A/Ns: Crap crappity crap crap, guys! It's SUNDAY. Did you know it was Sunday? Apparently some of you did! I was going through my e-mails (while waiting on my parents to leave for a movie) when I got three new ones all at once, from commenters/reviewers just lightly poking me about that update. I was all...why is everyone poking me? It's like, Wednesday.

It is not, in fact, Wednesday.

You should have seen the mad dash out of the living room and to my bedroom for my computer in hopes I could scramble this thing together and post (even now, my parents are finally ready to go and I'm begging for another few minutes XD)

Anyway, here is the first chapter! I will post the second when I get back from the movie, guys! Thanks for the reminder from the light pokers, you all ROCK! XD Sorry I got so distracted that I forgot what day it was, haha!

Previously On TRSF…The last time we saw Castiel, his grace had taken serious damage from the demon's trap in Rivergrove. He managed to return to Heaven, where Uriel gave him enough cursory energy to hide his injuries and throw Zachariah of the hunt, with the aid of Malachi. Then the anarchist angel assisted Castiel in entering a healing trance. Malachi was recruited by Uriel, along with several so-far unnamed angels, as a group primed to turn on Heaven and help raise Lucifer. Malachi warned Uriel that Castiel would be his problem to deal with if he caused them any more trouble or brought more attention to their secrets.

Original Timeline Reference - Malachi: I've noticed a lot of readers commenting about Malachi as they catch up on the story, generally about who the heck is he?! Since we're getting back to him this chapter, here's a quick recap :) Malachi was in all of *one* episode in Season 9, but he was introduced like this:

Castiel: "Who leads the other faction?"

Someone: "Malachi."

Castiel: *hardcore stares* "The Anarchist?"

And that's all we got. He was the angel in Season 9 that captured and tortured a human Castiel in his creepy dungeon building thing. And that is *all* we got of Malachi! He left the room, Castiel stole an angel's grace for the first time, and escaped. It was later mentioned Gadreel killed him off screen but…that was it, folks. I was totally unsatisfied that the most interesting thing about this guy – that he was an *angel* who was also an *anarchist* – was neeeever touched on. So I decided to expand upon him in this story, because that sounds like a brilliant badguy!

Chapter Reference - Persephone: Quick reminder that Persephone first met Sam in a bar, where she had on a silver warding necklace. She appears as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian woman when she wears it. She keeps it on when she's at Chuck's as well, to hide her not-humanness from Raphael. Sam has since figured out, from her Semitic accent, that the woman he met in the bar was very likely the same woman Azazel has been associating with. Respectfully, thosechapters are 61 and 73 if you want a refresher.

Chapter Reference – Gordon: Quick reminder that the boys ran into Gordon in this story the same way they ran into him in the original timeline. They caught a vampire case and found Gordon tailing them. Dean insisted they leave, let Gordon have the hunt to himself, but slipped up by saying a line Gordon had said to him the first time around. This set alarm bells off for Gordon, who later learned at the Roadhouse that Dean's psychic. See Chapter 60

Chapter Warnings: If you haven't guessed from all ^ that, we're back in Heaven! And Castiel is not having a good time! (Here's a little hint, in case you all didn't pick up on the nuances of my incredibly subtle writing: no one in this story has a good time.)

-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 56

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

Exiting a healing trance was not like entering one. Unlike the peaceful darkness that overtook you like a heavy hood sliding across your consciousness, awakening from a healing session was nothing short of disorienting. For a celestial being that rarely experienced unconsciousness, lapses in time, or the momentary confusion of knowing neither where nor when you were, coming out of a healing session was a truly unpleasant experience.

It took time for Castiel to identify the colors moving around him, blurry at first but slowly solidifying into shapes recognizable as objects. His location was unfamiliar, as were the several humans moving about him, oblivious to his presence in their dwelling. The fabric beneath him was soft, with a large amount of give that could only be described as cushiony. A couch, then. In what appeared to be a fairly standard living room of a family home in, given the décor and spoken language of the occupants, late twentieth century Spain.

