseat, Andy put the brakes on, suddenly digging his heels in and shaking his hand back and forth frantically. Sam blinked back at him, momentarily at a loss.

"What is it?"

"Come on, kid," Dean urged, gesturing to the open rear door. "Let's get the hell out of here."

But Andy kept shaking his hand in lieu of shaking his head, insistently if not a little hysterically. He wouldn't move any closer to the car, and instead gestured with a thumb down the road. Back towards the ghost town he'd just escaped from.

"You want to go back?" Sam asked, at first incredulous. But, as Andy paled at the question, Sam adjusted his words and tone to be softer. "We need to go back?"

The hand flapped yes again, Andy's dark brown eyes filled with pain and exhaustion and fear, but the latter was taking over and Sam suddenly realized it wasn't all for himself. The younger Winchester straightened as the full situation dawned on him – Andy's injuries, the state of him, his panic – and looked down the dark and empty road towards Cold Oak.

"There are others. Other kids," he realized quietly, looking back to their resident Jedi, who kind of sagged in his arms as he got it. Sam swallowed thickly. Azazel's Battle Royale had begun, and he couldn't help wondering what state those kids could possibly be in if Andy was this bad off.

They were probably dead. He didn't want to say it, could see that it would break Andy to hear it. But then, it didn't matter if they were, the younger Winchester realized. They couldn't just leave them in that place. And if they were alive, they needed the rescue as much as Andy.

Dean stared between his younger brother and his younger, younger (actually they were the same age) surrogate brother. The dawning horror of the exact same realization and what Andy was asking them to do fought for control of Dean's expression, warring with the need to get the kid somewhere safe, somewhere with help. His duty as a hunter was now battling his sole purpose as a big brother.

"Andy, we need to get you help. We'll come back," Sam tried to reason, realizing Dean wasn't going to be able to say that in anything even remotely resembling reason or calm. As soon as he'd said it, though, it became clear it was the wrong thing to say. Andy's shoulders hunched with a sob he tried to fight down, but forced its way out of his throat. The sound raw and painful, and he practically choked on it. Sam kept the poor kid from doubling over, still supporting most of his weight, and Dean took an aborted step towards him, concern and helplessness stretched across his face.

Andy started gesturing frantically, lips moving but nothing coming out, tears streaming down his face and Sam didn't understand. Their friend was breaking down, but all Sam could do was keep the kid upright. It was Dean that finally got it. Dean, the older brother who'd had to make the same choice Andy made, more than once, and saw it in his eyes.

He grabbed the kid by the bicep, waiting until a dirt and tear streaked face met his. "Hey, it's not your fault, Andy. You did what I told you to do. You survived."

Devastated brown eyes closed, face crumpling as water leaking free from crinkled corners. Dean would have hugged the kid if he didn't think it would only cause more pain.

"Okay," the older Winchester muttered, squeezing Andy's arm with a decisive nod. He gestured to the back seat with his head. "Get in. We'll go back for them. But you're staying in the car."

Andy's eyes snapped open, his body rigid with tension and eyes frozen wide in clear fear. Sam, still supporting him with one hand on his back, felt the change immediately and tensed as well. Andy's pulse was rocketing. Sam could almost feel his heart race beneath his skin.

"Andy?" he prodded, looking at the kid with worry. But Andy's breathing was staggering, coming way too fast, he was shaking his head in short, aborted gestures, the mangled skin of his throat pulling with each movement. Sam recognized the signs of a panic attack a mile away. There was the PTSD he'd been waiting for and the cause was obvious. "Breathe, Andy. It's okay, you don't have to go back there, okay? We won't take you back."

The poor kid was still trembling, but nodded, then winced in regret, and flapped his hand up and down.

Dean glanced at Sam, frustration formed more from confusion than actual anger. "Alright, we'll head for the hospital."

Andy's grip on his forearm immediately said 'no,' to that option, and Dean actually growled.

"Kid, if you won't leave and you won't go back, what do you want me to do? Those are your options!" But Andy just stared up at him, all stupid big, scared eyes that made Dean's big brother heart squeeze so, so damn painfully. Realization that there was, in fact, a third option caused the anger, boiling just beneath the surface and having nothing to do with the kid, to take over, as was wont to happen with the older Winchester. "We're not leaving you here, Andy."

