A/Ns: That's right, it's the MORTON HOUSE! First, kudos to Lullyanne, who guessed the new location several chapters ago from Tom's leap year reference! That is some sharp sleuthing, friend, and I was ecstatic to see someone catch that hint ;D Second, kudos to everyone who remembered the poor train-pulverized Death Echo from the Morton house episode! Third, bonus kudos to those who identified the location not by name, not by episode, not even by the presence of the Ghostfacers, but by "the place where gay love pierced the veil of death." I just about died, so extra kudos to Vaesse, and Colored Blue for very nearly killing my computer via spit-take.

Chapter Reference – God's a Penguin (he's really not): When Persephone disappeared for a weekend (to be dragged on a road trip to Minnesota with her favorite road trip buddy, Tom!), Chuck started feeling a little lonely, and gave himself a pep-talk about how he wasn't lonely, he was a Lone Wolf. Okay, well, maybe not a lone wolf. Penguin? How about a penguin. Penguins moved in groups but were also independent, got to where cute little tuxedos, and mated for life. Yeah, Chuck was totally a penguin. (Don't worry, it didn't make sense then and it won't make sense below, either.) See the end of Chapter 68 for a refresher.

Chapter Reference – Azazel revealing what he did to Sam as a kid: Quick reminder that in this story, Azazel was the one to tell Sam how he got his powers. The words he specifically used were, "Bled in your mouth, tiger, and now you've got super powers! Not a bad trade, right?" For a refresher, see Chapter 17 (Holy crap that was so long ago…)

Chapter Warnings: Boy do we have a lot to cover! Chuck and Persephone are discussing whether penguins come in packs or herds (they're really not, but Chuck can dream). Dean and Sam are discussing the merits of demon blood in baby formula (they're also really not, but I'm on a roll here), and Lilith, Azazel, and Crowley are discussing plans that largely involve screwing either each other or the Winchesters. Or both? Why not both!

-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 71

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

A flash of paper covered in squiggles of black appeared rather abruptly in his field vision, obscuring everything else, including the digitized version on his laptop screen that had been at a far more readable distance before the interruption. Man, he'd been mid-sentence, too. Now he'd already forgotten his train of thought. Chuck blinked until the paper under his nose came into focus. It was the last three pages of his latest chapter, printed out for Stephanie to read an hour ago and now shoved in front of his face by said editorial assistant. He stretched his neck to see just over the top of the paper, where his laptop still sat, that unfinished sentence of the next part of the story – the beginnings of Dean's attempt to explain himself to his friends and family – just sitting there, waiting to be completed.

"Where is this?"

Chuck sighed, resigned to finishing that sentence later (when he'd have to sit, staring at it, trying to remember his train of thought and the words he'd been about to write because they, of course, had been perfect then and were nowhere to be seen now) and turned his attention to what his editorial assistant was pointing to. Steph's finger was tapping the last paragraph on the page, detailing Ava Wilson's unfortunate plight.

"Oh, the haunted house?" Chuck asked almost rhetorically. It became actually rhetorical when Steph didn't answer, just continued staring at him with those scary eyes, and Chuck remembered his editorial assistant wasn't much for unnecessary questions. "Uh, don't know, yet. I'll probably have to do some research, find a haunted house somewhere in the States I can borrow. Kinda sounds fun, actually."

Steph turned away from him, drawing the papers back towards herself with a customary frowny-glare focused on them instead of Chuck for once. She gave a noncommittal, absent-minded, "Mm," in return and the writer, already turning back to his laptop with the excitement of someone who might just catch that train of thought before it left the station (unlikely, but he could hope and dream), paused at the irregularity. He pulled his fingers off the keyboard (the resignation and regret of that lost train more distant this time) and instead turned his full attention to his assistant, who seemed distracted. Which was unlike her.

"Did you…did you have an idea for where it should be?" He fiddled with his hands in his lap. He'd never asked for Steph's advice before, despite the fact that that was, hypothetically, the whole point of having an editorial assistant in the first place.

(He just kind of assumed other editorial assistants were less terrifying to talk to and therefore of more actual help. That, or other authors were braver than him. He was definitely going with the first one, even if the second was more likely.)

(It was at this point that Chuck reminded himself that he was a penguin. Penguins didn't have to be brave. Lone wolves had to be brave, but not penguins. Penguins had packs. Of course, Chuck didn't have a pack, so this analogy was quickly losing all steam and confidence. Herds? Did penguins have packs or herds? Gaggles? His fingers itched and the writer was halfway to turning back to the computer to Google-)

"No." Steph's refusal was sharp and pointed and made Chuck wince, fingers immediately withdrawing from the laptop once again despite the fact that he hadn't actually gotten anywhere near it and she was just answering his question (which he'd already forgotten he asked). Steph didn't seem as angry as the terse reply suggested, just thoughtful (okay, maybe a word slightly more negative than thoughtful. Perplexed? Oooh, pensive! Chuck reminded himself to jot that down when they were done. No use going for the keyboard now, he'd never make it). Stephanie was reading through those several paragraphs again, finger tracing along the page, that frown still pulling at her face in a way Chuck secretly found cute but would never even dream of voicing aloud for fear of a painful, slow, miserable death. "Although, given what we know of Aza- uh, the yellow eyed demon's plans from your writing so far…I imagine someplace secluded. Not easily gotten to."