It was not a Paradise Castiel was familiar with, and it took more precious time for the angel to recall how he might have come to be in it, coming out of a healing trance no less. Heaven had an infirmary building for the injured, which housed the Host's healers. A human Paradise was hardly the appropriate place for a healing.

Malachi. Malachi had helped him cover his time on Earth from Zachariah, because Uriel was unavailable. Malachi had assisted him into a healing trance. But Castiel could tell from the foreign grace still flowing through him, the grogginess of the trance beginning to fade, that Uriel had been the one to continue the healing. Which meant his trusted brother was likely the one to place him in a human's Paradise.

The unfamiliar surroundings began to make more sense. Uriel must have been the one to hide him away. Doing so in one of the Paradises he frequented – and was known for frequenting – would have been a poor choice. Should anyone go looking for him, but particularly Zachariah, he would have been easily discovered and his injuries revealed. Castiel was glad his brother thought of this. Uriel wasn't known for dallying in the humans' domain, so Castiel was honestly surprised the larger angel had thought to stash him in one.

Castiel struggled to sit up, gripping the back and sides of the couch for additional leverage. He glanced at one of those limbs, taking in the weak saturation of his grace. The healing trance had not been nearly long enough. Castiel could feel it in the ache of his being, in the tightness of his grace – like canvas stretched too tight across rough struts – and the still mending cracks in his grace. He really should not be awake. However, he had promised Sam and Dean that he would contact them as soon as he could. He did not need to be fully healed to do that much. While Castiel did not know how much time had passed in Heaven, more would have passed on Earth and it was a given that Dean would already be worried about his absence. Particularly due to the manner of his departure.

Dean had been distressed, and Castiel did not like when Dean was distressed. Something was telling him – something he was fairly certain had been absorbed from another version of him – that this human in particular did things when distressed that Castiel would not approve of or appreciate.

The door to the Paradise opened and one of the women moving through the living room – the host of this heaven – smiled at the newcomer.

"Oh, we have guests!" she called to the rest of her family, but Uriel completely ignored her as he moved into the room and past the human. She would forget him soon enough, the call of her memories a much stronger presence.

"Uriel," Castiel greeted, struggling to lever himself further upright. His brother was at his side in an instant, helping him to sit more upright on the human furniture. Behind them, the woman went about her memory as though Uriel had never interrupted it to begin with.

"You should not be awake," the larger angel admonished, one meaty hand tight but supportive on Castiel's shoulder. "I felt you stirring and worried something was wrong with the trance."

Castiel frowned, the colors of his pasty, pastel grace shifting towards confusion. "You were monitoring me?"

Uriel looked uncomfortable, or as uncomfortable as Castiel had ever seen him, and perhaps a bit angry to be found so uncomfortable. "You are injured enough for it, brother, and I am no healer."

Castiel supposed that was very true. He was injured enough for it, and had he been in charge of the care of a similarly weakened brother, he very well might have taken such precautions himself. "Thank you, Uriel, for your attentiveness."

The larger angel relaxed fractionally, nodding. His facial swirls shifted into lighter yellows and oranges, and the moment passed.

"We are brothers," Uriel said, the words heavy like boulders. "More than brothers, we are brothers in arms, in the coming war against Heaven."

It was not easy, but Castiel hid his flinch well, his own uneasiness with the mention of war. He didn't want it to come to that, was doing all that he could to keep it from coming to that, though everyone around him seemed certain it would. The Winchester brothers. His own brothers. Uriel must have picked up on his distress, however well-hidden the smaller angel might have made it, because he less than subtly changed the topic.

"You need to stop these visits to earth, Castiel." Unfortunately, the new topic was not much better. "They call too much attention to us, to our work."

Dropping his many eyes to his lap in a frighteningly human reaction, Castiel did not answer right away. He was at a loss as to how to respond. Uriel was not wrong. Castiel had known that his visits to the planet below would not go unnoticed for long. That was before Rivergrove. His own awareness of trouble just around the corner had not taken into account anything nearly as devastating to his continued secrecy as a grievous injury. He was putting more than just himself at risk. He was putting his brothers, their cause, and even Dean and Sam in danger.

