Medical Mumbo Jumbo: So I do a lot of research for this story – like a stupid amount. Like looking up actual haunted mining towns in South Dakota, finding the one with the closest name to Cold Oak, then using it's county and local Forest Service Roads to keep the story *as accurate as possible* because I am a freak who enjoys that sort of stuff buried in stories – but one thing I am no good at is medical research. That stuff takes multiple layers of combing through to get a handle on and there's a lot of contradictory information out there on the internet. I like research, I hate going in circles. So there's gonna be some winging it in this story when we come to injuries and treatment! Hopefully I managed to cleverly disguise my utter lack of knowledge beneath broad statements and general vagueness that doesn't read like vagueness :D

Chapter Warnings: The boys finally, finally get a break. Andy needs patching up via actual professions, Sam and Dean need sleep via actual beds, and Persephone needs other things entirely via a drunk Prophet and the Winchester's personal stash.

-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 50

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

Chuck stared at his editorial assistant, less than subtly, from the safety of his writing desk. She'd finished the most recent chapter almost a full minute ago, lowering the papers into her lap and now was just…staring at them. The writer was trying – and failing – not to notice. Or think about it. Or let it get to him once he did think about it. Or think about how much he was letting it get to him that he was thinking about it.

Steph was being quiet. Really quiet. She didn't often have much to say about the story, but she wasn't usually quiet, either. Hesitantly, and with the kind of nerves of steel that whispered 'well...she hasn't told you you sucked yet…?', Chuck cleared his throat.

"What- uh…what did you think?"

Stephanie turned to him with a deep inhale in and an oddly blank expression, as if she'd forgotten he was there altogether and the discovery of him was less than enlightening. Man, he knew quiet wasn't good. Quiet was never good. He should have just stayed quiet.

"Azazel is gone?" she asked, voice finally breaking the weird tension in the room created entirely and felt only by Chuck. The writer blinked at the question, the least of what he'd been expecting her to say, if she was going to say anything.

"Uh…well, not forever." The writer shrugged a little self-consciously and then tried for a smile, thinking maybe his editorial assistant was worried about where the story might go now. "Just back to hell. Can't kill my best villain."

The curve of her round face twitched in a smile that was anything but happy, and Chuck tried, again, not to read too much into that terrifying look. It reminded him of that woman in a blouse and high heels that he'd first greeted on his doorstep three months ago.

"And To- the other demon that was with him?"

Chuck blinked again. Even slower this time. And again for good measure.

"Uh…" What a weird question. The demon – which Chuck was referring to as Tom in his head because he had an uncle named Tom and he'd needed some sort of name for him other than 'that other demon, number uh maybe sixteen I think' – was kind of a nobody to the story. Sure, with Azazel back in Hell now, he figured the demon might become a somebody now…. Huh. He might actually have to name him for real in the story.

Wonder if 'Tom' is really the way to go…

"Right, the uh…Azazel's other protégé…demon…guy." Chuck flapped his hand in a dismissive wave and turned back to his computer. "He's a minor character. He'll get a new meatsuit quick enough."

That seemed to end whatever tension Chuck had imagined all on his own anyway. Steph lingered in her chair for another few moments, then got up and placed the chapter on his desk, beside his laptop. He paused in his writing, keys silencing as his fingers stilled, and looked cautiously over and up at her. She was still standing there. Usually she'd be back in her chair by now or packing up. It was actually past the usual time she left…

Steph smiled at him prettily, and this time Chuck was definitely reminded of that woman on his doorstep with her terrifyingly tight hair bun and ugly purse. "Chuck?"

The writer gulped.

"Do you know how to hotwire a car?"

-o-o-o-

It was well into the early-hours of the next morning before the Winchesters heard any news. One or two of the nurses had come out now and then to inform them of Andy's state, what stage of surgery they were in or what test they were running. X-rays for his throat, MRI's for the head trauma the brothers hadn't even known about, heat wraps and fluids for the blood loss and hypothermia, and an astronomical number of stiches for the defensive wounds to his hands and arms, as well as an array of other cuts and scrapes across his body.

Boy was beat up, apparently. Not that the Winchesters were surprised. They'd seen the damage firsthand.

"What about his neck?" Dean would ask every time. What the hell had happened to their friend's neck, and what kind of damage were they looking at, what kind of treatment, here. But the nurses would only shake their heads, a pitying kind of horror crossing their faces each time. It wasn't until a doctor emerged in the early hours near dawn that they got any sort of answer.

"You gentlemen are with the FBI?" were the first words out of the doctor's outh, tone a touch skeptical, as he finally emerged from behind the double doors. His ID hanging from a pocket of his pristinely white lab coat read Dr. Richards, and he was regarding them and their less than pristine jeans and flannels with obvious hesitation.