The volume of her words dropped significantly, and Chuck found himself staring, distracted thoughts of penguins and laptops long gone, brain now laser focused on his editorial assistant. The writer would swear, up and down, right and left, that Steph sounded genuinely, actually honest-to-god invested. Which was more than he'd gotten out of her so far. Chuck's heartrate picked up. Could…could she actually be starting to…like his work? Is that- could that be what this was about?!

Stephanie dropped her arm, papers following, and turned back to him with that brisk formality that always made Chuck straighten up like he was in the Armed Forces. "The location must be far enough away from the Winchesters that when Sam is taken by the demon-" at Chuck's raised eyebrows, Steph merely raised hers right back, daring him to tell her she was wrong about what was coming for his protagonist down the road- "and relocated to this haunted house, it will be difficult for Dean to find him in time for whatever Yellow Eyes is planning."

The prophet swallowed a little roughly because, uh, yeah, those…uh, those were all good points. He should probably write them down. But mostly because Steph sounded displeased. (Maybe she, uh, was getting a little too invested? That certainly didn't sound like his editorial assistant, though.)

"Chuck…" His assistant paused as if weighing her words, which was a foreign sight on his regular weekday houseguest, who was sometimes so disciplined and in control that Chuck found himself wondering if she even had thoughts in those moments or was just executing internal programming like a robot. A cute, scary robot. Who liked to read books.

Maybe that could be his next series, if he survived this one intact.

The look she leveled his way seemed far too serious for their current conversation and he gulped. Scary, scary robot. Chuck's already wayward thoughts turned to the laundry. Had he done it recently? Did he have a clean pair of boxers to change into when this was all over and he'd soaked through the ones he was currently wearing which were definitely more than a day old? He honestly couldn't remember. He probably had a stick of deodorant lying around somewhere, at the very least. Well, he'd definitely paid the water bill last month, so at least he could shower if it came down to that.

Movement next to him drew Chuck's attention back to his assistant. Her hand was on his desk, her weight shifting into him with a subtle slide of those curvy hips. It was probably supposed to come off as innocent curiosity. Maybe a little incentivizing even. Chuck just found it incredibly intimidating and leaned away.

"What is Yellow Eyes planning?"

"Ah, ha ha." The writer suddenly laughed: a little sheepish, a lot relieved. That had not been what he'd been expecting her to ask. He…okay, to be honest, Chuck hadn't really been expecting anything, because he hadn't had a clue what was going on other than his editorial assistant was really confusing sometimes and very scary all the time. Now, though, he felt back on somewhat familiar ground. Steph was always trying to wheedle what came next out of him, no matter how she denied it. (Chuck liked to think it was because Steph was invested in the story, but he knew it was more likely her way of reporting back to his publisher that he was actually working.)

The writer blushed and grinned all in one go and waggled a finger at her like she was a naughty kid with one hand in the cookie jar. He'd gotten away with it a time or two, and now he was (probably overly) confident in the tactic. "You'll have to read to find out."

Steph stared at him long enough to make him nervous, despite that confidence (which was now nowhere to be found). When he finally looked away, she sighed in that judgmental way of hers that went right to the heart of his creative soul, withering it to dust, and also sent pure panic to that admittedly tiny part of his brain that worried about things like deadlines, paychecks, bills, and job security. So, yeah, absolutely familiar ground again.

"You don't know, do you?" Oh, the judgement was tangible. He could feel it in the air. His soul (and his wallet) kept right on withering.

"It's still…uh, formulating!" Chuck leaned back in his chair, tilting it off the ground a little with a sheepish smile. He waved away her perceived concern with a flopping hand. "It'll come together, don't you worry."

She smacked the stapled pages of her chapter into his open palm with the brisk formality of a middle school principle delivering a detention slip. "I do not worry."

Chuck took the papers with a teasing smile and a glint of something older in his eyes that he wasn't even aware was there most days. "But you are, aren't you? Worried for Sam? And Dean, I mean."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed dangerously, that same school principle now considering full-blown suspension and a parent teacher conference (Chuck tried not to let his nerves show. She'd yet to actually get mad at him so, he figured his chances were good she was more bark than bite. Or, you know, scary glares and judgmental silences.)

"It's okay, you know," the writer stumbled on, those nerves showing with a hesitant chuckle, which was then swallowed halfway through as her murderous look only increased. "Getting attached to characters and worrying about them is kind of the point of reading books in the first place. Isn't it?"

"I am a professional, Mr. Shurley. I do not worry," she repeated before turning on her heel (really, she was just missing the square-framed glasses, a so-tight-your-scalp-hurt-just-looking-at-it bun, and about six inches in stature and she'd have the whole principle thing nailed). Stephanie retreated to her chair near the window and, once settled, added (like a puffed up peacock defending its territory (nothing at all like a penguin, Chuck thought with a little sadness he couldn't place and definitely shook off because his thoughts were getting weird today)), "And I certainly do not get attached."