But he had promised Dean he would return.

So he told Uriel as much. Told his brother of the haste of his departure and the lack of time he'd had to adequately explain why he had to leave. The humans would surely worry if he did not return as he had promised, and this Righteous Man was…particularly bad about situations outside of his control.

"One more trip," Castiel insisted with a nod. "I will inform them that I am well, and that I will be away for some time to finish healing and limit the attention I am drawing from Heaven."

Even as he said it, Castiel wondered if he could even make the trip in his current state. He was much better off than he had been before entering the trance, but he was far from well. His grace was stiff with the healing fractures, and the thought of flying on his wings, which felt rigid with disuse and a lack of proper grace flow – his body having drawn the majority of his power into his core to speed up the healing process – was an unpleasant notion at best.

But he also knew, through knowledge both his own and that of another Castiel, that Dean was worrying. Speaking of… Castiel should reconnect his awareness to the Ether. 'Angel Radio,' Dean called it often. It should provide him with a catalogue of missed prayers from any humans, as well. Before Dean had forcefully summoned him into his life, Castiel might not have even listened through the pleas. Now, he prepared himself to be thoroughly chastised by a human war-torn between worry and anger, which the angel was already resigned to never fully understand.

The ever shifting eddies of Uriel's grace darkened with displeasure as Castiel reconnected himself to the edges another level of time and space.

"Why do you feel such obligation to them, Castiel?" Uriel spat, voice heavy with disdain and disappointment. "They are mud monkeys, brother. They are not worth your time, let alone your concern."

Castiel tried not to feel the sorrow that welled up within his grace at his brother's words. The sentiment was nothing new, especially for Uriel. The larger angel had never thought much for humanity, despite multiple attempts from Castiel to show him otherwise. It did nothing but sadden the smaller angel, but Uriel was as he was. God built him as such for a reason, or so Castiel had always believed.

At least until he'd met a man named Dean Winchester.

The first of Dean's fevered prayers started to filter through once the muddle of angelic voices, some raised in song, some in conversation, others in whispered thought, started to fade to the background. His prayers were, indeed, angry, but they were also something else.

Something very, very, else.

Castiel stilled, unhearing of Uriel's continued complaints against his loyalty to humankind. His grace stilled as well; as slow as it had been previously, shifting and ebbing and surging at a quarter of its usual energy, it was completely unmoving now, pastel swirls frozen in time across his being. What color Castiel had regained since entering the trance disappeared entirely, leaving the angel a translucent, incorporeal mass of shock and disbelief.

"You cannot risk our entire operation just to comfort some human. I will not allow it. The others will not either, Castiel." Uriel was still talking, his words buffeting off of Castiel like water rebounding off a stone wall that did not have ears to hear with anyway. "More than that, you are not going anywhere until you have healed further. You are going to damage yourself beyond what is repairable, and then we'll really be caught."

Uriel grabbed his arm, and Castiel jolted at the shock of physical contact. He stared at the larger angel's meaty limb wrapped around his own. It seemed so much more possessive now than the comfort he had always thought it was meant to be.

"I will assist with the trance this time," Uriel insisted. Castiel's many eyes raised slowly to meet his own. The larger angel's facial colors were split by a myriad of muddled colors, coming out mostly brown. Like a smile on a human's face that wasn't remotely happy, even if that was the very purpose of such an expression. Castiel felt the first stirrings of apprehension replace his shock. "Lay back down, Castiel. We will discuss this further when you wake back up."

But Castiel did not lay down. He did not answer, either. He and his attention were elsewhere. Uriel's grace deepened, that muddled brown turning dark, dark brown. Like dried blood. Dried human blood, until it was all the smaller angel could see on his once-friend. Slowly, Castiel pulled his arm from Uriel's grip, awareness fully returned to the here and now with the last of Dean's prayers going silent. He had reached the end of a diatribe of horror and betrayal and fear that he did not want to believe.

"Castiel?"

His brother's many eyes, all of them always tinged a bluish silver that Uriel found fascinating in a way an angel probably never should, were wide. Castiel's grace was in a state of distress, his expression as disturbed as Uriel had ever seen it. And he had been in many a horrifying and terrifying battle with this brother.