Rude, Dean thought, though he didn't necessarily blame the guy.

"We were off duty when we got the call," the younger of the two Winchesters answered the question that hadn't been asked with a shrug and a weak smile.

The story they'd given the rest of the hospital staff was that they were on the trail of a killer – couldn't say any more, confidential case – and Andy, their junior agent, had gone missing in the middle of it, almost twenty-four hours ago. They'd been out searching for him when they got a call from him, and the kid was able to Morse code them his location. The most believable lie, after all, was the one closest to the truth. In the meantime, this guy could judge or doubt them all he wanted, just so long as he patched up their friend.

"Is he alright?" Dean asked gruffly, in a far less amenable mood than Sam.

"He's not in any immediate danger," Dr. Richards confirmed, holding his hands out in front of him like every doctor explaining medicine ever. "But he's got a long road of recovery ahead of him."

Sam and Dean exchanged relieved, though complicated, glances.

"Before I get into the extent of his wounds…" Hank Richards hedged hesitantly, looking between the two agents and their obvious concern for the third currently being stitched up in his OR. "I need to ask. Usually, at this point in an attack as severe as this, we would be informing the police…"

He let the words trail off in a clear indicator that the ball was in their court for next steps. Hank didn't actually know the protocol when an FBI agent was involved; Sturgis didn't see a lot of federal officers in their hospital.

"Our supervisor's already on it," Sam answered quickly, but not too quickly. He might still be pretty green when it came to committing a felony, but he'd been lying his whole life. "He's got local LEO's and the Forest Service securing the scene."

"You can call him if you feel it's necessary." Dean dug into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and Bobby's bullshit business card – the FBI one – from within. The way the Doc took the proffered card and slid it into his front pocket with a nod, not even looking at it, reassured the Winchesters that he'd never feel the need to make that call. "In the meantime, we'll handle the interview of our agent ourselves."

No need to involve the police.

"That's going to be a bit tricky, I'm afraid." Dr. Richards followed the card with his hands, sliding both into the large pockets on the front of his coat. "His throat wasn't just burned. It took us a while to get at it, since we weren't expecting that level of damage when we first went in, but… It looks like his throat was slashed."

"Slashed?" Sam echoed, head ducking forward in disbelief. He looked at his partner, distress clear in his expression, and for good reason. The other agent looked a bit green around the gills.

"Yes, someone made a rough, shallow incision from here-" Hank raised his finger to point at a spot on the left side of his neck, tucked beneath the edge of his square jaw- "to here, high up on the neck and just under the chin. We had to do a lot of repair work on the inside of his throat, but he's lucky, really. Up there, you start running into extra layers of muscles controlling the jaw. It's more to cut through to hit the carotid, which curves inward there to dip under the jaw. Most wounds to the lower throat bleed out in minutes. The location of the cut probably saved his life."

"That's where the larynx is," Sam mentioned, voice oddly quiet, knowing what Andy's assailant had likely been after with such an attack.

The doctor spared them a sympathetic look. "Yes, and it took the full brunt of the slice. We might have been able to salvage his vocal chords from the cut alone but…the burn was electrical, which I can't even begin to understand, let alone explain how or what caused it." Here, Dr. Richards shook his head in a little disbelief of his own. He slid his hands back into his pockets, offering the two men a small, compassionate shrug of his shoulders. "I've never seen anything like it. But due to the current that traveled through his system, there was a lot of damage to the soft tissue and muscles in his neck. His vocal chords were completely fried; there's nothing we can do to repair them."

"So he'll never talk again," Dean muttered, running a hand over his mouth and working his jaw to keep from clenching it. "Okay. That's…that's fine, he'll pull through. That's what matters."

"Agreed," Hank said with a small smile. Talking to the relatives and friends was always hard, but he'd learned firsthand that those able to accept and move towards treatment were already ahead of the game. He shouldn't be surprised from federal agents, he supposed.

"Doctor, is there any other damage from the electrocution?" Sam asked, big brown eyes filled with worry for Andy's future. He'd hazarded half a guess that the burn hadn't been from fire, given the lack of charred skin when he'd inspected the wound and helped Andy wrap his neck. An electric burn, like a lightning strike, had been a possibility, but made less sense than some other form of heat. Not to mention it came with far more secondary risks Sam wasn't ready to consider.