The psychic flinched at the suggestion, the sound of it so much worse than the mere thought had been inside his mind, but Andy canted his head ever so slightly (actually he went too far, winced, winced again from the first wince, righted his head, and mentally told himself to stop doing that.) Dean let out another, louder growl.

"We are not leaving you here," he repeated, firmly, like the first time must not have been clear enough. "Not an option. It's not happening.'

Yes, it was. It had to, Andy insisted. Scott and Amanda needed the Winchesters. Andy had left them. No matter what Dean said, he'd left them for his own safety. Well, he was safe now (-ish) and they weren't. And that was his fault. He was the one who'd run his mouth about their powers, he was the one who'd turned his back on a clearly psychotic kid. He was the one that had taken responsibility for them, who'd told them they'd find a way out. He was the hunter, he was the one who'd known what was going on. He'd known when he'd found them that he had to be responsible for them. A choice he'd made, knowingly. And he'd failed them.

But his limbs shook and his heart pounded, still skipping a beat when it shouldn't, still hurting and not quite right beneath a too-tight chest, at the thought of going back to that town. That town with a man who had slit his throat, with a demon roaming its streets, streets soaked in blood. Andy's blood. He knew it wasn't logical. He knew what fear and trauma did to the mind. He understood that, and because he thought he understood it, he also thought he should be able to control it. Push it to the side for the twenty minutes it would take to go back to Cold Oak and save Amanda and Scott. It's what the Winchesters would do. He could freak out later, Andy told himself. Tried to tell himself. But his body wasn't having it, and he hated himself for it.

And, beneath all of that, there was just…nothing. He had nothing left in the tank, no fight left in him and no energy, either. He couldn't go back there. He knew he couldn't. He wouldn't survive. He'd barely survived the first time. And as much as death had seemed okay an hour ago in the face of a blood-thirsty demon, five hours ago when he was being electrocuted in the middle an abandoned town, twenty-four hours ago as he bled out in a school in Rivergrove – hell, even if it still sounded somewhat okay as he stood, rescued and safe (ish) with these two men he'd somehow come to adopt as family – his body wasn't moving from his spot. Wasn't facing death down again.

The Winchesters could, though. They could survive anything. And if Scott and Amanda were alive to be saved, Sam and Dean would save them.

'You have to go,' he thought, speaking the words even when no sound came out. Dean didn't seem to hear him, not like the demon had, but the words on his lips were enough. Either Dean could read them or he just understood.

"Andy, we can't leave you here," he said, softer this time. The kid was hurt. Bad. And he was still shaking, even in Dean's extra layers. That wasn't all from fear. Andy was pale – too pale – and had spent hours in near freezing temperatures in nothing but a t-shirt and what looked like significant blood loss. He needed help. They needed to get him help. "I won't do it."

The kid just held out a thumbs up and offered a wary, weary, watery smile that was more misery than encouragement, but suck it, he was tired.

'I'll be okay, Dean.'

The older Winchester wanted to bury his hands in his hair and pull every last strand out. But he looked at Sam and could already see that they were going to do it. This insane, stupid, reckless, terrible, no good, dumbass thing. They were hunters, all three of 'em. Saving people was what they did. Saving themselves was something they sucked balls at, always had.

Dean growled low in his throat, but started pulling Andy by his arm towards the nearest tree. He tossed his head towards the Impala and called out over his shoulder, "Sam, get the salt."

The younger Winchester nodded, already on the move as Dean got Andy settled at the base of the largest tree just off the road. He helped Andy lower himself back onto the ground and the kid gingerly leaned against the trunk, realizing Dean's intention. The older Winchester hesitated for a second, staring down at him, before he shook his head with another noise close to a growl, and jogged back onto the road. Dean swiped up the iron skillet Andy had dropped, walking back to the downed hunter.

"Iron," he said, like the word was a weapon all itself, and shoved the skillet into Andy's arms and against his chest. The way his hand held it there against the kid was a clear indication that he expected Andy to keep it on him. Like a shield. Andy just offered that same weak smile and ignored the way Dean looked at him like this was a terrible, dumb, awful idea and he didn't want to do it.

