A/Ns: I know, I know, a Monday posting is just weeeeeird these days, but I took a trip this weekend and did not make it to the airport early enough either time to edit and post the chapter. So it's a teensy bit late ;) Or, really, it's a week early, if you think about it! Considering it's almost the length of two chapters, I did give more than a half-second thought to just waiting and posting next weekend instead XD

(We all know I'm too impatient and excited to actually do that, though...)

Chapter Warnings:Andy's playing Pictionary with other people's heads, Dean's fessing up that he does have a plan to get Cas back, and Henriksen is closing in, by both sheer luck and damn good detecting. Lucky for the Winchesters, they've got someone on their side. A certain someone who can't manage to hand over a bunker key without plans going horribly awry, but who can pull off a little harmless distraction with a modicum more success.

-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 53

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

By noon on Andy's third day in the hospital, his improvement was physically visible. He was no longer on a heart monitor, he'd convinced the nurses to let him get up and move around (primarily with the argument that he was capable of making it to the bathroom, so they could take the damn catheter out), and while he was still on a diet of mush, mush, and more mush, he was IV free and Dean was using his flirtatious nature with the nurses to sneak him extra chocolate puddings with all meals (he'd even gotten Lotte (nurse Ratchet) to bring Andy one as a midnight snack once). Despite Andy's complaints (delivered in the form of very expressive looks), all the mush felt good on his throat, and it was nice to actually eat something that wasn't in the form of an IV or nutrient-enhanced water. More that that, it was a relief each time just to know that he was still capable of eating (a serious concern when he'd first woken up to a liquid diet and a very swollen throat) and that he would get to eat real, solid food again in the future.

As an extra bonus, Sam talked again with the doctor on duty when they'd shown up that morning. The man seemed under the impression they could release Andy on an out-patient program within a day or two. Dean was very confident they could get that shortened, much to Sam's disapproval but ultimate agreeance.

All things considered, life was pretty wonderful.

Which was why, when lunchtime came and it was clear Dean was both bored of the same four walls and antsy for food of his own, Andy shooed them out with flapping hands. The Winchesters blinked at the motion, clearly meant for both of them.

"You sure?" Sam asked, glancing around like Andy might be shooing two other brothers out of his hospital room.

Andy nodded, then narrowed his eyes in intense concentration.

Sam grabbed at his head with a hiss and Dean practically reeled, both Winchesters assaulted by images, one after the other, a couple flashing too fast to process in the moment.

"Slow down!" Dean groused, straightening up with a wince as his head pinged in the after-rush that Andy's new abilities always caused. It never lasted longer than a second or two – like standing up too quickly from a bent over position – but Dean wasn't a fan, regardless. Of course, it could just be he wasn't a fan of anyone poking around in his head to start with. Even if Andy insisted there was poking, yes, but around, no.

"Ow," Sam muttered, rubbing at his temple. Andy's new form of communication didn't come across as clearly or as easily for the younger Winchester, probably because of their matched demon blood acting as a natural deterrent for Sam. To be honest, Andy hadn't even been sure it would work on him at all. They had both been surprised when the kid gave it a try the night before, only for Sam to wince, rubbing at his temple but confirming he'd received a flash of the Impala sitting in a motel parking lot. He'd also gotten a relatively minor headache, lasting longer than the brief head-spinning sensation Dean reported. The younger Winchester certainly had questions of his own about it, though they were formed more from a place of unhealthy curiosity rather than any real concern.

Nerd, Dean called him, only barely managing to hide his very real concern behind the insult.

Now Sam blinked a couple of times, trying to put the images together into something that made any sort of sense. Andy hadn't really mastered that part of this new power yet. His choice of pictures could be somewhat questionable, the images weren't always in a sensible order – often with multiple pictures coming through for the same concept, sometimes unintentionally – and the occasional visual word interspersed in between when Andy failed to form a picture for certain concepts. Those images were usually of other visual aids, like commercials from TV, billboards and others ads. Or, that one time, Sesame Street.

That time, Dean had insisted for three straight minutes that the kid wanted chicken for dinner. You know. Big bird. Roasting on an open fire. Which was not remotely close to what the kid had actually sent them. Andy threw a pillow at his head and tried again, the pictures coming through with a distinctly vicious tint at their edges the second time.

Right now, though, the older Winchester was staring at the kid with a bewildered frown. Like his brother, he was trying his best to piece together a cheap black wig on a creepy-ass, blank-faced manikin, a flash of a Star Wars lunchbox, a clip of Yosemite Sam getting kicked out a door to land on his butt, some random image of a person with a very bad hair day (or maybe a dude recently electrocuted? That sorta fit with Andy right now…), a cheeseburger and fries on a classic fifties diner placemat and tray, and last, but not least, a quick flash of that obnoxious kid from Finding Nemo freaking out and slapping at a fish flopping around on her head.

"Uh…You want us to stick your finger in an electric socket and then…go fishing for lunch?"

Andy wiped at the blood running from his nose – less and less each time he used his newfound ability – and gave them that look he always gave the Winchesters when he thought they were purposefully misunderstanding him. Which was only actually about fifteen percent of the time. Well, thirty when it came to Dean.

The brothers winced again at the next round of images, purposefully slower and with a sarcastic amount of delay between each one that carried palpable condescension.

"Enough, kid," Dean grumbled, rubbing at his head like he could physically brush off the continued intrusion. It was like knowing someone was staring at you, only, like, inside your brain. The three of them had had an adult conversation about it the night before when Andy formally asked for permission to test this new form of communication (and sort of apologized for the test he'd tried out on Dean). The man from the future hadn't been thrilled, but he also understood the kid's reasoning for pushing these powers. More than that, Dean had seen Andy's excitement, the first real smile spreading across his face. Not drug-induced, not forced because it was either that or start crying. The first real smile they'd gotten out of him since he'd gone missing, and the older Winchester wasn't about to destroy that for any reason, including his own autonomy. "We get it. We'll get out of your hair for a couple hours. I could use a real meal anyhow."