"We shocked his heart out of AFib," the doc mentioned completely casually, and Dean jerked. Sam understood what he'd been asking, but Dean clearly hadn't thought as far as heart complications. Dr. Richards wasn't startled by the reaction but did seem to realize his mistake, and directed his next words specifically to the shorter of the two agents. "It's a perfectly normal procedure. The electricity knocked his heart out of rhythm – atrial fibrillation, AFib for short – and we simply put it back on beat."

"Right." Dean didn't seem nearly settled by that, but the lack of concern by the doctor and, even more so, Sam helped him relax. Well, sort of. As relaxed as he'd been before he found out they'd been shocking Andy's ticker. Which was to say, not relaxed at all.

Dean had rather personal feelings about electrocution and damaged hearts, after all.

"The rest of the damage is minor. He lost a lot of blood and his core temperature was pretty low, but he's already mostly back to normal levels now, and we've got him on his second transfusion. We don't expect any lasting complications from it. His MRI scans came back clean, we're running the gambit of antibiotics through his system, and we'll be monitoring him for a couple of days to be sure he doesn't pick anything up from that burn. There was some significant ulterior bruising to his windpipe and esophagus beneath the rest of the damage that will take time to heal."

Meaning someone had tried to strangle the kid before they'd upped the ante to a knife. Dean was really, really starting to hate this Jonathon kid.

"He'll be on intravenous nutrients for the next twenty-four hours, then we can switch to a liquid diet and, eventually, soft foods. But nothing solid for at least a week, I'm afraid," the doc continued, not noticing (or at least not calling out) Dean's increasingly dark mood. "There were defensive wounds on his hands and arms that we're stitching up, some cuts and abrasions, one hell of a skinned knee. All consistent with running in a wooded area. Looks like he might have tussled with a wild animal of some sort, too. We found some evidence of claw marks, but given you said you found him in the Park, and he would have been stumbling around at night covered in blood, running into a predator really isn't that unheard of. Luckily, he seems to have fought the creature off with minor injuries."

"He's a tough kid," Dean practically growled out, and Sam nudged him with an elbow. The older man cleared his throat and repeated his words with a more encouraging ring than the dark thing they'd started as.

Hank had seen far worse reactions, so it didn't really faze him. "I can't begin imagine the entire ordeal he's been through, gentlemen. I'm only in charge of his physical recovery, but I caution you both to get him some psychological help, too. Surviving an ordeal like that is going to leave the kind of scars we can't fix here."

"We understand, doctor. He'll be taken care of," Sam assured, tone still very gentle. It wasn't quite his speaking-to-a-victim voice, but it was definitely his hospital-staff-please-continue-to-fix-my-friend-slash-family voice. "Can we see him?"

"He's heavily sedated now," Dr. Richards answered with a steady shake of his head. "And he'll need to stay on the heavy duty pain killers for at least the next couple of days. Frankly, I can't believe he was conscious when you brought him in. He needs to rest."

"We won't disturb him," Sam insisted, words as placating as his hunched over body language. "But we need to file a report. We'll need his clothes, take pictures of the wounds, that sort of thing."

Anything to get them in, to see Andy with their own eyes, and then ward the shit out of that hospital room.

"We've already taken photos of his injuries. Standard procedure in any attack. I can have them sent to you, and if you leave the nurses with your contact information, I'll be sure to file a complete report for your investigation." The doctor nodded with the end of his sentence, a finality that had both Winchesters frustrated. Hank seemed to pick up on it, though. He hesitated, realizing that their push to see the injured agent had nothing to do with duty or responsibility. The man bit back a sigh and tilted his head, relenting. "You can see him, if you're quiet and don't disturb him. No more than five minutes, and only one of you."

The doctor put extra emphasis on the last words when both men lit up with relief. The two exchanged a quick glance, speaking a silent language that Dr. Richards didn't even try to decipher.

"Thanks, Doc." Dean grinned his first real smile since before they'd left Baby a mile outside of Rivergrove, Oregon and walked right on into this nightmare.

Dr. Richards nodded absently at their gratitude. "Now, if you gentlemen don't mind, I need to get on that report."

It was a dismissal if they'd ever heard one. Sam reached out to shake the man's hand gratefully. "Of course, thank you, doctor."

Hands back in his pockets, Dr. Richards gave them a nod in farewell and then turned on his heel. He checked in briefly at the nurse's station, then headed back through those double doors to see to his patient. The woman behind the counter stood as he left, gesturing to the two men.

"I'll show you to your friend's room. Just one of you, for now. Doctor's orders."

They both nodded while Sam stepped forward, the two already having agreed on which one of them would check on Andy in the six-second glance they'd shared. Dean, in the meanwhile, would ward as much of the hospital as he could covertly get his hands on.