Sam made it back over to them carrying a large bag of road salt and just about every warm article of clothing they had between the three of them. He dropped the clothes next to Dean, who immediately started bundling the shivering kid up, taking his own jacket back in exchange for warmer options, while Sam started a liberal circle of salt around the base of the tree, wide enough to encompass Andy's stretched out legs. Once Andy was in enough layers to look like a toddler prepared for his first snow day, Dean pulled his gun from his side and slid the magazine out of the base.

"You see that?" he asked, kneeling beside Andy and gesturing to the top bullet. Andy blinked at the metal casing, which had a small carving of a five-sided star etched on the tip. He knew what that symbol was. "That's a devil's trap. Shoot a demon with it, it'll paralyze them."

Dean slid the magazine back into his gun, grabbed it by the barrel and held the weapon out to Andy, grip first. The psychic stared at the offering in shock. He looked up at Dean, then back to the gun. Dean's gun. Dean's favorite gun. The ivory-inlaid one his father had given him when he'd turned eighteen, with the initials D.W. carved into the grip. Andy had asked about that gun once, the matching pair both brother's had. Dean had been so damn proud as he told the story.

Andy's hand shook as he took that gun.

"You sit here, you stay in the circle, and we'll be back in…" Dean glanced at Sam as the younger Winchester completed his salt circle, leaving the half-empty bag to the side and standing just over Dean's shoulder. Dean looked back at Andy. "Two hours at the most."

As he said it, Dean dug into the front pocket of his jacket, removing his phone and handing it to Andy. The kid's, if it was still on him, was dead and no good to them now.

"If we're not back by then, you call Bobby. Speed dial two." At the words (bossy demand), Andy gave him a look and Dean rolled his eyes, realizing his word choice wasn't spectacular in this situation. "Text him. Whatever. You get a hold of him, he'll come get you. He's seven hours out. And kid, I don't care if we have to break you out of a hospital, you think you're gonna pass out, you call 911 and get an ambulance on its way. You hear me?"

Andy took the phone, the smallest amount of amusement in his eyes that left Dean just reeling at the strength of this kid. A damn good kid. Dean shook his head as Andy had to juggle the skillet, gun, and phone, but he took it all in stride. He ended up with his arms crossed over his over-stuffed torso (Dean had gotten about six layers on him), hugging the pile of defenses to his chest like a scared kid with too many stuffed animals to hold.

"I'll have my phone too," Sam added as he crouched down beside them, long beanstalk legs looking like a cricket. He had something else in his hand, which Andy realized belatedly was the Winchester's med kit. "You need anything, text us. We'll keep in contact as long as we have service."

Dean nodded in agreement, and the younger Winchester got to work opening the kit. He didn't dare wrap Andy's neck, even if he knew they should. Burns were the most susceptible injury to infection, and they would have to deal with that, hopefully at a hospital that would have even stronger pain killers than what he was about to offer the kid.

"Morphine," Sam said as he held out the small clear bottle, a needle in his other hand. "We can't give you much, but it'll take the edge off."

Even as he said it, he wished he could give the kid the full dose he more than deserved and obviously needed. Sam wasn't even sure what was keeping Andy on his feet. Or, well, his butt now that he was sitting. But a proper dose of morphine would leave him too vulnerable if something did come looking for him. Not to mention too incoherent or unconscious to stay in contact with the Winchesters or call for that help should he need it.

Dean stood as Sam readied the needle into the bottle, withdrawing a miniscule amount into the syringe. The older Winchester pulled his knife from his side and started carving a basic warding symbol into the tree above Andy's head, just something to keep away anything interested in doing harm. It wouldn't work on anything stronger than, say, a wandering spirit, but it should keep away anything completely-normal-just-hungry that might be found wandering the South Dakota woods at night.

Sam moved to administer the needle to Andy's elbow, but the kid grabbed his wrist with a sluggish movement. He looked like he was struggling to figure out how to say something, and Sam realized that was entirely the problem. He needed to tell them something.

"Use the phone," Sam offered, nudging his chin towards the device resting between Andy's chest and forearm. "Type it out."