The writer stared at her, a little hapless and lost for moment (because he'd been sure that had been worry he'd heard in her voice…), before his look shifted into more. It morphed into the wisdom of someone far older who saw much more than they simply wrote down, into the petulant pout of a creator whose creations had just very much been insulted, and most certainly into the narrowed eyes of a challenge accepted.

"Yeah, well," Chuck put his fingers back to his keys, striking them with harsh determination as he muttered, "we'll just see about that."

-o-o-o-

"Sam and Andy are psychics."

Sam's eyes widened at his brother's words, his spine straightening, shoulders drawing back, all reflexively. He'd known Dean was going to tell everyone the truth about Azazel: what that demonic bastard had done to Sammy as a kid, about his plans and the shitstorm that was going to rain down on them in the next three or four years. But Sam hadn't realized Dean was going for broke; he was going to tell them all of it. Including the bit about time travel, which would also mean the part about angels, particularly the one sleeping upstairs.

(Okay, knowing his brother like he did, Dean would manage to leave out a lot of that anyway.)

"Just Sam and Andy?"

At Ellen's sharp question – the woman didn't miss a thing – Sam's gaze flitted to his brother, who looked a little green around the gills, but was holding the elder Harvelle's stare with a rather convincing one of his own. The silence stretched. For just a moment, Sam wondered if Dean would take the out, throw himself into the group of psychics and freaks and kids with demon blood just to keep from having to explain that an angel, which no hunter here currently believed in (at least, none to Sam's knowledge) had sent him back in time to save the world.

Dean swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement, but his eyes didn't waver like the rest of him did. "Yeah, Ellen. Just Sam and Andy."

Jo shifted in her seat, face drawn down into what Sam privately thought was an incredibly cute frown as she stared at the older Winchester from across the table. "But Dean, I thought you said-"

"From birth?" Asa asked at the same time, his question far louder than Jo's, who'd spoken hesitantly to begin with.

Dean glanced between the two of them, but Jo didn't finish her thought or even seem to know fully what she'd been about to ask. So the focus of the conversation tilted Asa's way. It was obvious from his question that he was thinking about Mary Winchester, wondering if his personal hero had been a psychic as well.

Sam ducked his head a little, voice tinged with a bitterness he hid well, but not quite well enough. "Not exactly."

Before he said anything else, Sam turned in his chair towards the two leaning against the kitchen counter (or, in Andy's case, sitting on top of). It wasn't Asa Sam's eyes sought out, but the Jedi's. This wasn't just his story, after all. It was Andy's too, and he and Dean hadn't exactly had time to chat with their friend about this little secret council (in part because it was a surprise council to the people keeping the secrets. 'Thanks for that, surrogate family'). Andy lolled his head side to side, an easy shrug on his shoulders that suggested he didn't mind being a part of the story being told, but Sam would have to do all the talking (the joke about his inability to do so was fully implied with a smirk, of course).

"What does that mean?" Bucky Sims broke the tense silence at the table, glancing between the two supposed psychics as they had a silent conversation. Sam turned back, eyes not quite meeting anyone's (which wasn't reassuring). It was proving difficult not to like Sam Winchester, though, even with the clear tension in the room and whatever craziness was going down with him and his brother and these psychics. The younger Winchester was downright bashful, despite his six and a half feet of pure bulk and what was clearly skill backing it. Bucky had heard his fair share of Winchester stories and not all of them were about John. But Sam looked less likely to hurt a fly than he was to be some dangerous psychic (Bucky didn't assume most psychics were dangerous, but given the current feel of the room, it wasn't hard to put two and two together and get five.)

The kid (and he wasn't really a kid, although with his head ducked like that, shoulders slumped, and big brown eyes looking so damn down, Bucky was having trouble thinking of him any other way. Plus, he was only twenty something to Bucky's late thirties, so, yeah, the kid) sighed, like he was bracing for a beating. "I get death premonitions."

While only a revelation to Asa and Bucky (and that's what all this tension was about? Premonitions?! Bucky had a grandmother that was more dangerous than a psychic who happened to see death a little prematurely), the kitchen remained thick with unspoken questions. The Harvelles didn't know if there was more to Sam's abilities than they'd previously been told and were now starting to wonder. Given the little black rainclouds hovering over the Winchester's heads (and Bobby's too, though it was hard sometimes to tell what was new raincloud versus the usual grumpy raincloud always floating over his ball-capped head), it seemed likely there was more to this story. After all, both boys had kept the details of their powers (or just Sam's powers now? Who knew what was going on with Dean or the game he was playing) largely to themselves. And neither Harvelle woman had ever been told the origin of those abilities. With the implication that Andy was somehow a similar case, maybe even linked…. Well, the hunting gears were turning and churning out nothing good.

"I…see people before they die," Sam clarified somewhat unnecessarily, but he was used to telling non-hunters, people who wouldn't necessarily believe him right off the bat, and he had that spiel somewhat memorized. "Sometimes in time to save them, sometimes, um…not." The younger Winchester looked away, whether from guilt or a replay of bad memories – or both – didn't matter much. It was obvious the weight the kid carried in tandem with this secret. A weight that wasn't getting any lighter with its divulgence. "But all my visions have been linked back to the yellow-eyed demon."

"Azazel." Seven pairs of eyes turned to Jo, who glanced around with more self-doubt than her confident voice had suggested. She still wasn't used to commanding attention among hunters. Most of them ignored her or hit on her. She could get used to it, though. "That's…his name, right? The demon that killed your mom?"