"I'll meet you outside," he said to his brother. Sam nodded at him before he followed the nurse down the hall to see their friend. Dean watched him disappear around a corner, then rubbed a hand through his short hair and headed for elevators. He'd start with those first, then make his way to the lobby, and every other entrance. No demon was getting within a hundred feet of this hospital.

-o-o-o-

Chuck had not known how to hotwire a car. He'd stared at Persephone for several long moments of confused silence – enough so that the woman had to resist the urge to snap in front of his eyes to make sure he was still in there – before confessing that, uh, no, that…wasn't really something he'd ever done before.

"Not even for research?" she'd asked sweetly. "The Winchesters hotwire vehicles all the time."

Chuck rubbed at the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. "Ah- no…I…sort of gloss over those parts. I just say they did it and then…you know."

Persephone, knowing the writer rather well by that point, just hummed, noise filled with as much disapproval as she could fit in it. It did the trick. The man all but tripped over himself pulling up the internet browser on his computer and a website called YouTube. She leaned over his shoulder as he began searching for videos on how to properly hotwire a car.

She had one such video pulled up now on Chuck's phone, which she had misappropriated after encouraging the man to imbibe in several more evening drinks than was his usual. He shouldn't miss it, or his credit card, until tomorrow morning, and Persephone would be sure to return them before then.

With the phone propped up on the dashboard and video playing, she reached under the steering column of the car once again, grabbing the ends of two wires she had already cut and stripped. This would be her seventh attempt to hotwire the vehicle. It would seem, Persephone was realizing, that humans greatly exaggerated the ease of such tasks in their entertainment. Why, she could not fathom. If movies and television made this task far more realistic, it would certainly discourage people from attempting it. She would have just stolen Chuck's car keys instead of his phone.

The wires sparked and the engine rumbled to life. Persephone dropped them in surprise, and the engine died.

"To the crows with you!" she hissed in Sumerian. Modern curses were still…unfamiliar on her tongue. Though there were several she was coming to like and needed to practice more.

Grabbing for the wires, Persephone pressed her cheek to the steering wheel once more, cautious not to lean too much of her weight to it. The first time she had, the thing had made a god awful blaring noise, and Persephone had incidentally learned where the horn was located, as well as spent the next five minutes on lookout for anyone who might have heard the noise. The two ends sparked once more, and this time the woman was quick to twist them together, permanently entangling them as the video instructed. The engine remained at a steady rumble as she cautiously released the wires and leaned back, waiting. When the car continued to run, Persephone let out a whoop of excitement, striking the edge of the steering wheel with the heel of her palm.

"Ha!" She took the phone off the dash, turning the video off and chucking the device into the passenger seat beside her. With a congratulatory huff of air, the woman composed herself and wrapped one hand around the gear shift. "Alright, step two."

Step two was driving, which couldn't possibly be as difficult as getting the car to run.

-o-o-o-

It only took three tries to hotwire the next car.

As it so happened, crashing was exceedingly easy, driving less so. Persephone confused both gear directionality, as well as the gas and brake pedals, applying far too much pressure to both at opposite, and ultimately very incorrect, times. The vehicle had not handled being driven into the parked car directly behind it very well at all. Persephone had also learned what a car alarm sounded like. Several of them going at once, in fact. Which was why she'd had to relocate entirely to find her next car.

The noise could still be faintly heard, actually, from her new location several blocks away.

A few more YouTube videos and Persephone was confident she would not make any of those mistakes a second time. She was, however, never trusting human entertainment ever again. It might prove problematic beyond this fiasco, given the majority of her education in modern society was via that medium. Perhaps she could discuss an alternate, more realistic source of information with Chuck when she returned his wallet and phone.

Persephone slid her second stolen vehicle into drive – YouTube had also taught her the difference between the little letters and numbers beside the gear stick, a valuable lesson for her second attempt at making the car go in the correct direction at the correct speed – and pulled away from the curb.

-o-o-o-

Sam did, indeed, ward the shit out of that room. Given that the hospital thought Andy was a federal agent and there had been an attack on his life, the kid had a private room, which suited Sam's needs well enough. The beanstalk of a Winchesters pulled a small pouch of salt out of his jacket pocket the minute the nurse pulled the door back closed behind him. He got a generous line going across the single windowsill and again on the small ledge atop the doorframe. He drew a general ward against all things evil into the back of the door, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook, the fabric covering the symbol quite inconspicuously.

The hunter eyed the rest of the room over his shoulder while he rifled through the pockets of his hanging jacket. Sam pulled out a hex bag. Their last. Dean had come back from a trip to the Impala about two hours ago, after the nurses gave the most recent update and it sounded like they might actually see Andy sometime soon. The older Winchester had come with salt, a Sharpie, canteens of holy water, and a hex bag which he pulled out of his pocket and handed over to Sam.