"Brother?"

Castiel stared at him. Then, his grace began to churn and Uriel got an ugly feeling in his core.

"Uriel," the smaller angel began, voice tight and ringed with something his brother did not easily recognize. "Where do your loyalties lie?"

The larger angel pulled back, eyes narrowing. He regarded his brother cautiously. It was clear by the question – a non-sequitur in their discussion so far – that his brother had tuned back into the Ether. Had Malachi said something to the smaller angel? Uriel didn't trust the anarchist as far as he could throw him, and turning Castiel against him seemed like something the clever deviant would do.

"That sounds like a loaded question, Castiel," Uriel hedged cautiously, still regarding his brother carefully. Castiel's grip on the edges of the couch were tight, and Uriel had no doubt it was all that was keeping him upright. As he had told the angel, Castiel was not ready to be on his feet.

His words did not have the desired result, which was to gauge how bad the misdirection Malachi had sent was. Castiel's expression hardened into that of the Captain of his Unit. It was a look Uriel knew well. This was angel Uriel respected. An angel did not need his protection or best intentions.

But Castiel was only ever that angel in battle. Which begged the question…was his friend and brother preparing to go into battle? Uriel's limbs curled into fists where they lay against the couch.

"Do you plan to raise Lucifer? To release the devil on the world and start the beginning of the End?" Castiel's words were sharp. Reprimanding. It might have been a question, but his Captain already knew his answer.

Uriel's fists tightened. Damn Malachi! Damn him! It was not the message he expected the anarchist to send his brother. Uriel had expected Malachi to warn Castiel that he was in danger. That Uriel planned to eliminate him; an ironic but predictable lie. But this was no better. Damnit, Uriel needed to bring Castiel to his side slowly. His brother was stubborn. Stubbornly righteous and getting him to realize the truth of Uriel's stance – to join their cause of his own volition because he realized it was right – was always going to take time.

Malachi had taken that time from him. Now Uriel would be fighting Castiel's love for the humans and a Heaven-ingrained hatred of the Morning Star! Misplaced, manufactured hatred, but Castiel would not see it that way. Not now, not without the time Uriel needed to steer his opinion back towards truth.

"Whatever Malachi has told you-"

"We've been friends for a long time, Uriel," Castiel interrupted, colors as intense and sharp as his ailing grace would allow. "Fought by each other's sides, served together away from home, for what seems like forever. We're brothers. Pay me that respect. Tell me the truth."

Uriel stared, dark eyes going cold. The larger angel drew himself up, grace filling out his shoulders and chest, creating quite the intimidating sight. But it was never a sight that had intimidated Castiel before, and it did not now. Uriel's grace shifted, bleeding red. There were trickles of a sour yellow slithering throughout his form, like veins of gold in a ground soaked with blood.

Something in Uriel changed, and Castiel could not help but wonder where he had been hiding it all this time.

"Do you remember him, Castiel? How strong he was? How beautiful?" The larger angel's gaze grew distant. He still remembered the first time he saw the Morning Star. How radiant Lucifer had been. How better he'd been, than any of the rest of them. Uriel lowered his eyes back to his brother. "He didn't bow to humanity. He was punished for defending us." Uriel shook his head, a wry expression spread across his grace in bitter blues. "If you want to believe in something, if you're going to bow before someone, bow to him, brother. Believe in him."

Castiel's expression was dark, grace awash with blue for entirely different reasons than his brother. "Lucifer is not God."

No matter what Dean said God was, He was something Castiel had not yet abandoned, in hope or faith. Not ever, if he had his say.

Uriel merely scoffed, his own sentiments very clearly far and gone from the smaller angel's. "God isn't God anymore, Castiel. He stopped being our father, if he ever was that, the moment he created them. Humanity." The angel pulled as much of a face as a being without firm facial features could, wrapped in the ugly dirt greens of envy and hatred. "His favorites. The whining, puking larva."