A real meal, in this case, meaning a greasy diner burger, fries, and pie, just like Andy'd pictured. Sam shook his head but said nothing. For his brother, that was a real meal.

"We'll go grab lunch," Sam agreed, knowing they could give the kid a couple hours of peace. He was doing well enough to be on his own, and while Sam knew he still had a long road to recovery and probably some serious PTSD to manage, he also knew Andy could use a break from the mothering presence of two older brothers. The Winchesters could probably use one themselves, actually. "When we get back, we should practice slowing the images down and getting them in order."

Andy made a face at that, like a chastised school kid, but didn't argue. He wasn't the one going through flashes of epilepsy-inducing motion sickness or lingering headaches every time he wanted to say something.

"Yeah, it'd be great if talking to you didn't end with us nauseous. Not that that's much of a change from before." Dean snickered with a wink in the kid's direction. He grabbed his coat off the chair beside Andy's bed and threw it on. "And no practicing on the nurses while we're gone. Don't need them keeping you here any longer cuz of blood loss."

Or, you know, freaking out at random images popping into their brains. Like gay fucking porn.

This time, Andy stuck his tongue out as them as they left, and they both winced as they got the mental image equivalent once they'd turned their backs. Dean flipped him off on the way out the door, and they all got to learn, together, just how far Andy's range of mental projection went.

The answer? Well past the end of the parking lot, where Sam finally had to text him to stop because Dean needed to be able to see straight to drive.

-o-o-o-

Dean stared at the diner menu for the third time, but nothing really looked good. Which was absurd. It was his usual fair, all of it, all the things he normally loved. But he just…wasn't hungry. Also ridiculous. Ever since that stupid black hole in his chest had sprung back up, it was like all of Dean's torso and internal organs were busy being sucked into the damn thing. A constant reminder of what wasn't there anymore.

The hunter made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and tossed the menu back down. Its laminated surface slid a half foot across the table, and Sam stopped it with his hand before it could go any further. Dean rubbed absently at his chest and looked around the diner, glaring at the hand-written and barely legible specials in chalk above the counter.

Sam waited until the waitress came to their table to take their orders, Dean settling on a plain old burger and looking mildly unhappy about it, before bringing up what he knew was bothering Dean. What he also knew Dean wouldn't want brought up.

"We should talk about Cas," Sam started. When the older Winchester gave him a furled brow and a 'let's not' look, Sam's gaze dropped to his brother's chest. Dean's arm fell from his chest, face more annoyed than defensive. "I know you want to get her back-"

"You said it yourself, Sammy: no way we can do that. Just gotta wait." Dean's words where clipped, bitten out and bitter. Sam knew his brother too well for that.

"Andy thinks you have a plan."

Dean pulled his head back at that, brow all sorts of furled. He scoffed, then flexed his fingers – an abbreviated gesture of the way he'd often throw his arms out when defensive or frustrated – then scoffed again. He folded his arms over his chest like a pouting child.

"So the kid can read minds now, can he?"

Sam smiled, but it wasn't because the situation was in any way laughable. "God, I hope not. But he knows you pretty well, and you've got tells."

Dean narrowed his eyes at that, trying to suss out if Sam actually knew what he was talking about or if he was just talking out his ass. "He hasn't been around long enough for that."

This time Sam snorted, and the smile was a little more real. "Oh, I don't know. He picks things up pretty quickly. And you're not that subtle."

The older Winchester rolled his eyes at that, but Sam knew by the slight slump to his shoulders, the way he stopped holding his arms across his chest and let them slid apart to settle on the table, that his heart wasn't really in the fight. Which meant Sam just had to wait.

Dean stared out across the diner, working his jaw as he observed the rest of the patrons. The waitress was pouring coffee for a trucker and the cook slid two plates onto the window, ringing a clerk's bell as he did. The sound made Dean think laughably of Cas, that same noise ringing through the Impala before she'd disappeared a couple months ago. Right after they'd picked up Andy, actually.

'Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings!'

Dean snorted at the memory of the old black and white film. Hadn't Meg called Cas 'Clarence' just because of that line in It's a Wonderful Life? Yeah, that was Dean's angel. An angel he apparently couldn't go ten minutes without thinking about. Obstinately, the hunter looked away from that bell, something pulling tight down deep in that aching chasm of his chest. Dean pulled at his t-shirt and rolled his shoulders to avoid rubbing that feeling away. Not that it ever really worked.

"It's not a plan," he finally said, keeping his gaze away from that stupid bell, but not looking at Sam, either. The younger Winchester shifted in his seat, not necessarily trying to recapture his attention, but succeeding at it regardless. Dean finally met Sam's gaze, a grumpy look taking over his face. "It's a friggin' cry for help, is what it is."

The younger Winchester frowned, not only because those words weren't really something his brother had ever said before, but also because he couldn't picture what a cry for help in this situation could even mean.

"There are other angels," Dean explained with a slight shoulder shrug, picking out a sugar packet from the square container on the table. He fiddled with it between his fingers. "A couple of 'em sided with Cas over the years, or at least seemed to care about him. It's possible they might answer a prayer if it's about him being in danger."

When Sam didn't answer right away, brow furled in that typical way he had anytime he was concerned and thinking through the logistics of an idea, Dean fidgeted. He didn't need to explain himself or his ideas to his brother. Really, he didn't. It was just…he didn't like silence. Or judgement. Or, okay, fine, he probably needed to explain this to his brother before he just up and did it with nor warning and no backup.

"They could at least check on him," Dean added as the silence lengthened, kinda proving a point he hadn't needed to prove because nobody was asking and damnit he didn't have to talk about this, he was just being…nice. Whatever. The twitchy hunter glanced down at the sugar packet, tossing it uselessly onto the table in front of him when he realized just how much he was fidgeting. Speaking of tells. "Maybe they could find Cas in Heaven, make sure he's okay, and deliver a message, or something."

'Get the hell away from Uriel before he kills your ass, you idiot. Oh, and I told you so.'

Dean would have to paraphrase, of course. Any angel that did answer his prayer was just as likely to write him off the minute he started accusing one of their brothers of treason. Plus, they wouldn't get the point of telling someone you'd told them so. Probably call it redundant or obvious or some shit like that.