"It's the last one we got," he said, voice casual but they both knew what he was thinking about. Or, morelike who. Cas was the one who had gotten them the ingredients and without her, they weren't even sure they could restock. There were other ways to ward and hide themselves, of course, but nothing quite as succinct. That had been the whole point of the angel's hex bags to start with.

More than that, it was just another reminder of where Cas was (and wasn't).

Azazel had taken and burned Sam's hex bag. Andy's too. Dean walked out of Rivergrove (or, well, flew out) with his intact; apparently a session of Beat-The-Crap-Out-of-A-Winchester by Demons Anonymous did not require the removal of it. That, or Azazel's minions just hadn't thought to check for one.

"Baby's still got hers," Dean added, since technically it wasn't their last, last one. But removing the Impala's primary source of cover from eyes demonic and celestial alike was a last resort if Dean had ever heard one. Keeping her off radar also kept all manner of trackers, spells, and eyes off the Winchesters.

Also, after the last one had gone missing via suited-angel-douchebag-of-the-week, Dean had made the new one's location a lot more discreet.

"We'll call Bobby," Sam had replied, voice still soft, trying not to trigger any of his brother's multiple emotional constipated traumas at the moment. "See if he can get any of the ingredients. We'll work on the ones he can't."

Dean nodded, though they both knew that if Bobby Singer couldn't get his hands on something occult, the Winchesters sure weren't going to have any more luck.

So, Sam slid their last hex bag between the frame of the hospital bed and the mattress, making sure to tuck it far enough in that no nurse would stumble on it accidentally when changing the sheets. It would keep Andy out of visual range of any demon looking for him, at least for now. But that wouldn't keep Andy safe alone. Not completely, at least.

The younger Winchester pulled one last protection of out of his front jean pocket. Sam stared at the small, crudely formed Persian sleep coin, the head of a long-dead emperor staring up at him. With Azazel exorcised and trapped back in Hell, he didn't even know if Andy would need it. But he wasn't willing to risk it, either. Sam slid the coin between two of the four pillows propping Andy up at a forty degree angle. For drainage, most likely, Sam thought, as he pulled back and studied his sleeping friend.

The doctors had wrapped his damaged throat, a hell of a lot better than Sam had managed, leaning over into the backseat of the Impala. Andy was pale, the circles beneath his eyes an unsettling blue-black, but his breathing was even. Despite the pallor of his skin, he looked pretty peaceful, considering everything the kid had gone through.

Sam sunk onto the edge of the bed slowly, staring at his friend. Their friend. At the moment, one of their only friends. Dean might say that was going to change, but Sam was more comfortable dealing in the present. And right now, Andy was their closest friend.

Probably the closest Sam had ever had. The only real one, actually. Brady had never known about his past, his family's business. And, it turned out, he'd been a demon for two of the four years Sam had thought they'd been friends. Before that…Sam didn't really think much about before Stanford. Certainly not in terms of friendships.

The young hunter's shoulders sagged as he finally let himself feel – really feel – everything that had happened. Rivergrove and the virus, Azazel, losing Andy. Finding him again, in the kind of state where Sam still couldn't quite believe they hadn't lost him permanently.

God, he'd thought they'd really lost the kid. Yes, it had been logical to insist Andy was alive the entire time they were searching for him. It wouldn't have made sense for Azazel to stash Andy away only for him to bleed out in minutes. But Sam hadn't known. He really, truly hadn't. Staring at Andy now, injured, mute and powerless, but alive…. He didn't know how to feel.

Guilty. Incredibly guilty. Relieved. And happy, if he wasn't currently consumed by so many other, more pressing, negative emotions.

Sam scrubbed at his face and the water welling in his eyes. It wasn't just Andy. It was his own fear, experienced at some level almost constantly for the last forty-eight hours. Self-loathing, for the buzzing beneath his skin, his own weakness, a craving he had, even now, and an inability to protect those closest to him.

Azazel had only taken Andy, only hurt Andy, because he'd wanted something from Sam that the hunter hadn't been prepared to give.

It was Dean, too. And Cas. His brother was falling apart, keeping it together in appearance alone. Sam could read it in every tension-filled line of his body, every rigid muscle and stiff movement. Dean was radiating fury and fear from every pore, and Sam knew the older Winchester was approaching limits of his own.

It was three people lost at Cold Oak. Three 'special' kids whose lives Azazel had stolen. Like he'd stolen Max Miller's.