"Are you trying to convert me?" Castiel spit out, angrier than he'd been in a century, at least. If this was his brother's idea of a pitch, he had sorely misread his intended target. In fact, Castiel was starting to wonder if Uriel had ever known him at all. Or vice versa, as much as it hurt his core to think it. But this wasn't his brother sitting across from him, prepared to end a world Castiel held dear. At least, not any brother he had thought he'd known.

"I want you to join me," Uriel insisted, voice as earnest as it had yet to be. If Castiel had a heart, he was certain it would be aching now, if it hadn't been so damn furious to be betrayed this way. "There are others, Castiel. But with you, we will be strong enough."

"Strong enough?"

"To free our brother. To raise Lucifer! Please, Castiel, don't fight me. Join me." Uriel reached out once more, but Castiel withdrew, and the larger angel's grace grew tumultuous with anger. The smaller angel could see slivers of regret, too, as much as someone like Uriel could regret. That tumultuous grace sharpened, swirling rapids of emotion hardening, turning to stone. Uriel reached forward more forcefully, curling his grace around his brother's arm before Castiel could pull away. He had nowhere else to retreat to and Uriel knew it. "Help us spread the word, brother. Help us bring on the Apocalypse and end this game once and for all."

Castiel wrapped his free hand around the hilt of his sword, hidden away in the Ether. But he knew a losing battle when he saw one. Still, it didn't matter. He closed those eyes that he could afford to, a leftover trait of a vessel he would not likely populate again, and whispered an apology that would never reach his human charges. His grace filled with regrets of his own. When Castiel opened his eyes, he leveled his brother with a dangerous look. One the larger angel had seen many a time, but never directed at him.

"You won't win, Uriel." Castiel drew his blade with his free hand. Even just summoning it made him wince, like pulling at a freshly healed wound. "I serve God."

His brother's grip on his limb tightened painfully. "You haven't even met the man."

"I don't have to."

Castiel struck with his sword, but Uriel was ready for him. The other angel blocked the attack with his own blade, metal ringing against metal in the relative quiet of the human Paradise. Castiel's arm was thrown out to the side, shaking with the effort to battle Uriel's significant strength. His other limb was still trapped in Uriel's own grace, and Castiel knew he needed to throw his brother off if he was to have any hope of escaping this encounter alive.

The larger angel lunged forward with a bellow, tackling Cas into the cushions before he could push off. Uriel knew him, knew his battle strategies, knew the way he thought and reasoned, too well. Their grace entangled in errant limbs and flapping wings as Castiel shoved his brother off of him and they both tumbled off of the couch, Uriel taking the smaller angel to the floor with him. They rolled, crashing into the coffee table and shattering the glass top. Uriel turned his wing, first as a shield from the glass, but then as a slingshot, sending the sharp projectiles straight into Castiel. Glass could hardly hurt an angel, particularly one without a vessel in a world where the material was nothing more than a memory, but it was a distraction. More than enough of one for an angel that had always been stronger to begin with.

Castiel got in a solid punch to Uriel's rigid jaw before his brother pinned his arms to his side, trapping the smaller angel against the floor with the bulk of his grace. Blade pressed to his brother's cheek, Uriel gave the angel an admonishing, disappointed look that was as painful for Castiel to witness as it was terrifying.

"There is no God, Castiel. No will, no wrath. We are proof of that." Uriel's limbs wrapped around him, encasing him, smothering and choking him. Castiel struggled to be free of the all-encompassing strength of his brother's intent.

Castiel closed his eyes, the battle was over and he was not the victor. He braced for the press of that blade, the flash of pain, the last he would ever feel. The end he knew was coming.

'I'm sorry, Dean.'

"You will join us. It's only a matter of time." Then Uriel's grace was overwhelming his, attacking Castiel's meagre defenses that he hadn't had time to rebuild after Azazel's trap, and the rebel angel was forced into a fitful healing trance once more.

-o-o-o-

Uriel pulled away from his entranced brother, staring down at the smaller, vulnerable angel. He could feel Castiel fighting the healing, and his frustration returned to replace the fury and hurt. Castiel would do more damage fighting the trance than he would if just left alone to heal on his own.