Sam's frown didn't grow or lessen as Dean continued to talk, unprompted. He just kept logic-ing his way through the pros and cons while still watching his brother carefully. The thing was, Dean already knew the logic: there wasn't any. He knew the pros and cons too. It was an insane and truly stupid idea (monumentally) with almost zero chance of success. Which is why he hadn't told Sam, hadn't done it yet, and definitely wouldn't be bringing his kid brother along when he did do it.

Hell, the only dick brother of Cas's he even remotely trusted with this might not answer him at all, making the whole thing moot.

"Okay, well…" Sam trailed off, clearly still thinking through all the ways this idea could go horribly, horribly wrong. (There were many. Dean had counted, gotten past three, given up counting, and accepted he was probably just gonna wing it anyway). In the end, Sam just shrugged. "If you think it's worth a shot, we might as well try."

Dean blinked. Then blinked again. He'd been expecting his baby brother to come back with all the reasons they should absolutely not do this. Because there were plenty and they should absolutely not do this. They shouldn't even considering doing this. Not that it was going to stop Dean from going and doing it, of course, but he'd at least expected to hear all the reasons his brother had.

Which meant now…Dean hesitated, going back to chewing on the inside of his cheek. Well, shit. "Uh…we can't, Sammy."

Sam frowned at his brother's particular choice of emphasis in that sentence. The frown was quickly replaced by that smoothed-forehead-of-danger he always got when he got pissed, which usually came after understanding where his brother was going with some train of thought. Sam worked his jaw, brown eyes hard as he stared Dean down.

"You're not doing it alone."

"It's not what you think," Dean muttered, looking away. He knew Sam had immediately fallen back into age-old worries, thinking the older Winchester wasn't trusting him with this. "I'd rather have you with me, Sammy, trust me, but we can't. If this guy answers, and that's a big if, he's a total dick. He was good enough to Cas, but he never was a big fan of humans to start with…"

Dean, in particular.

Sam ground his teeth, then looked away, running his tongue over his molars to keep from spitting out what he wanted to say. Because he knew what Dean was getting at. He just didn't like it. Sam slid his hands into his lap, left hand going for his still-injured right palm, rubbing at the stitches wrapped beneath gauze. The pain helped ground him, enough to speak with a level tone.

"I can't go because I'm the 'boy with the demon blood,'" the young hunter finally said, only just keeping himself from putting any sort of connotation on those last words. Across from him, Dean's shoulders slumped more, his jawline tense with unrestrained words of assuagement that Sam didn't need to hear.

"I don't know how any of them will react to me, Sammy. Claiming to be the Righteous Man, if I gotta go that far." Dean hoped he wouldn't have to. He hoped he'd be able to just tell the damn angel he was a friend of Cas's, the guy was in trouble, could you please find him and tell him to get his ass back down to Earth and away from dick traitors. Easy as that. "I don't wanna risk them freaking out on you or blowing any of this out of proportion because they've got some holy stick up their ass."

Sam was still looking away, vein in his jaw twitching, and Dean sighed. He rubbed at his short hair, then leaned forward, leveling a single finger his brother's way.

"Don't let an ass-backwards opinion of a bunch of winged dicks make you feel like crap, Sammy. That isn't you, you're not the 'boy with the demon blood'. You're Sam Friggin' Winchester, and none of this is your fault."

Sam took in a deep breath and released it. It took a moment – another deep breath – before he was able to let go of his wounded hand and put his arms back on the table, fingers lightly clasped. Looking into Dean's determined, angry eyes, Sam felt calmer, in spite of the anger still buzzing just beneath the surface.

"But I still shouldn't go." Despite the speech he'd just made, Dean looked guilty. Sam sighed. "At least promise me you'll give me a heads up, Dean. Don't just disappear, alright?"

The older hunter grinned. Though, again, there wasn't much laughable about any of this. "Yeah, I can do that."

The bell rung over by the kitchen window and Sam leaned back in the booth as their waitress brought over their orders. She set them on the table and both Winchesters mustered up appreciative, if not tired, smiles before she walked away. Sam picked up his fork, moving bits of his salad around on the plate without really digging in. Dean just stared at his meal, and the younger Winchester tried not to let that worry him as much as it did.

"I still think you should wait it out," Sam finally said, though the resignation in his voice made it clear he knew Dean would do no such thing. "She's going to be fine, Dean. Cas can handle herself until she makes it back down here. It's the safer plan."

And the one that didn't leave him behind.

"I know." Dean picked up his burger and bit into it, trying to ignore the way it taste more like ash than grease and meat. He chewed through it, swallowing heavily to get it down. "And I'm trying. Just can't make any promises I'll last that long."

Sam nodded, a rare sort of understanding between the two of them, coming from a level of open communication they'd never really had before. The younger Winchester stabbed a forkful of salad, diving into his own meal, and tried to feel good about that fact. He was only moderately successful.

-o-o-o-

They stayed away from the hospital for nearly three hours, keeping in not-quite-constant contact with Andy via texts, making sure he was still good on his own. The kid didn't seem to mind the extended break away from the Winchesters. He probably needed it, what with how both Sam and Dean tended to Mother Hen in their own ways. And so the boys took the opportunity to restock some of the supplies they'd lost in Rivergrove, taking the time to hunt down anything on Cas's ingredient list for hex bags that they might find in Sturgis, South Dakota. Which was not a lot, but they hadn't expected much to start with.

Sam insisted they stop at a pharmacy and get some more medical supplies, not just to replace what they'd spared for Andy, but also because the kid was going to have some longer term needs for at least the next month. They couldn't just buy morphine, unfortunately, but the brothers agreed to find a new supply, either purchased illegally or stolen from a place that could afford to replace it. When they got back to Sioux Falls, they'd talk to Bobby about it. He might know a guy. The old hunter usually did.

As the Winchesters pulled back into the hospital, Dean balked at the almost completely full parking lot that greeted them. He stopped Baby, idling at the first cross-section of aisles, the entire lot filled with cars, shining in the afternoon sun.