Sam sniffed back the rest of the waterworks in the near-silent room, wiping at his cheeks and eyes for the few tears that had slipped free. He climbed back to his feet, pulling the last item he had to give from his back pocket. Sam tucked the kid's phone, now fully charged, into Andy's limp hand, curling his fingers around it. It would be the first thing he would notice when he woke. The hunter crossed back over to the closed door, digging around his jacket some more for the charger. He made sure to plug the device in, though it was a bit of a challenge to get behind the heavy hospital bed frame to the only plug within distance. He'd have to bring an extension cord on their next visit or talk to the nurses.

Now Andy would have a phone that would never die, within reach at all times. Both Sam and Dean would be keeping their own phones on them twenty-four-seven. At least until they returned at the start of visiting hours tomorrow.

Sam squeezed Andy's hand, took a quick moment to scribble a note – 'You're safe, the room is safe, text us when you wake up.' – on a small memo pad beside Andy's bed, and headed for the door. He checked the room one more time, eyes scanning over potential weaknesses or flaws in his warding, but the hunter nodded with satisfaction and slipped back into the hall.

Andy would be safe until the Winchesters could come back in the morning.

-o-o-o-

Dean was waiting for him outside the hospital, leaning against the Impala, parked in the drop off rotunda outside the main entrance. At four in the morning, there really wasn't a lot of traffic – foot or vehicular – at the Sturgis Hospital. Sam sucked in a shivering breath of cold, early-winter, early-morning air that was thick with humidity. It was supposed to start raining soon, possibly in the form of sleet, or so the weatherman had reported several times throughout their time in the hospital, the local news running on a TV that hung in the corner of the waiting room. Sam resisted the urge to rub his arms.

How Andy had survived these temperatures in nothing but a t-shirt, wandering the woods for hours, Sam really didn't want to think about. He was just glad the rain hadn't come sooner, or they would have been looking for a popsicle out there in the woods.

If Dean noticed Sam's lack of jacket as the younger Winchester wound around to the other side of the car, he didn't say anything. Just cranked the heat as they both climbed in, pulled away from the curb, and headed to the nearest hotel. Dean had gotten friendly with one of the older, scarier nurses in the hospital in order to get them some additional information on Andy's condition. He'd come away with a good hotel close to the hospital, one or two decent restaurants nearby, and when they could return in the morning (a full thirty minutes before visiting hours, even. It was amazing what a well-placed compliment and a little shameless flirting could get you.)

The Winchesters had six and a half hours until visiting hours started. They needed sleep (as much as they could spare), a resupply run, and a plan. At least some sort of a plan. Any sort of a plan, actually. For what they were going to do with Andy. What they were going to do about Azazel and Hell. Did they even need to do anything? It sure as hell felt like they needed to do something. Hell was getting too brazen, too daring. Too close. Something had to be done.

And then there was Cas.

Sam was under no illusion. The time would soon come when Dean would not be put off by his brother's calm and logic any longer. He would need action. Movement, however useless. An achievable goal with a strategy to get them to it.

In other words, a plan.

Well, they had six hours, Sam thought sarcastically. Plenty of time. But first, before anything else, sleep. In a very heavily warded motel room. And then an overdue call to Bobby in the morning.

-o-o-o-

She stood in front of the 1967 Chevy Impala, staring at the Kansas plates, the edges of her sneakers wet from the puddles still drying on the uneven asphalt of the parking lot. The car was a sleek black beneath fresh droplets of water, not all that different from the several renditions she'd seen on various covers of the Supernatural series. Persephone stared at the vehicle, then shifted her glowing green gaze to the motel room it was parked right outside of.

Sam Winchester was in that room. A dozen feet away, if that. Sleeping. Completely unaware. Perfectly vulnerable.

Persephone stared at that door, gaze sliding over to the window, curtains pulled closed, everything beyond dark and hidden away. Then she dropped to a crouch in front of the Impala's trunk, running her fingers over the lock cylinder. She dug out Chuck's phone once more, video already pulled up and ready to go, along with a set of lock picks from her purse. Courtesy of Chuck's stolen credit card and a hardware store three blocks from his house.

At this point, she was under no illusion of how difficult picking a lock would be, considering how easy the video in her hand made it look.

It took precious minutes, in which Persephone had to resist glancing towards that motel room door more than once. But when the trunk popped open of its own accord, the struggle was decidedly worth it. She stood, pulling the cool metal the rest of the way up, wincing slightly when it made a groaning sound louder than she'd expected. Green eyes did glance back towards the curtained window then, but no light turned on inside.