"Damn it, Castiel," Uriel hissed quietly, lowering his blade and disappearing it back into the Ether. "Why must you always make things harder than they need to be, brother?"

The larger angel crouched back down, grabbing his brother's wrists. He would tie Castiel up, ease the trance so his stubborn idiot of a brother did not further hurt himself further, and move him to another Paradise. It was a possibility that a passing angel could have heard their tussle or felt this human's unease and decide to investigate the cause of the discomfort. So Uriel would relocate his troublesome brother first. Then the angel would find another to help him deepen the trance properly.

In the meantime, if he found Malachi he would murder the bastard for turning his favorite brother against him.

-o-o-o-

"Okay, look, I know how all this sounds, but I'm not insane and I'm not on drugs. Okay?"

Sam pulled on a white t-shirt over his very bare chest, going for some level of modesty as he watched the woman pace his hotel room with the kind of nervous energy that he'd seen on a dozen civilians over the years after they'd discovered the existence of the supernatural. Each dealt with it in their own way. The woman in front him now was…well, unique to say the least. That was…a lot of nervous energy. Still, the younger Winchester knew when someone needed the reassurance of a complete stranger if only because they were utterly objective.

So he nodded as supportively as possible. It didn't seem to do much help in the comforting department.

"I am completely normal!" Ava insisted, clearly not believing that he believed her. Of course, her voice pitched a bit too high not to undermine her own words, and she jiggled her leg like she wanted to stomp her foot. It might have been nothing short of cute if she didn't also have a watery sheen over her eyes and look a few steps short of an actual breakdown. "And this…this is way, way off the map for me."

"Alright, alright, just…calm down, okay?" Sam stood from the end of the mattress, offering what he hoped was a calming hand. Ava fidgeted, big blue-green eyes darting between that hand and the random person whose motel room she'd just decided to track down and then invade.

Oh, god, she was totally going to get murdered.

"What's your name?" Sam asked, keeping his tone gentle and eyes as puppy dog as he knew how. Dean always swore he could win anyone over with them, and it looked like they were finally going to find out if that was true.

She chewed on her lip under the weight of those supportive, understanding eyes for only a second before dropping her arms. Oh hell. If he was some psycho murderer, she'd probably already be dead by now. "Ava."

"Ava?"

"Ava Wilson," she confirmed, resisting the urge to ask the guy if he was a skipping record player or something. That wouldn't exactly be fair to him. She was the one who woke him up in the middle of the night, to ramble about a grenade and a trip wire and a smoking shoe. She was the one that sounded crazy. At the moment, dude-about-to-die-in-an-explosion was actually being really decent, considering.

"Ava, I'm Sam Winchester, all right?" Sam settled back on the edge of the mattress, making sure to keep his distance from her (for her sake, not his, though Ava was back to chewing on her lip as she considered whether it was the other way around). "Now, you were telling me about these dreams of yours?"

She let out a huff of air, low and long and desperate and also completely resigned. Ava crossed her arms again, this time self-consciously rather than defensively. Sam tried to keep up; she was a little all over the place. "Uh, yeah, uh…okay, about a year ago I started having these, like, headaches and just…nightmares, I guess."

Well, that sounded like a familiar story, Sam thought. She was one of them. She must be.

That, or this was another trap.

The younger Winchester straightened as the thought occurred to him. Crap. Crap! What had he been thinking, letting someone into his hotel room because she had desperate eyes, a good story, and a plea that he was in danger?

Shit. This could be Ruby.

Sam eyed Ava as she started talking about a dream she'd had a couple weeks ago, about three kids in some old western town. Okay, think, Sam. This wasn't Ruby. The room was warded, there was salt above the door and a devil's trap painted on a bathroom towel they'd spread in front of the door (a new trick they'd started using after Crowley showed up at their hotel room. Dean had said he wanted to use the guy, not trust him in the same space they slept in). Sure, Ava had eyed the towel with a curious frown and little headshake when he'd first invited her in, but she'd walked right over it.

Azazel's girl, then. The one with the glowing green eyes.