"Mary was killed by a demon?" Asa straightened from where he'd been leaning against the kitchen counter. His hand was tight around his beer and the look in his eye was nothing short of anguish. Anguish and anger.

Briefly, because they really didn't have time at the moment, Dean wondered just what the story was between this guy and his mom. Whatever Mary had done saving Asa as a kid, it left one hell of an impression.

"Yeah," the older Winchester answered, voice catching ever so slightly on the admission. Even years – years and years – later, it was still so hard talking about Mom. So damn hard. Never seemed to get easier.

"Andy's mom, too," Sam added, confirming what the crew gathered around them had all started to suspect. Whatever was going on, the two of them being psychics was closer tied together than just a gift for the supernatural.

"Adopted mom, actually," Bobby said with his gruff voice, drawing the attention of the room to himself, but his eyes were locked on Andy. The kid was gesturing away, with still-bandaged hands (but no longer penguin fins, at least. He had five fully functional fingers, just wrapped in a collage of gauze, Band-Aids, and medical tape) forming clumsy Sign that was only understood by Bobby and Sam (mostly Bobby). "Kid says he never met his biological mother."

Andy nodded at the acceptable translation, dropping his hands to lean back on them, feet swinging against the counter cabinets. Despite the purposefully casual posture, there was a dark look in his eyes, distant but readable to those looking for it. After all, it was hard not to think of Weber, given the current conversation, and what his evil twin brother had done to their supposedly biological mother. It didn't matter if whether or not she'd meant anything to Andy; dousing someone in gasoline and setting them on fire just wasn't okay, abandonment issues or no.

"Why?" Asa asked, glancing between Andy and Sam, then briefly at Dean, who was obviously the head of this Show-and-Tell, even if Sam was the one doing the sharing. "What was the demon after?"

"Me." Sam's answer was curt, an anger buried beneath it that wasn't intended for anyone in the room. No one would blame him for it, either. "Us, I mean. Andy and me. Kids, with, um, powers like ours. He, he finds them, found us, before we- when we were still young, and, and, um…"

"He finds kids – normal, human kids – who are six months old and bleeds in their mouth." Dean's sharp words, taking over when his brother started to flounder, silenced the room so completely that not even the chairs creaked beneath their occupants.

"What?"

"He does what?"

"Why!?"

The room erupted in questions. Asa pushed away from the counter, the concern and horror in his eyes earning him bonus points in Dean's book (not that Asa freakin' Fox needed more points in his – or anybody's – book). Bucky was white as a sheet, glancing between Bobby and Ellen like they might call the whole thing out as a bad prank. Ellen was shaking her head.

"That don't make any sense, kid," she argued, but Dean could see she just didn't want it to be true. He could relate. "Why the hell would a demon do that?"

"Because it gives you super powers," Sam muttered under his breath, the bitter and callous cut to his tone made Jo flinch beside him. He didn't notice, mind's eye stuck in the past, in the parking lot of a Faith Healer's church with a yellow-eyed murderer offering him a jar of blood for the first time.

"He's looking for someone," Dean said loudly over Sam's mumbling. They did not need anyone in this group thinking either of them were pleased about what Sam could do. What Andy could do either. Kid might have liked his abilities before, but Dean was pretty sure he had a different opinion of his luck now that his throat had been friggin' slashed because of 'em. "Someone special. One 'very special child."

The way the man said it, each word emphasized with distaste and frustration, was enough to clue any of the doubters in that this conversation, wherever it was going, was nowhere good.

"What child?" Bucky asked, but it was Ellen, staring narrow-eyed at the older Winchester, who realized what he was getting at.

"How special?"

Dean smiled at her, all teeth and no mirth. "The prophecy-fulfilling, world-ending kind of special."

"Well that doesn't sound good," Bucky muttered under his breath.

"Oh, it's not." That grin remained stretched, tight and ugly, across Dean's face.

Jo took a deep breath, spine straightening and hands splayed out on the table in front of her. Cataloguing the information and processing it to move forward. Hell of a hunter she'd be, Dean thought. Already was. "How bad?"

That smile-that-wasn't-a-smile dropped an inch as Dean met her eyes. God, he wanted to keep her out of it this time. He wanted that so damn badly. He was sure his eyes said as much, especially with the way hers narrowed, just daring him to keep her out of it. That was a Harvelle woman for you.

"Apocalyptic."

The silence that followed, thick and heavy as a dead body, was eventually interrupted by Bobby clearing his throat, garnering everyone's stunned attention. "Any of you ever been to Sunday School?"

The implication of the question, even in jest, was a dozen times heavier than that dead body in the space between them. It was an entire world of soon-to-be dead bodies, hanging in the air, just waiting to see what they'd do next.

Asa let out a slow whistle, startling a couple of the others. It was the needle that popped the balloon of tension; Ellen swore and Bucky slumped in his chair, hand fiddling nervously with his beer. Jo glanced between her mom and the two Winchesters, gauging how serious Bobby was.

"Are we-" she cut herself off with a headshake, blonde waves tossed back and forth. A short huff followed. Whether she didn't believe it or simply couldn't was unclear in her expression. "Are we talking about the Apocalypse, here?"