Breathing out more than her first relieved breath since Chuck had passed out drunk on his couch and this endeavor began, Persephone reached into her purse and pulled out the papers the writer had gifted her almost a month ago. He'd had no idea what he had handed over when he'd given her the recipe to a hex bag capable of paralyzing demons, but Persephone didn't plan to let that information go to waste.

Unfortunately, the Winchester's personal supply was the only place she knew where to get the ingredients.

It had been a risky choice, coming after the same location Tom would first set his sights on the moment he got a new meatsuit. But with Azazel exorcised back to Hell (and what the hell had that creature in Rivergrove been, capable of performing an exorcism of that scale on a Prince of Hell? Chuck hadn't specified, only calling her 'Cas'. The writer had been mysteriously – smugly – tightlipped when she'd asked him about it. Persephone feared she knew the answer, which made this moveall the riskier) and Tom missing a meatsuit, this was possibly the only chance she'd have to get those ingredients. The demon's first goal after he found a new host would be to relocate the Winchesters. Particularly so, since this 'Cas' person had not only iced his Boss but also transported the boys back to Sioux Falls, South Dakota (not completely confirming Persephone's suspicions, but certainly not dismissing them, either). Between identifying or killing that creature and finding the Winchesters, Tom's top priorities would be filled, leaving Persephone at least a few items down the checklist. Which meant, for the first time since Azazel had dug her out of her own personal hellhole, she had temporary freedom. Multiple days, at least, where she wouldn't be leashed to a motel room, under the supervision of a demon when he was around or she wasn't babysitting the Prophet.

The potential of turning that temporary freedom into a more permanent one was worth the risk.

Persephone reached into the trunk, lifting the trick bottom the Supernatural series had been pretty specific about, and stared at the arsenal of weapons, paraphernalia, and spell components within. Everything a growing hunter might need to battle the paranormal. With another look towards the room, lights still off and all else quiet, she started digging through the supplies for everything on Chuck's list.

-o-o-o-

Despite the fact that he hadn't slept in two days – Cas's chest-draining making that number feel a lot closer to ten – Dean did not sleep well. He might have been out as soon as his head hit the pillow, but there was anything but rest in the three hours he managed to get.

He dreamt of Hell. Of fire and darkness. Of an empty void he was eternally lost in, searching for someone he couldn't remember. He dreamt of Cas, trench coat tossed over the library chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, eyes a magnificent, terrifying, horribly wrong red as he stared at Dean with a smile that promised he'd skin the flesh from the hunter's bones and enjoy it.

Dean woke up gasping, chest aching and sweat leaving his t-shirt damp.

The man from the future rubbed viciously at the hole in his chest, but no amount of pressure or friction could reach it. Dean climbed to his feet, leaving sweat-soaked sheets behind as he stumbled to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He stood in the silent room afterward, lungs still too tight, needing too much air. The walls too close, the room too small. Sam's familiar breathing was a comfort in the too-dark room. Dean leaned back into the bathroom, switching the light on and pulling the door almost completely shut as he did. It wasn't much, but the disgustingly yellow light gave the illusion of warmth in an otherwise cold and empty space.

At least, Dean told himself as much.

Unable to get those red eyes out of his head or the warmth back in his chest, Dean crossed the room, walking right past the empty bed. He knew he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. Collapsing in the chair next to the window, his back to a corner with Sam safely in view, Dean took another deep breath and tried to expand his lungs past what they seemed willing to give. When had he lost all his lung capacity? Was it something Cas had done to him, or something she'd taken away?

Movement – the flutter of the edges of the curtains resettling after he'd sat down – drew his attention to the window. Dean pulled back the dingy fabric, just a couple inches, and glanced through the rain-speckled window to the wet, dark, and quiet night.

-o-o-o-

Persephone took deep, even breaths, back pressed to the far side of the Impala, and counted off the seconds in her head. When she reached five minutes without the sound of the motel door opening, the woman chanced a glance around the edge of the muscle car. The curtains were swaying ever so slightly in the window, the faintest light coming from beyond, but all else was silent and still. She stared at those curtains, waiting for Dean Winchester's face to appear once more, but nothing happened.

She should leave. The ingredients were safely in her purse; she had what she needed. In fact, she'd been in the process of closing the trunk when that window had lit up. It hadn't been a full light, like the main room would surely give off, but to her enhanced eyes, the shift in light had been as obvious as night and day. Persephone had to drop to the ground, holding the damn trunk closed so it wouldn't pop back up and give her away.

She counted off another three minutes. Still nothing. Slowly, Persephone stood from the cold ground, jeans now annoying wet, and eyed that window and the hunters she knew were just a sheet of glass away. Slowly – quietly – the woman leaned on the metal surface until the trunk clicked shut.