"What the hell?" He glared at the surrounding vehicles, then at his brother. "Is there some hospital convention in town we missed?"

Sam shrugged, seeming nonplussed about the whole thing as he glanced around the lot. "It is Saturday. It makes sense that more people would come visit on the weekend."

Dean grumbled. "It wasn't like this this morning."

It had been wide open that morning. In fact, the entire time they'd been in Sturgis, there'd never been more than thirty cars in the parking lot. It wasn't a big town or a big hospital, and Staff parked in the back to start with.

"Just go park over there," Sam offered with the exasperation of a younger brother constantly having to play the older. He gestured to the side of the large building, where the parking lot wrapped around to the back of the hospital.

Grumbling, Dean turned Baby's wheel regardless. Thought he muttered and moaned about the loss of his front row parking the whole, slow drive. They parked in the side lot, then walked back around the Hospital to the front entrance, Dean still complaining under his breath about mini vans and screaming children and house wives visiting husbands with broken legs, not priority cases like electrocution and slashed throats that should get front row parking.

It was an ongoing diatribe that made little sense, but Sam just left him to it.

Just as they got to the front doors, glass panels sliding apart automatically with a burst of heated air to contrast the frigid winter weather outside, Dean's phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket, caught Bobby's name, and waved Sam on ahead while he answered.

"Hey, Bobby, any more luck with that list?" Dean stuck his free hand in his pocket for the sake of warmth and wandered away from the front doors, back down the wide walkway leading back to the parking lot. A couple feet away, another bystander lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag.

"Do you even know how hard half of this shit is to get?" Bobby immediately grumbled, voice extra gruff. No dice, then, Dean knew, just from the tone.

"If it was easy, I wouldn't have had to call you," the older Winchester tried with a cocky smile, hoping flattery might get him somewhere. He could practically hear Bobby's glare, though, and sighed. Yeah, he did know. It had taken a full-fledged angel almost a full half day flying all over the damn planet to get it all. That's why he'd called Bobby in the first place. "Let me guess. The human toe mushrooms are the problem?"

Bobby snorted, and Dean could practically see him rubbing his forehead, bumping his cap back on his head. "Yeah, well, you could say that. They only grow on one mountain in Japan, and they have to be picked fresh, at a certain hour of the day, to work for the spell."

Of course they did.

"So unless you got a fortune stashed away somewhere I don't know about…" Bobby huffed down the line, and Dean could all but see him sliding off his cap and resettling the old thing on his head. "Don't suppose you know the winning lottery tickets for this month?"

Dean joined him in that huff. Like they were that lucky. The only thing his future knowledge ever seemed good for was getting them into even more trouble. The man from the future ran a hand down his faced, dragging his fingers over his chin. Damnit, Cas. She couldn't have left them any less of a complicated spell list? The hunter sighed, officially giving it up. "Alright, we're gonna need another way to stay under the radar. Any ideas?"

A tickle in his nose caused the older Winchester to suddenly cough, the smell of cigarette smoke suddenly choking him, strong and obnoxious. Dean glanced at the man only a couple feet away, puffing away, and frowned. Smoke didn't usually bother the hunter. Hell, they stayed in enough cheap ass motels soaked in the stench that he was used to it. But as the guy blew out another cloud, Dean found himself coughing again, harder than before.

With frowny face in full swing, the hunter moved to the other side of the walkway, putting a good ten feet between him and the smoker. Must be a certain brand or something, he thought, waving his hand through the air to dispel what was left of the lingering smoke. Probably European.

"You alright?" Bobby was asking, only a tad sarcastically, as Dean refocused on the conversation.

"Yeah, fine." Dean put the whole irritation out of his mind, hand now on his hip, facing the parking lot with his back turned to the other guy, who didn't seem to care in the slightest, or even notice, Dean's annoyance. "You got any thoughts on warding us?"

"Couple," Bobby answered, shrug practically visible through the phone. "Nothing we can do at the moment, but when you guys get back here…"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. 'Come home.'" Dean managed the words without choking up just at the thought of them. What Bobby hadn't said in so many words, but meant regardless (several times, with increasing doggedness each time over the last several days). "We'll take the hint, Bobby, soon as we can."

Something bright flashed in Dean's eyes, and the hunter found himself squinting, turning his head away from whatever was trying to blind him. Some woman who'd just climbed out of her car was busy putting on makeup, little compact mirror in hand and perfectly reflecting the sun overhead right into Dean's eyes.

"What the hell, lady," he grumbled, irritated for a second time in less than a minute, and turned to face the other direction, away from the parking lot, and from the smoking guy, and from the damn building. He was practically standing in the friggin' planters that lined either side of the entrance.

"I-…-out…and seven-…"

Dean frowned, eyes narrow as the connection went to shit and Bobby crackled in and out. He pressed the phone harder to his ear, trying to make out the older hunter's suddenly static-stricken voice. Ducking his head forward, Dean turned even further into the planters, trying to hear through the terrible connection.

"Bobby? You hear me?"

The line continued to static for another moment, Bobby's voice coming in and out in a mess of crackles and cut outs. Dean pulled the phone from his ear to look at it, completely failing to notice the man walk behind him, dressed in a sharp suit and tie, FBI badge already in hand. A man on a mission, who was equally oblivious to the stranger turned away from him, hunched over by the planters frustrated by a bad connection.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, I hear you, boy. You still there?"

Dean let out an irritated huff as the phone line cleared completely, hospital doors sliding shut with a soft snick to his left. He glanced over at them, a figure he couldn't really see through the reflective glass disappearing further into the hospital. The dude with the cigarette was busy putting it out beneath his heel and the freshly done-up woman snapped her compact mirror closed, slipped it into her purse, and started for the hospital entrance. Dean put the phone back to his ear, wondering what the hell just happened.

"Yeah, I'm here. What were you saying about wards?"

-o-o-o-

Chuck rubbed at his face, stressed the hell out. He released a large breath of air, cheeks puffing up with the sigh. Man. Was that all too contrived? Too many coincidences in a row so that Agent Henriksen wouldn't spot Dean outside the hospital and ruin all the tension before it had time to really build?