When no one answered in the following breath, Bucky, still slumped, took up the charge. It was clear from the fidgeting of his fingers around his beer bottle that he was nervous, but the skepticism in his voice bordered on the edge of this all being a bad joke. "What, like raining hellfire? The four horseman? Oceans turning to blood and half the world going up in flames?"

"The damn devil walking the earth," Bobby confirmed with a stiff, unhappy nod. "That's the one."

It was interesting for those already in the know to watch, actually, having the distance and experience to watch it all objectively. It was clear Bucky didn't believe them. Jo didn't want to, but she knew better than to think her mom or Bobby or even Asa would pull this kind of joke. She didn't think Dean or Sam would either, which left only really bad options as to what this actually was. Ellen, though. Ellen was sharp as a tack and Dean should have known she was the one they should be most wary of in all this.

The Harvelle woman leaned forward, one arm braced on the table in front of her, Dean utterly trapped under her gaze with nowhere to run. "How do you know all this?"

Green eyes darted to his brother, but they were a bit too far down the rabbit hole to escape now. She'd given him an out at the start and he hadn't taken it. He probably still wouldn't if she offered it again, but damnit, Dean was really starting to wish he'd taken the red pill. Sam looked sympathetic, a little too pale, but as supportive as he could considering he wanted a role in this conversation about as much as Dean did. But in for a penny, in for a pound. Dean had started this, and he couldn't exactly call it quits just because he wanted to.

"Because I've seen it all before."

"In your visions?" Jo asked, not tentative but quite. She was as sharp as her mom, only less suspicious. She'd been stabbed in the back fewer times, seen less of the world – less of life – and lost less to it to be so wary and jaded.

"Thought you said Sam and Andy were the only psychics." Damn, but Ellen wasn't going to give him an inch on this, was she?

"They are," Dean parroted, trying not to snap back at the attack. She was only on the attack because he wasn't being a hundred percent straightforward. And he wasn't being that because this was friggin' hard, alright? He took a deep breath and tried to shove the frustration and dread down to his feet in equal parts.

'In for a penny…'

"I'm not psychic," he insisted, and the fact he managed to do so through clenched teeth without sounding like it was said through clenched teeth oughta have earned him a damn Oscar. "I know what's coming cuz I've lived through it. I've done this all once already."

He let the silence fall, the words sink in, the questions on their faces all go unanswered. He let them stare: at him, at each other, at Bobby and Sam, looking for the same answers. No one asked, and this time, Dean didn't stand a chance with those clenched teeth.

"I'm from the future," he ground out.

Bucky straight up snorted. Didn't even try to hide it, which earned him one hell of a glare in return. Asa turned to the closest person, Andy, if for no other reason than to read another's reaction. But Andy had a tight-lipped smile of his own and shrugged his shoulders haplessly. It had taken him a while to believe it, too, and he'd had the added benefit of knowing Dean wasn't lying because of his own powers. It wasn't like Andy could expect any of their new friends to nod along, all 'keep calm and carry on'. He'd be more worried if they did that than if they freaked or just flat out refused to believe.

"I'm…sorry, what?" Jo asked, another little head shake as she kept checking between her mom and the others. Like someone would tell her she was being Punk'ed any second now. Ashton Kutcher was in the other room with the camera crew, right?

"It's true, Jo." Sam's words were quiet and he didn't turn to look at her, just sort of glanced out of the side of his eye. Jo opened her mouth, then closed it again, brown eyes wide and blinking.

"I'm from 2016," Dean continued before their confusion and disbelief derailed the conversation any further (not like anything could derail it as wholly or completely as the conversation itself was a derailment). "An angel sent me back."

An angel that he, conveniently, would forget to mention was upstairs.

"An angel," Bucky echoed, the disbelief definitely on the side of mockery rather than shock. It was funny how that part had actually been easier to admit than the time travel. Probably because he could prove one a hell of a lot more easily than the other.

Bucky chuckled, glancing to Asa to support his disbelief, only to find his friend staring contemplatively at the older Winchester. Bucky frowned, incredulous and concerned. "Come on, tell me you're not buying this? Asa?"

But Asa didn't take his eyes off Dean and the man from the future met that gaze with a hardened stare the other man couldn't find a lie in. "…Why?"

Dean didn't have a clue if Asa Fox believed him, but he appreciated the fact the guy wasn't outright calling him a liar like his buddy all but was.

"What, we're just not gonna talked about the 'Touched By An Angel' part of this ridiculous joke?" Bucky added on the in-between breath, another snort following. Bobby was giving him the kind of warning glance that suggested he wasn't gonna be welcome in the Singer house much longer if he kept up the attitude, but Bucky didn't catch it.

Asa was still staring at Dean, ignoring his friend for the time being, and the older Winchester took that as a cue to answer him first.

"To try and save the world?" He said it sarcastically enough to garner a few weak laughs from the others. At least until they realized that, sarcasm aside, he wasn't joking. None of the others – not Bobby or Sam or Andy – were laughing.

Jo stared at them, something ugly and cold pooling in her stomach, eyes widening as she realized they were serious. Asa looked as grim as she'd ever seen them, and the fact that her mom had stopped with the third degree… Holy shit, they all believed him.