When Andy ended up juggling the three things in an attempt to get a proper hold on the phone, Dean leaned down to take the gun from his left hand, laying it in his lap instead with a fond roll of his eyes. Andy got the phone into his hand and started to type one handed. He ended up tucking the skillet beneath his other arm so he could use both hands for speed. After a moment of quiet clicking in which both Winchester's waited as patiently as possible (one far more patient than the other, but Dean was doing an admirable job for it being him), Andy turned the screen towards them.

Sam ended up taking the phone gingerly to read aloud, "Good kids: Scott, emo. Amanda, girl. Bad kid: Jonathon, blonde asshole."

Dean snorted beside him, but Sam kept reading.

"Demon – question mark – in woods, little girl. Claws. Wants blood."

"Well, that's not creepy at all," Dean muttered, Andy sharing a look with him. But that unbreakable spirit that was Andy Gallagher started to falter, the smile fading to be replaced with tentative fear. Fear for them. Dean took the phone out of the kid's hand, putting the gun back into it and pressing his arm back across his chest like a shield once ore. Andy stared up at him with way too vulnerable brown eyes. "We'll be okay, kid. We got it from here. You did good."

Andy didn't feel like he'd done anything close to good, but he nodded anyway (very carefully) and clutched his little pile of weapons closer to his chest. Sam administered the partial dose of morphine, and Andy sank back into the tree as the very edges of his awareness and pain clouded over into blissful fog.

He opened his eyes again to nod at the Winchesters, not only to let them know the drug was working (and really, ridiculously, so much appreciated), but that he was okay. He would be okay. They had to go now.

The two exchanged hesitant glances, but both nodded, telling Andy they would be back soon – two hours, max, Dean promised – and to stay safe. Stay in the circle. Then they were leaving, jogging back to the car and peeling out. The faster they left, the sooner they would make it back.

Andy watched them leave, dizzy with conflicting emotions. Or maybe that was the morphine.

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

Why Isn't Andy Dead Dear Chuck You've Like Killed Him Six Different Ways in Two Days You Monster: Okay, I just, I have to say it because…well, I just have to. I know this is not how injuries work and Andy should be like almost dead or really dying and definitely not left alone for another two hours. I'm absolutely pulling from the show for this one. You know, the show that has Sam take an undercut to the jaw from a man with *super strength* and sends him flying twenty feet away through a wooden fence, but no, he's totally fine and wins that fight. Yeah. That show. I think I'm still safely canon here XD

The Boys Leaving Andy: So I thought this up, thought 'that's cool, I like it' and then thought '...but would they really leave him? Am I forcing it?' So I took some time and realized...no, I don't think the boys would ever leave Andy there. Not really. But...do I think the show writers would have done it anyways? Absolutely. They do stuff that's borderline out of character *all the time* Which then makes it canon and...so...it becomes in-character by default...and, just gah! Anyway, I am trying to keep in the spirit of the show as much as possible so...yup, totally doing it. And hopefully I pulled it off as believable and mostly within character for the Winchesters.

Also, I loved the image of Andy, bundled up and holding onto a skillet and a gun sitting in a salt circle while the boys went back to save Amanda and Scott. There was something heartwarming and also heartbreaking about it? Dunno. I went for it.

Dean's Gun: Soooo, I think I once read a story (I *think* it was Family Matters by 29Pieces/29Pieces of Me) that had the D.W. carved into Dean's gun, and S.W. carved into Sam's, and they were given to the boys by John when they turned 18. Then I did that thing I do where I adopted it as head-canon (*cough* remember Uriel with actual character depth? *cough*) Only, I convinced myself over the years it was actual canon. Turns out? Can't find anything to that extent, but I like it a lot so I am most definitely adopting it for this story :D

Special Thanks: Goes to Draconis Domini for the idea of slitting Andy's throat and killing his ability to talk, therefore letting him stay in the story longer. (Look, DD, a note where I don't throw you under the bus! :D Well, mostly.) When Draconis mentioned it, I had just re-watched the season 2 Battle Royale, where Andy developed a secondary power which always bothered me. Not the ability itself, but because it felt thrown in last minute just as a way to get Dean to Cold Oak and was not used for anything else the entire episode. But DD's idea of removing Andy's ability to talk meant that power suddenly made sense, and I loved it as a fix-it :D Plus...I apparently like hurting that boy...

Please Review! I love hearing from you guys and as RL still sucks at the moment, I could use the smile your comments always bring.