The writer chewed on his lower lip, staring at the words on the bright screen.

Aw, well. It's not like his writing had ever been Pulitzer level to start with. Worst case, he could just say some cosmic deity was looking out for the Winchester.

Chuck snorted, putting his hands back on the keys. Like any of his readers would actually buy that.

-o-o-o-

Henriksen walked through the busy hospital lobby, his fifth and final for the day. It was weirdly full for a Saturday afternoon in a relatively small town. Thirty minutes away, Rapid City had a far larger population, along with a much bigger hospital and two smaller ones. Not one of those three had been as happening as Sturgis Hospital was today. The tired FBI agent had to wait several long, annoying minutes for an Administrator at the main station to have time for him.

"FBI," he began as way as introduction, not even bothering with his name. He likely wouldn't be here long enough for it to matter. The other four hospitals had all been a bust, and Victor wasn't holding out much hope of finding his missing fourth victim in this one. As the town furthest from Cold Oak but still bordering the National Park, it made little sense for the Winchesters to head this way. But he needed those i's and t's, and so here Henriksen was. "I'm looking for a potential victim from the Cold Oak case. He'd have an injury resulting in significant blood loss."

The woman just looked at him like every other Administrator he'd talked to that morning. The 'Honey, this is a hospital. That's half our patient list' look. The second woman he'd talked to hadn't bothered with the look, just launched right into the verbal version, which was why Victor knew what that look said verbatim.

"Anything strange or out of the ordinary," Victor added, his returning deadpan look a clear indicator that he knew he was barking up a useless tree. The three bodies found at the old mining town in the middle of the National Park might have made the news, but he'd found over most of his career that Hospital staff didn't matter if your case was widely known or utterly confidential. Victims were victims to them. To the woman in front of him now, his missing victim might just be a number on a page. Victor tried for a little humor, instead. "You won't be wasting my time; the government is paying me to be here, ma'am."

The look certainly didn't improve, but the nurse did start typing away on her computer with an amused harrumph.

"I'll see what we've got," she said, and Henriksen leaned against the edge of the counter, prepared for another lengthy and ultimately fruitless wait. Nurses, the occasional doctor, and relatives of the sick and injured moved around him in the din of the hospital, fighting for space and attention at the counter, or milling about, waiting for news.

-o-o-o-

Dean hung up with Bobby only a handful of minutes later. There wasn't much to talk about, really. He updated the older hunter on Andy's condition, which the Winchesters had done periodically enough over the last three days that there wasn't much left to share. They spent a few minutes bouncing warding ideas around, talking briefly about the pros and cons, not to mention feasibility, of a couple.

The man from the future headed back into the hospital as soon as the call ended. Dean was walking past the main lobby, unpleasantly filled with too many people for his taste (what the hell was up with this small town hospital today?), and heading for the bank of elevators left of the Admin desk, when he overheard a voice that stopped him cold. It was a voice he hadn't heard in years. One that, by all rights, he probably shouldn't remember in the first place but absolutely hadn't forgotten.

"Anything strange or out of the ordinary."

Dean's body moved more on instinct – an instinct remembered from fear and adrenaline and the case almost a near decade ago – and the hunter ducked around the corner of the nearest wall. He immediately pressed himself flat against it and fully out of sight. His heart was racing, and Dean took several deep breaths to calm it down before chancing a glance around the wall, wondering if he'd just imagined it.

Nope.

That was Victor Henriksen. Agent. Victor. Friggin'. Henriksen. Standing at the administrator's desk in a hospital in Sturgis, South Dakota, chatting with one of the women as she typed away on her computer.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

How the hell had the FBI found them?

Shit, shit, and had he mentioned, shit!

This was bad. This was so bad. Dean didn't know what to do. This hadn't happened the first time. They should still have… wait, what month was it? When had Henriksen caught up with them the first time? Had it been in Baltimore? No…after that… Dean couldn't remember, and it really didn't matter now.

The man from the future stowed that part away – the future wasn't going to be any help to him now – and started thinking like the hunter that he was in the present. He needed to get upstairs to Andy and Sam, without Agent Henriksen spotting him. Even if the nurse didn't come back with the fact that they were housing an injured 'FBI agent' and his two partners, which she absolutely would flag as soon as she saw it in the system, Dean couldn't risk Victor spotting any of them. They couldn't afford to get cornered in a building that only had three exits, two of which weren't easy to access outside of an emergency or being hospital staff.

It looked like Andy was getting out of here a little sooner than even Dean had promised.

With a deep breath and forced calm, the hunter pushed off the wall and headed for the staircase in the southwest corner of the building. No way would he risk the elevators, only twenty feet away from the waiting FBI agent who would no doubt recognize him on the spot.

Shit, he'd been lucky Henriksen hadn't spotted him outside. They must have just missed each other. Dean shook his head, stowing that useless bit of luck too, and bolted for the stairs as fast as he could without calling attention to himself.

-o-o-o-

Sam and Andy were sitting in the room, staring at each other with a level of concentration in total silence that would have been utterly creepy (or at least sure as shit easy to make fun of if he didn't have other priorities) when Dean burst into the room. It meant Sam was helping Andy practice his new powers again, another thing they didn't have time for (although the kid was progressing terrifyingly fast, given the lack of blood on his upper lip). Dean could tell from the way his baby brother was holding one eye a little more closed than the other that he was pushing through the headache from it, too.

The frantic hunter closed the door as gently as he could in the haste that he was in, flipping the lock on it and pressing his back to it once he was safely inside. Sam blinked at him, already half-raised out of his chair in concern, and Andy sat upright, a pillow toppling over behind his back.

"What is it?" Sam asked before Dean, who was out of breath from his run-don't-run-alright-run-again-wait-for-that-nurse-to-walk-by-okay-back-to-running, could get anything out.

"We gotta go," he said, words rushed. His heart was still racing, brain managing some level of panicked calm that was required in his pick of careers. But he knew the consequences of the FBI finding them here. Consequences they could not afford right now. "We gotta go now."