Still no movement.

She really should just leave. But there was one more thing Persephone had planned to do, and it would be a shame to give up on it now, having come all this way. The woman eyed the driver side door. She knew where Dean had hidden the last of those hex bags that warded them from all manner of creature. Their only one left, if Chuck's writing was accurate. Persephone tapped her finger against the side of the car in contemplation, staring at that door. If she did it, she wouldn't have time to pick the lock, not in full view of the hunter should the older Winchester forgo sleep and decide to check the parking lot again. Not with her currently lock-picking skill level, at least.

Persephone strode over to the door, eyes darting to the window one last time, and pulled the vehicle door open, heedless of the crunch as the lock gave beneath her strength. Dean was going to be pissed, but what did she care? She didn't plan to stick around for that reaction. Persephone dropped to a crouch once more, sliding her fingers along the driver's side dashboard, around and over the lip of the air vent.

According to Chuck, it hadn't worked for years, so it made the perfect hiding spot for something small. She pulled the ventilated plastic covering off with a dig of her nails and a sharp tug. It came free silently, and Persephone stuck three fingers into the dark, rectangular space. With little struggle, she pulled out the hex bag, it's tied off top pinched between her pointer and middle fingers.

The woman sat it in the palm of her hand and stared at the innocuous little thing beneath a clouded over moon.

If she took it, the Winchesters would be back on Hell's radar by dawn. While that didn't particularly bother her – Azazel was too good to lose track of the hunters permanently, so what did it matter if they were found sooner rather than later – she did rather despise Tom, in particular. It would be particularly disappointing if anything she did here tonight aided in his efforts to relocate the Winchesters. But having a handy-dandy invisible shield against demons and angels – archangels in particular– was too tempting to pass up. Perhaps if she could just open it up and get a look at the components, she could figure out the rest by herself.

Of course, she should have left the trunk open if she was going to make a second supply run.

Persephone glanced back towards the motel room, her eyes glowing green in the night as she weighed each option.

-o-o-o-

Dean fell asleep against all intentions, sitting in the chair in the dimly lit room, head lolling back against the drawn curtains. He didn't dream again, but when he jerked awake two hours later, it was to a feeling of eyes on him and someone in the room with them.

He was up, knife in hand, blinking at the empty space, still lit by the partially cracked bathroom door and rising sun outside the window. There was no one there but Sammy, still snoring away and getting a much better night's sleep than he had managed.

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

A/Ns: Gotta be honest, I'm torn by this chapter. I read it, and I like it. So I walk away, and I find myself thinking… 'what even happens in this chapter? Where's the good stuff?' Then I scrambled back to my computer for another read-through, thinking I have to improve it, which leaves me like…huh, no, I like it. So I walk away aaaaaand I find myself- *head thud, head thud, head thud*

Despite being the kind of reader who enjoys the plot development and low-key chatter chapters more than the action ones (though I do, oh-so love the action), as a writer I seem the opposite. Like, if I'm not keeping you all hyped up on chaos-chaos-guns-explosions-chaos-and-that-sweet-sweet-adrenaline, y'all might not like the story anymore - . -

Human brains are dumb, guys.

P.S. Do not feel like you need to assuage my insecurities. I'm just rambling cuz it's good for you all to know where my head is at, and even better (I suppose) for *me* to know where my head is at.

But, um, where's Henrisken? *Siiiiiigh* He's coming.

And Cas? *bigger sigh* Also coming.

And what about- Look, I'm VAF and I can't help it! Back on chapter 46, I decided to sit down and plan out the rest of Season 2 chapter by chapter, just for an estimate of how many we had left. I briefly (veeeery briefly) outlined chapters 47-63, which got me to the season finale.

I have since written up to Chapter 58, and guys…I have only crossed off the events of 47 and 48 in my outline. Two events….took….TWELVE….CHAPTERS….GUYS.

*head thud, head thud, head thud*

Okay, I lied. Assuage me. Tell me you all like the fact I'm so verbose it hurts. Because it friggin' huuuuuuuuurts!

*head thud, head thud, head thud*

No, no, deep breaths. Deeeeep breaths Silence. Who cares how long the story gets? Or how many years it takes you to finish? As long as you're still enjoying, and they're still enjoying it, and your verbosity is neither boring nor pointless. Right?

…Right?

Guys?

Are those crickets I hear out there?

Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuys!

Till next time,

Silence

P.P.S. Remember that you all can tell me to stop posting such long A/Ns at anytime. Although, not gonna lie, I get great enjoyment (translation: weird satisfaction) out of talking (*cough* ranting *cough*) to you all.