Only, Ava's eyes weren't glowing. But, they hadn't back in that bar, either. She'd been blonde and blue-eyed. Now she was…brunette and greenish-blue-eyed? And looked nothing like the woman he'd met in the bar. Ava was taller, and slimmer. Though, they were still similar enough, Sam reasoned. He knew there was magic for that, even so far as to change the height or weight of a person. Difficult magic – extensive magic – but still very possible. And they already knew Azazel's girl wasn't a demon, assuming she'd been the one to break into the Impala (which they didn't actually know for sure, but Sam had a feeling he wasn't so willing to dismiss).

Why had he just let her waltz right into his room? Dean was going to kill him, if she didn't do it for him first.

Sam kept nodding along with the girl's story, but mentally he was scanning the room. His nearest weapon was his knife, hidden beneath his pillow. That was at the top of the bed, and he was at the foot. Close enough he might have a chance. Not that he had any clue if a blade would do this woman any damage. Damnit, he should have been on his guard.

Dean had literally just left, some damsel in distress showed up on his doorstep, and he didn't think twice about that coincidence? Stupid. He was so stupid. If John Winchester were still alive, he'd rip him a new one. Hell, Sam knew Dean would gladly take up the role when he got back.

"Then, a couple of days later, I found this."

Sam's focus locked on Ava as her hand disappeared into her purse. The hunter's fingers tightened across his thigh and he considered the amount of time it would take to dive for that knife. But what she pulled out was nothing more than a newspaper clipping. Hesitantly, Sam reached out to take it.

It was from a three days ago, from the Peoria Journal Star, the headline reading 'Mining Town Massacre Victims Still Unidentified'. Sam stared at the black and white photo of Cold Oak, a partially burned funeral pyre sitting in the middle of the old buildings. There were three smaller photos along the bottom. Artist sketches from the remains. Sam lowered the page, a pretty dead-on rendition of Scott Carey's face staring back at him.

"I saw that guy die, days before it happened." Ava tapped the newspaper pointedly, finger right on top of Scott's face. Her voice wavered as those blue-green pools were overwhelmed with water she barely kept back. "I watched the other one stab him. And strangle him. And it ended up coming true."

Sam stared at her, eyes wide and hand slowly unclenching from a fist. The strangling hadn't been in the coroner's report. He'd hacked it while they were back at Bobby's because they needed to know how much of the bodies had been left unburnt. If they were going to have angry spirits they needed to worry about. And because Sam was a Winchester: nothing but a deep, masochistic well of guilt and self-loathing.

The stabbing had been in the report, but the strangulation hadn't. Scott's body had been about eighty percent consumed by the fire. Muscle and tissue damage hadn't been an option for identifying cause of death. The coroner hadn't looked much further than the stab wounds, evident by knife marks on Scott's charred rib bones.

How could Azazel's girl know that? There'd been no one else, at least no one among the living, at Cold Oak when the Winchesters discovered the bodies. He knew the difference between being followed and being watched. They had been watched, for sure, by the many spirits that haunted that town, but they hadn't been followed by anything living.

Sam handed the newspaper back to Ava, wondering if she might actually be who she said she was. A woman who saw people deaths before they happened. Another of Azazel's special kids, trying to do some good in the face of a demon who only wanted them to bring pain and death.

"Last night, I had another one," Ava was saying, sniffing as she folded the clipping back up and stuffed it into her purse. "About you. I saw you die."

The Winchester, still unsure whether he was falling right into Yellow Eyes' next trap, ran his hands over his sweatpants, thinking. He wasn't ready to trust this woman yet. Not again; he needed to be smarter about this. He needed more information. Enough to catch her in a lie, if she was in fact lying. "How did you find me?"

"Oh, uh, you had motel stationery. A note from some guy named Dean?" Ava shrugged, arms wrapping around herself again, back to self-conscious. "I googled the motel, and it was real, and so…I just thought…that I should warn you."

Sam's eyes slid to the note, still sitting on the nightstand. Too far away to read. He looked back at Ava. "What did the note say?"

"Um…something about going to get a message to someone? Cas or something? His handwriting kinda…sucked. Oh, and for you not to follow him like a…uh…" Ava cleared her throat, head bobbing back and forth before she rolled her eyes and spit it out. "Little bitch."