-o-o-o-

They moved like a well-oiled machine. Sam immediately said he'd find the doctor and fill in the last blanks they had about home treatment while Dean got Andy out.

"Don't make it obvious we're leaving," Dean instructed unnecessarily, since that was a given and Sam wasn't stupid. Any hunter who'd ever been injured enough to go to a hospital knew not to mention the words 'checking out' or 'AMA'. Legally, the hospital staff couldn't stop you, but boy did those people know how to work the system to slow you the fuck down while they tried to talk you out of it.

But Sam, ever the referee, just nodded, grabbing his coat off the back of the door. The warding symbol he'd carved into it three days ago was still there, but neither hunter was worried about hiding the damage right now. Sam twisted the knob, slipping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him as quickly and quietly as possible. He immediately caught the attention of one of the nurses and asked her to page Dr. Richards.

Meanwhile, Dean turned to Andy, who had already slid to the side of the bed, bare feet flat across the cold floor. The older hunter reached beneath the bed for the duffle they'd stashed there days ago, knowing something like this would be inevitable. Of course, Dean hadn't expected it to be under such stressful time constraints. The older Winchester threw the bag onto the bed, Andy digging into it as soon as it hit the sheets. He pulled out a pair of boxers and jeans while the older Winchester started tossing in the kid's phone, charger, coloring book (Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but he'd save it for when they weren't running from federal incarceration) and crayons.

Luckily, aside from some pretty thick bandages around his hands and wrists that covered a multitude of stiches to make even Edward Scissorhands jealous, Andy wasn't too badly injured anywhere but his neck, and was able to do most the dressing himself. Casting embarrassment aside in favor of not going to prison, Dean helped him button and zip his jeans and got his sneakers on and laced up. Andy threw a hoodie over his long sleeves and t-shirt while Dean slipped out of the room. While he was gone, Andy dug under the hospital pillows for Sam's sleep coin and the hex bag tucked beneath the mattress, not wanting to lose either of those things. By the time he'd gotten both objects tucked into the duffle bag's outer pocket, Dean was back with a wheelchair that he'd gotten who-knows-where.

Andy wanted to insist he didn't need it, but he could tell from Dean's expression that they didn't have time for that argument. He might not be severely injured anywhere but his neck, but he hadn't gotten his full strength yet, either. The psychic still tired pretty easily, and remained a little shaky at the best of times. So he chucked himself into the chair with a flair of acceptance and waved his hand in the air for his servant to push him forth hence.

Dean made it clear from his snort and the fact they didn't go anywhere for a solid three seconds (as much time as Dean could afford under current circumstances) what he thought about that roleplay.

The hunter wheeled the kid out into the hallway, eyeing the elevators on the other side of the nurse's station. Agent Henriksen would be coming up those any minute now. He turned Andy the other direction. There was another bank at the other end of the building. There'd be no reason for the FBI agent to use those elevators. It could buy them a couple extra minutes, even if it would take a couple extra minutes to get to.

Andy kept a completely casual expression on his face as he was rolled past the nurses, who didn't take much notice. The kid had been up and walking around that morning, so, in theory, they shouldn't flag anything weird about him being up for an afternoon stroll. Better yet, they couldn't even bitch about it taxing him, since Dean was doing all the hard work.

As he pushed Andy towards the far hallway, Dean spotted Sam by the nurse's station, chatting with the doctor. The younger Winchester caught his eye and subtly shifted a foot to the left, bringing the doc's gaze with him and further away from the escaping jailbirds. Dean gave his little brother a nod before pushing Andy quickly down the hall towards the back elevators, knowing Sam would meet them in the parking lot as soon as he had what they needed.

-o-o-o-

"Alright, here we go," the administrator – Sharron Bardur according to her ID badge – said as she tapped one manicured nail, extensions long and painted a vibrant pink, on her keyboard. Agent Henriksen tried not to look as impatient as he felt. "The only weird one we've gotten all week is the guy with the slit throat. But you already know about that."

Victor blinked, head doing a little shake that might as well have been a double take. He dropped his hand to the counter, a little extra bump in his heartbeat spiking with the very beginnings of an adrenaline rush. "Excuse me?"

Mrs. Bardur gave him a raised eyebrow, and he knew the sass of a woman who thought a man ought to know something. He'd been married before. More than once. "The patient, he's one of yours." When he still just stared at her, that eyebrow lowered into more of a frown. "FBI? Three of 'em came in, one with a certifiable crazy throat injury."

That little trickle of adrenaline became a torrent. Could it really be that easy? There was no way it could be that easy.

"They're upstairs now," Mrs. Bardur continued, a little more uncertain as it became obvious this FBI agent was not aware of his colleagues in the building. She was getting an uneasy feeling about that, too.

Agent Henriksen reached for the gun on his hip, but didn't draw it. He'd never expected to find the Winchesters still in the hospital. What he'd expected was another victim, dropped off at the hospital by a pair of serial killers that, according to the somewhat dubious connections to past crimes, occasionally had a conscience.

"Call security, have them meet me at that room."

-o-o-o-

"I don't see why we need to discuss this right now," Dr. Richards said, a little harried by the busy day. There'd been a pile up on I-90, just north of the city, which involved a truly spectacular number of cars and almost no serious injuries. Head bumps and broken limbs, which was honestly quite weird for a major, multi-vehicular accident at high speeds. That had been followed up, almost at the same time, with a stream of parents coming in with their kids, all of who had a rash not unlike poison ivy. All of them. All at once. The hospital was suddenly slammed with cases. Dr. Richards hadn't quite seen anything like it, even on a busy day in Sturgis. He felt like he was living a day in the life of Jumanji or something.

"I know you're busy, I just wanted to get things prepared," the FBI agent answered, a weak smile in place.

Dr. Richards liked Agent Frehley. He seemed like a kind and caring young man who had a good head on his shoulders and a much more reasonable disposition than his older partner. However, this really wasn't a great time, and as their injured agent would be in the hospital for another two or three days at a minimum, Hank really didn't see why they needed to discuss it right that moment. Mrs. Dunn had three children all exhibiting the same rash in places children should not be getting poison ivy, even if they tried. And Mrs. Dunn was famous in Sturgis, particularly at the Hospital, for her overbearing, mama bear temperament. Hank really needed to get back to her before she started throwing things again.