She stared at each of them, then back to Dean, who looked like the bearer of bad news if bad news was the end of the world. He met her gaze briefly and it was all Jo could do to blink and form words of any sort at all.

"Holy shit."

-o-o-o-

It took Azazel years. Years wasted down in the Pit – the equivalent of weeks topside, at a bare minimum, if he was lucky – trudging, wading, slogging through the depths of Hell, the roiling masses of the damned and the demons torturing them. Shoving, gutting, barreling his way through, layer after layer, level after level. Years. All to reach Lilith, who damn well should have been on her way up, preparing for the opening of a Hellgate, not whining down in the lowest layers, still making backups of her backup plans. They were well past the time for planning.

"This is your fault, Azazel!" she screeched, not a full minute after he had finally made it, irate and furious and, even for one as old and strong as he, tired.

"It was a calculated risk," the demon replied, seething. "It happens when you go up against an angel."

"A risk you shouldn't have taken!" The little girl Lilith wore, even here in the deepest depths of Hell, stomped her foot, tiny hands balled up at her sides, skinny limbs shaking in a fury far too big for her tiny body. "At least not without consulting me!"

"We do not have time to converse about every little detail of this plan," Azazel snapped back, quickly losing his patience. "My plan, Lilith."

He usually took the time – the effort and energy and sheer will – to remain calm and level-headed in the presence of Hell's Princess. She was the key to all of this and if he wanted to succeed, he had to keep her placated. But they were now approaching the point of no return – they may have already passed it – and the time for bribing and pandering was over. They were in this together, to the bitter end.

True to form of a spoiled brat who liked to play with dolls and dress-up, Lilith crossed her arms over her diminutive chest and jutted out her chin. "Without me, 'your' plan is useless."

"Without you, Lucifer will never rise," Azazel confirmed, though his tone hardly sounded accommodating, spoken through clenched teeth. "Which do you actually care about, Lilith? Getting your way? Being the 'Queen of Hell'?"

The title was obviously a mockery. A name given to her by those who toiled in the pit, those who looked up a ladder they'd spent their entire lives trying to climb only to end up on the lowest rung of the afterlife. Those who needed leadership. Demons like Lilith and Azazel had always found them, their need for guidance, for royalty and riches to pander after and dream of, truly pathetic.

The yellow-eyed demon pinned her with that gaze now, challenging what she had always stomped her foot about he'd messed up and gotten himself stuck back in the Pit. The two of them had been a pair, as close to agreeance and getting along as a pair of demons actually could. He knew what she was doing now (panicking, or at least as close to as a creature of her caliber ever came) and he would set her straight. They could not afford carelessness or ego, now.

Something he, himself, would also bite his tongue and swallow, no matter how it burned on the way down.

"Or setting him free?" Azazel dropped his voice, a speck of the closest thing to kindness demons were capable of: tolerance. The little girl in front of him still looked pissed, but those curled fingers loosened at least a little. He knew her answer; she wanted what he wanted. She wanted their creator, their father, their God. Far more than she wanted anything else, including clinging to pride and ego. "I had a chance to take down the angel helping the Winchesters. I took it and I lost. It was worth the attempt, but now my schedule cannot afford any more delays. So you'll get no more risks from me, Lilith. Well, none that are optional to the plan, at least."

Lilith bit her lip, fury still radiating off of her, but some of it had been placated.

"Your schedule on the other hand." Azazel managed to keep that tolerance ongoing in his tone, despite the abundance of irritation still more-than present in his system. "You still have quite some flexibility for risks and dalliances. And while those are yours to do with as you see fit, I don't recommend chancing the Hellgate – your only chance to make it topside this century – as one of them."

His voice rose at the end, unable to keep the biting reprimand in check. Lilith narrowed her eyes and tapped her shiny, black shoe against the steaming rock beneath them.

"I was planning on leaving," she snapped back, but the snide comeback was less than intimidating given that she hadn't left. "But I had to wait around for you. Once word came that you were on you way here, it was pointless to start upward."

"I would have caught up," Azazel seethed, annoyed all over again that he was her excuse for not having left a year ago. It took time to move through hell. The stronger you were, the harder movement became. You dragged the very essence of the Pit with you, bending and curving behind you, bogging you down like mire. And with it came all of the demons and damned souls caught in your wake. It was exhausting and tedious, and time was not one of the things they had much wiggle room to be risking.

The look she gave him called him on his bullshit. He knew she wasn't necessarily wrong, even though it grated on his nerves like a knife on the flayed edges of a wound. Lilith would take a quarter of Hell with her on her way up. She'd leave with nothing more than the lightest of entourages – a handful of her closest people – but by the time she reached the top level of Hell, the plane that rested cheek to cheek with the land of the living, her wake would clog the hole for months, regardless of the fact that the gate would only be open for minutes, at most. The flotsam and jetsam of thousands of damned souls alone would ensure Azazel never reached the surface in time to escape the Hellgate while it remained open.

But that 'calculated risk' of taking on the angel had not included the possibility of him being permanently stuck in Hell. He had too much to do. The plan could not afford his absence. So he would have found another way – had one of his many children find him another opening, a smaller one he could sneak through alone – and so Lilith should not have waited.