The hunter couldn't help the chuckle. That was exactly what Dean's note had said. And considering he'd left it less than thirty minutes ago, Sam finally let the tension leave his body. This really was another one of Azazel's kids. Another psychic.

If she was a psychic, though, then she was in almost as much danger as she claimed Sam was. Maybe not right now, maybe not tonight, but soon. Dean was right, Azazel wasn't going to stop just because Cas had kicked his ass back to hell. Ava was one of his kids, and that meant she might end up at Cold Oak, same as Scott and Amanda. Same as Andy.

Which meant Sam had a chance to save her, like they hadn't been able to save the others.

"I don't believe it," he said, eyes distant and a shaky smile spreading across his face.

Ava, however, laughed a frustrated, desperate thing, her face an expression of bitter resignation. "Oh, of course you don't. You think I'm a total nutjob."

"Wait, no, no, no," Sam stood from the bed. "I don't think you're crazy. I have visions too, Ava."

She dropped her arms and took an immediate step back from him. Another laugh bubbled forth, significantly more nervous this time. "Okay, so…you're nuts. That's great."

He held out his hands, hoping the gesture was a calming one. At least he hadn't drawn that knife on her. Then they'd be in a real mess. "Look, I believe you. And I want to hear about this dream you had, the one about me. But first, I need to make a phone call."

"Of course you do." Ava nodded along, looking like a woman ready to bolt at any moment. Her mouth was downturned in a cute trout-pout, and she sniffed again as Sam grabbed his cell from atop the nightstand. He moved towards the door of the motel, giving her a wide berth (again, for her sake, not that she saw it that way). "If you're calling the cops, tell them I said, 'hi!'"

Sam paused at the door, phone already dialing as he raised it to his ear. "I'm not calling the cops, Ava. I'm calling my brother. Dean?"

His eyes darted pointedly to the motel stationary still sitting on the nightstand, and she followed his look with a shaky turn of her head.

"Oh…uh…right." Ava moved a little hesitantly between the beds, picking up the pad to stare at the same note she'd seen last night.

Sam smiled as the phone rang against his ear. "Don't worry, he's kinda like me- like us. He can help."

"Uh-huh. Okay. Great."

The hunter shook his head at her disbelief. She was the one who'd come looking for him, after all. He stepped out of the motel, pulling the door only partially closed behind him. He didn't really need her overhearing him talking to his brother from the future, but he also didn't want to scare her, either.

Dean's voicemail started up as the ringing abruptly died, and Sam tried not to let that worry him. He was just going to have leave his brother a message, ask Dean if he knew anyone by the name of Ava Wilson, and what her vision might be about (Sam didn't know anyone currently after him. Maybe there was a case here, after all?) Then…Dean would get back to him as soon as he could. You know, when he was done pulling off his fool-hardy plan of summoning a potentially antagonistic angel alone, without his younger brother as backup.

Sure. He'd be calling back any minute now.

-o-o-o-

The climb to the roof hadn't been easy, or as quiet as he particularly liked to be when on a hunt. Luckily, his target had been distracted by the woman, whoever – or whatever – she was, so he'd been able to jimmy his way up the side of the building using an old maintenance ladder. He crossed the flat roof in a crouch and laid down along the edge, sniper rifle propped against the lip, all without alerting his prey.

The hunter adjusted his scope, butt of his rifle tucked to his shoulder, cheek braced against the side as he lined up his shot. He put his prey's head right between his crosshairs, centering the target on the phone as the man pressed it to his ear.

Gordon Walker let out a slow, measured breath, finger tightening on the trigger as his target turned his head perfectly into his shot.

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

A/Ns: It has been faaaar too long since our last proper no-good dirty rotten cliffhanger, dontcha think? ;) Like, five chapters, at least!

Up Next: You all over on A03 KNOCKED IT OUTTA THE PARK! It is double chapter, back-to-back reward time for our 1000 kudos milestone! I will get the next chapter up once I'm back from the movie! Thank you all so much for your support, guys!