The man sighed and tried to remind himself that the agent in front of him had concerns of his own about his friend. It had sounded like Agent Criss didn't have much family outside of the two senior agents, so it would likely be on Agent Frehley to make sure he got the care he needed. As a doctor, Hank couldn't be annoyed at someone actually wanting to ask questions, learn, and do it right.

So, with another sigh, Dr. Richards motioned for one of the nurses at the station, walking towards the counter with the FBI agent in tow. "Amy, can you get a copy of the aftercare for Agent Criss printed up for me?" As the nurse nodded, already pulling the documents up on her computer, Hank turned back to Sam. "We can discuss it closer to discharging your agent, but those documents will have all the basics you'll need. Keeping the wound clean and staying on the anti-biotics for a full term will be the biggest things."

Dr. Richards pulled a pad out of his white coat, sliding a pen out of his breast pocket and scribbling something down on the prescription form. He tore it off and handed it to the FBI agent, who took it with a careful eye, reading through the scribbled writing.

"You won't need it until after he's been discharged, but those are the antibiotics." Thinking of the pain medication his patient would also need, Hank went ahead and wrote up a second prescription, handing that one over. "Don't fill them until he's been discharged, the insurance companies can be fickle about that."

Amy called for Dr. Richards, who turned back around and grabbed the stack of about fifteen freshly printed pages from her. He thanked her again, as did Agent Frehley, as he handed them over to the towering man.

"The rest will be about getting good sleep, no major movement or exercise in that area-" Hank gestures to his neck and lower jaw- "and making sure the wound stays clean and dry for at least two weeks."

Agent Frehley smiled, and Dr. Richards didn't regret spending the time to talk to him, despite his many other obligations at the moment. "Thanks, Doctor. I really appreciate it. I'll read over this and come back to you with any questions I have."

"Yes, well, as I said," Hank started again, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice, even if it was no longer annoyance, "we'll have plenty of time to discuss it."

Agent Frehley's attention was elsewhere, though. Brown eyes focused on something behind Dr. Richards, and the man's shoulders drew back suddenly, spine straightening to his full height. Before Hank could turn to see what had drawn the agent's attention, the brown-haired man was shaking his hand again.

"Thanks so much, again, Doctor. I'll let you get back to your other patients."

"Yes, I..."

But the agent was already leaving, back turned on the doctor as he headed down the hall away from his friend's room, rounding the corner at a speed that seemed a little hurried. Hank glanced over his shoulder at Nurse Amy to comment on it, but she was already on the other side of the station, greeting a very serious looking, dark-skinned gentleman who'd just come off the elevator.

-o-o-o-

Security had not yet arrived when Victor got to the fourth floor. He wasn't that concerned about it. If the Winchesters were here (and they were here; a group of three FBI agents in the same part of South Dakota as himself, with no word of an injured colleague passing through headquarters that Henriksen had heard of? Oh, the Winchesters were definitely here, and they'd stepped up their game to impersonating law enforcement and committing felonies) then Victor would be catching them by surprise. Still, they should be considered dangerous in any situation, and he didn't want innocents caught in any crossfire, should the brothers resist.

The real FBI agent crossed over to the nurses' station, hand still on his gun, eyeing the room across the station from him that housed the injured, possibly wanted men. "Ma'am, I need you to clear this floor. Get everyone back in their rooms and away from 411. Quietly."

He held up his badge as he spoke, and the young woman at the desk, a nametag pinned to her scrubs indicating her name was Amy, blinked in surprise and slowly forming alarm. To her credit, she didn't think twice as four security officers arrived from the stairwell located beside the elevators. Though she eyed them worriedly, Amy grabbed the other nurse manning the station with her and between the two of them, they started herding people back into their rooms or further down the hall. With a gesture from the FBI agent, two of those four guards went to assist the nurses.

"What's this?" A doctor – the white lab coat gave it away – came around the desk, a professional frown on his face. "What's going on?"

"I believe you may have fugitives in this hospital, posing as FBI agents," Victor explained, drawing his gun now that the majority of people were cleared from the main part of the fourth floor. He moved towards room 411, the doctor and security in tow.

"Agent Frehley? I was just speaking to him about Agent Criss," Dr. Richards balked in disbelief, though it did look like the gears were starting to turn. The man was probably going back through each interaction with them, spotting the things that hadn't made sense then, little flags that might have been yellow at best, and were turning red in his mind now.

Victor, meanwhile, paused, hand reaching out for the knob, to turn and look at the man behind him. Frehley and Criss. Seriously? Two of the members of Kiss? He could only guess the third agent went by Simmons. Henriksen shook his head in disbelief. How the hell had the Winchesters gotten away with so much so far? It was like they weren't even trying. Victor let the thought go, turning his attention and all his focus back on the room. He wrapped his hand around the knob as quietly as he could, gun up and ready.

The two security guards flanking Henriksen pushed the doctor behind them, and the man shuffled awkwardly out to the side as he finally realized the very possible severity of the situation. Victor counted to three, listening sharply for any potential hints of what they might encounter inside. Then, he turned the knob and threw open the door hard enough to swing into the wall with a light bang. No one behind it. He cleared the rest of the room in three quick sweeps of both eyes and gun.

Empty.

"Wh- but- they were just in here!" Dr. Richards exclaimed, sticking his head into the room between the three armed men. His expression was truly baffled as he stared at the empty room, hospital bed partially made, no patient to be seen. "Agent Criss has a traumatic injury- he was not ready to be discharged!"

Victor resisted rolling his eyes at the doctor's misplaced outrage and pushed past him. "He's not an agent, he's a wanted criminal. You said you were just talking to one of them?"

Hank blinked, realizing that was what he'd said, and he had just been speaking to, well, apparently a dangerous fugitive. He swallowed thickly, but nodded at the intimidating man in front of him who was now in a hurry. "Just a moment ago, right over there."