But, as he'd noted before, the Princess was as close to panicking as one of their kind came. Which meant arguing with her only got more stomped feet and crossed arms and a stubbornness that could rival the actual child she was wearing. So Azazel let it go.

Too much of their plan had been compromised, too many challenges that should have been simple to overcome had steamrolled into massive delays. He understood her worry. It felt like Time itself was against them. Not something a demon down in the deepest pits of Hell had ever had to worry about before.

Admittedly, it was why Azazel had taken on the angel. If he could eliminate the unknown variable – the spanner in the works – than maybe they could get back on schedule, retain the upper hand.

They would only have one real shot at this, after all, and if the full force of Heaven stood as their opposition, they would not succeed. They had to get Lilith topside without the angels knowing about it. The opening of a Hellgate was perfect cover. Thousands of smaller demons and a handful of stronger ones (her hand-picked entourage), would muddy the water, masking Lilith's presence. If Heaven learned of her presence on Earth, they would launch a manhunt for her. It wouldn't stop them, of course – they were far too prepared for that – but it would be a nuisance and a risk to their plans down the road.

They had to get the true Righteous Man in hell. John Winchester had proven a poor choice (which they'd all suspected was the case, but why waste the opportunity to torture the hunter into submission, one way or the other?) but his eldest son was lining up quite nicely. Once they had Dean in hell, there would be no way of hiding their intentions any longer. Heaven would know exactly what they were up to when a Righteous soul didn't turn up on their doorstep like it should, and then it would become a battle of the seals. Hell had the upper hand there. They would have the numbers from the Hellgate, the element of surprise, and, most importantly, time. They had been planning this for centuries in Hell. They knew all of the seals, which ones were lined up for breaking this century, which would be easy to crack, which would be easy to defend, and which to not even bother going for. Heaven would spend the first few precious days – maybe even weeks – just playing catch up. It would be a fight, but Hell had stacked the deck with all the right cards, and a couple more hidden up some sleeves for special occasions.

But the key to all of that – all of it – was that Heaven stay in the dark until the time was right. None of this worked without the element of surprise. And that one stupid angel sitting on Dean Winchester's shoulder – for all that Azazel was sure she was working alone (even if he could not figure out why) – was putting it all at risk.

She had to be dealt with. Azazel had made the first move and taken the first blow. He would have to make sure, no matter what it cost, that the second was to the angel. It would have to be a large enough strike to take her head.

"Well?" Lilith was tapping her shoe again, staring expectantly, arms still crossed over her chest but now in petulance rather than anger.

"After you." Azazel swept his hand past, but Lilith didn't move. He raised an eyebrow at her, straightening back up, ready for the next tantrum they didn't have time for.

"I want a word with Crowley before we leave."

The yellow-eyed demon all but rolled his eyes at the request. Not a request. Lilith didn't make requests, she made demands. "Crowley?"

"Yes." That little chin jutted up once more, as if to ask what he was waiting for. "The next step is getting the Righteous Man to make a deal. Don't you think talking to the 'king' of the crossroads is pertinent?"

"You've had plenty of time to talk with him while you 'waited' for me," Azazel growled, partially under his breath, though he didn't much care if Lilith heard him.

"Go get him for me. And wait outside while we talk."

Azazel stared. He just stared at the peevish little child standing in front of him where a millennia old, incredibly powerful, cunning and devious and wickedly smart demon should be. That chin tilted up further and the Prince of Hell wanted to start throwing things. A temper tantrum of his own, and it would be damn well warranted at this point.

"You get your secrets, Azazel – your calculated risks – and I get mine."

He did want to throw things. Namely, one princess of Hell clear out the nearest window. Not that Hell's architecture had too many of those.

"And you're taking that risk with Crowley."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a statement. It was disgust, mostly. But her chin stayed jutted out and Azazel knew there was more going on in that little girl's brain then the petty mask of a spoiled brat she'd wrapped herself in for decades, now. He just hoped it was the cunning demon behind it.

It likely was, for all his anger and annoyance. Lilith was more than competent. If she was taking risks and didn't want him to know about it, she likely had her reasons. No matter how they annoyed him. She was Lucifer's first born (the key to all of this, made by his hand) for a reason.

"Fine," Azazel spoke through gritted teeth, bared through what might be called a smile if you stretched the word as far as it could go. "I'll get you the crossroads demon, but then we're leaving."

Lilith watched him go with the same smugness of a child who'd won the right to set her own bedtime through sheer obnoxiousness, but smiled slyly the moment he was gone. Well, until she realized that she had to talk to Crowley of all demons. That took the smile right off her pretty little face.

-o-o-o-

"You summoned me, Oh Queen?" Crowley scuffed his shoe along the rock floor, ignoring the way the Zegna Italian leather melted against the boiling heat of the stone. How he both loved and loathed Hell. He would have to fix the shoes up once he was topside or put a call in to his tailor to place another custom order.

"I have a task for you," Lilith said it with the air of authority of a true leader, something she actually wasn't half bad at. It was always spoiled by the look she chose, though. Authority on a preteen just sounded like overreaching contempt. Rather ruined the whole leadership bit, in Crowley's oh-so humble opinion.