That was all Agent Henriksen needed to here, not even looking to where Dr. Richards pointed. He took off at a run for the stairwell beside the elevators, all four security officers now following him. The Winchesters didn't have much of a head start and were carrying injured weight; Victor might still catch them yet.

-o-o-o-

Sam exited through the automatic glass doors of the Hospital at just under a run, his long legs carrying him a good four feet with each stride. He broke into a full run the second he saw the Impala, screeching into the drop off circle, tires smoking at the friction of the turn and the sudden stop. Dean leaned over, throwing open the passenger door.

"Sam!" With the way his brother called his name, the younger Winchester knew what he would see behind him if he turned. The doors of the hospital slid open with a distant, soft whoosh and the sound of pounding footsteps was far louder. Sam didn't turn.

"FBI! Freeze!"

There were several screams from inside the hospital. As Sam dove into the front seat, grabbing the door and slamming it shut all in one smooth motion, he turned to look back towards the building. There was a man in a suit, struggling to get through the large crowds in the lobby, frightened people now panicking at the apparent gun chase happening. A handful of security guards flanked him, equally struggling as they tried to clear a path.

Dean gunned it. Sam told Andy to get down and the kid slid sideways, trying not to jostle his neck too much. There was a crazy, fearful, excited grin on his face. Through the rear window, Sam saw the agent burst through the doors finally, gun in hand, leveling it their direction.

After a tense moment in which Sam expected to hear bullets hit the car and possibly the rear windshield shattering, the agent lowered the gun. They were too far away for a decent shot and Henriksen wasn't the type to shoot wildly. Then Dean was rounding the corner out of the parking lot onto the street, Baby drifting several feet on the rapid turn, tires smoking as rubber burned. The hospital and the FBI agent disappeared from sight.

Sam let out a breath that might as well have been the North Winds itself, the way it took all the remaining energy out of his body. He sagged against the front seat, finally releasing a death grip he hadn't realized he'd had along the top of the leather.

"Holy crap," he breathed, looking over at his brother. Dean fidgeted in the front seat, hands tight on the steering wheel, looking far too uncomfortable with the close call. Green eyes kept darting to the rear view mirror. "Who was that, Dean?"

"Henrisken. Victor Henriksen, FBI agent, all around pain in the ass and…somewhat decent guy when he's not trying to drag us to federal prison."

Andy popped up in the backseat, eyes wide and that almost crazy grin on his face. Images flashed behind both their eyelids, Dean flinching and the car swerving before he could correct for the sudden loss of vision. Andy's images didn't overtake his brain's ability to process the signals from his eyes, but it was hard to concentrate on one over the other, particularly when Andy's were so persistent.

There was a clock, and an FBI badge, and the kid from Back to the Future, and Dean got what the kid was asking, but he was also trying not to kill them all as they fled a federal offense. Several, actually. "If I crash, we're all going to jail, kid, so enough."

Folding himself into the backseat, Andy looked sheepish in the rearview mirror. A last image flashed in Dean's mind, less pushy then the others, of a board game box: Sorry.

"It's cool, just…go easy with the images," Dean conceded, feeling a bit guilty himself for barking at the kid. Andy was going through a lot, and Dean couldn't really blame him for utilizing the only good thing to come out of the last five days. The older Winchester glanced at Sam, who was unfolding a packet of papers. Dean only got a glimpse, but the information looked medical. "You get what we need?"

"Cliff notes version," Sam huffed, but there was the beginnings of a winning smile on his face, "but it'll do."

They'd just escaped the clutches of the FBI by the skin of their teeth, but it was a win. Dean let a grin of his own stretch across his lips. The FBI was on their heels – hot on their heels – way sooner than they should be, or at least in a completely new way, and Dean knew that was a whole new barrel of very ugly monkeys. But they'd made it out this time, and the tail of the adrenaline rush had him chuckling in the front seat.

Two more images flashed through their brains, both having an edge of hesitancy and infantile restraint. The opening title sequence of the movie The Great Escape, and the lead character, Hilts.

"Yeah, sure thing, kid," Dean said with a laugh.

Another series of pictures followed, with a little more confidence but no more pushiness. Baby, a flash of Dean, another of Baby and a couple other cars Dean could only describe as sexy, then Hilts again. The hunter pieced together the clues and grinned, revving the engine a bit as they merged onto the highway to get the hell out of dodge.

"Damn straight, I am," Dean said, a touch of pride in his voice that had Sam shaking his head.

"Let Dean drive," the younger Winchester scolded Andy, though there was barely any heat. "His head's big enough as is without you filling it."

Andy laughed silently in the back seat, air huffing out in little chuffs, and Dean spared his brother a glare, revving the engine again just out of revenge. Sam looked utterly unimpressed. But all was right in the world, with the trio safely heading for Sioux Falls.

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

A/Ns: I am so interested to hear how many of you are thinking something along the lines of, "Huh…that…was way too easy and painless for our usually-no-good-dirty-rotten author…" and how many are of the opinion of, "Finally! The boys needed a friggin' win-slash-break without you breaking their hearts or bodies, Silence!" XD Either way, I think you're right XD The boys have won this round, but Henriksen's not out of the game yet!

Acronyms: AMA is Against Medical Advice. It's what they list on your paperwork when you check yourself out of the hospital despite the doctors telling you not to (pretty much so you can't sue them when something goes horribly wrong because you left before you were healthy). Note: I have no idea if this is how it works in other countries. This may be a super obvious one to my international readers, who could be rolling their eyes right now ;) Another potentially obvious one I've missed a couple of times is PTSD: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I've kind of been figuring everyone knows that one, but I actually don't know what it's called in other countries, if it's called something different at all :)

Up Next: We have one last chapter of down-time before your no-good-dirty-rotten author gets back at it. The boys flee East with a puzzle of their own to solve: how the hell did Henriksen find them? Our favorite FBI agent is still on the hunt (and pestering his favorite tech analyst that many of you are very sure is a demon [insert evil grin here]) In the meantime, Tom and Azazel are back in the game! (or, well, they're trying to get back in the game…)