"Shoot," he returned and wasn't entirely sure he meant metaphorically. There was something about the scheming Princess of Hell's presence that made him, literally, want to shoot himself. Or someone else. Perhaps he should start making those sneaky inquiries about the whereabouts of the Colt. He was fairly sure Azazel had it, the yellow-eyed bastard. But one didn't make plans based on assumptions. Well, not good plans anyway.

"As you know, it's almost time for the Righteous Man's deal."

"I have my best girl already lined up for it," Crowley tossed out easily enough, partially because he knew Lilith was about to ask him to handle it personally. He wouldn't want to volunteer such a service, if only because he never volunteered for anything. Even if it would work out far better for him should he handle the deal himself, he wouldn't want to give that away. With all of the mishaps going on lately, Lilith would request it personally. Better for everyone if she thought it as her own idea.

Not that it would be, of course. Ever since the Winchesters had summoned him with the most preposterous, insane, and frankly suicidal idea of helping them avert the apocalypse, Crowley had been placing the chess pieces to make sure he was the one negotiating the Righteous Man's deal. If he was the one handling the transaction, it would be far easier to spin it to his own needs while screwing Hell (without them realizing it) and likely Dean Winchester as well (if he felt like it. Crowley hadn't made up his mind on whether or not he wanted to risk being on that hunter's wrong side yet.)

Or he could botch the thing up so completely that Hell never got it's Righteous Man. That one would be harder to talk his way out of, but he'd weaseled out of worse. He was fairly confident he could do it. However, Crowley hadn't quite decided which would be his play yet. But he knew he wanted to be the one calling the shots when it came time make that decision.

"Fine, fine," Lilith agreed so offhandedly that Crowley actually blinked. "I want you somewhere else anyhow."

Surely he'd…misheard? The King of the Crossroads stood there like a baffled idiot, staring and blinking as the Queen of Hell agreed to one of his minions handling the most important trade deal of the millennia.

"You…what?" Crowley physically shook himself, reminding his disquieted brain to pull its shit together before he blew his only cover. He wrapped affronted confusion over him like a cloak of invisibility and hid his racing thoughts safely beneath. "Where?"

"With Ruby."

"Ruby?"

There'd been rumors going around Hell, only whispers for now but Crowley could tell they were getting louder and would eventually make the full rounds. Ruby was on the outs with Lilith. Maybe even a deserter. No one had seen her for years and there'd been the quietest of hints, not quite ready to be spoken but certainly implied, that she might have made her way topside. That she might be the spanner in the works for whatever Azazel and Lilith were cooking up that hadn't quite been working the way they planned it to.

Last Crowley had seen her had been half a century ago, at least. Not long before those whispers had gotten started, actually. She'd come asking questions about Lilith's plan, the seals, and the…

Crowley straightened, a trill of discomfort worming its way down his spine.

There was something here that he was missing and he did not like it. He was no assassin, he was in sales for crying out loud! So why in Hell's own name would Lilith want him going after Ruby? The discussion they'd had sixty, maybe seventy years ago – chump change in topside's currency – suggested those rumors were true. Ruby was on the outs, trying to put a wrench in Hell's apocalypse plan and she'd used Crowley as her source of information. The King of the Crossroads had never followed up because he didn't care. He had his own plans, and they didn't include allying with anyone but himself, regardless of others out there who might also want to avert the end of the world.

(Okay, the Winchesters had put a bit of a kink in that original plan, but Crowley was nothing if not adaptable. His plans didn't include allying with anyone else.)

But if Lilith was sending him after Ruby…. Well, that suggested maybe, just maybe, Ruby wasn't on the outs as the rumor mill suspected, but instead was working for Lilith in secret. A triple cross, if you would. Hardly unheard of among demons. Hell, by the time they really go going, the double crossing was usually in the double digits. Which meant whatever those rumors might say, wherever they had come from, there was something not entirely accurate about them. Trouble was, Crowley didn't know which part was wrong, and Lilith was unlikely to tell him. Which was problematic considering he was working on a double or triple cross of his own.

One did not make plans based on assumptions, damnit.

"And where is Ruby?" Crowley tried for nonchalance, unsure if he hit his mark.

The little princess's smile was full of teeth and did not particularly lend credence to substantiating or disproving those pesky rumors, one way or the other. In fact, it only made everything that much worse.

Crowley felt another thread of discomfort weave through his twisted essence. He was behind the curve, one of his least favorite positions to be in, and would now have to play catchup. Only question was, who to go to for the information and how long would it take to obtain in relation to whatever plan Lilith was oh-so-very-clearly cooking up.

And…was he part of that plan? Or it's intended target?

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

A/Ns: Dun Dun Duuuuuuun!

Penguins: For your Jeopardy stockpile, a group of penguins is called a 'rookery'. You are now that much more knowledgeable (and currently one step ahead of God. Good for you)

Up Next: Dean gets to explain time travel and angels to a group of hunters who have mixed reactions to their entire world views being rocked. Go figure.

Up Next Timing: I'm going to have to keep the two week posting schedule for now. I am just not getting a chapter out a week in Covid Land. In the meantime, I'm purposefully making each of these chapters longer than a normal one, to at least make up for missed weekly content.

Till next time,

Silence