A/Ns: Ooookay, so it's Sunday. Y'all probably knew it was Sunday. I… vaguely new it was Sunday. But more in the "that's the name of the day" sort of way and not in the 'hey, you were supposed to post a chapter last night' way that actually mattered. So, heh, apologies for the late update! I realized this morning and spent the day editing (because I forgot/slipped up enough that the chapter wasn't even ready to go) At least it was an enjoyable chapter to edit. Especially since it is twice as long as usual. Because of course it is.

Chapter References: Since this is a bit of a prep-chapter for all that is about to come, there is a lot going on! Few things to remember.

- Gabe broke Dean's favorite ivory-inlaid gun during the Mystery Spot Redo.

- Dean hasn't worn his Amulet since the first month of time-traveling (too much of a reminder of what it represents to him). However, when Sam called him out on it, he hung it on the rear-view mirror (to honor what it represents to Sam) and it has been there ever since.

- During the bank heist/shapeshifter fiasco with Ronald Resnik, Roger "Okie Dokie" Miller was the security guard for Milwaulkee Trust International.

- Cole Trent went MIA from the military when he spotted Dean on TV at the robbery.

- And lastly, our favorite FBI Agent Victor Henriksen has been working with Dave "the Analyst" Attingwood (who many of you have called out as being a possible demon) to identify the Winchester's cell phone numbers from every number that was active in the Sturgis Hospital during Andy's stay. Poor Demon Dave (I'm not actually admitting he's a demon. I'm just playing along with alliteration. Because I can. And because I'm evil.)

Chapter Warnings: If that wasn't hint enough, we're busy this chapter! Dean and Sam are still searching for Ava, Ron and Ash are teaming up, Bobby's restricting Andy to the grounds, Andy isn't listening because when you gotta go, you gotta go, Roger "okie dokie" Miller is paid a visit, Henriksen apologizes and doesn't spontaneously combust (it's a pre-season-finale miracle!), Tom's got himself a new body, Persephone's asking Chuck the hard questions, and things. Are. Finally. HAPPENING.

Here we gooooooooo!

-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 92

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

"Yeah, yeah, we got it," Dean said as he against the front of the Impala, phone pressed to his ear. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who was sitting in the passenger seat, window rolled down, having a conversation of his own with the Roadhouse. "We'll make ourselves scarce. Thanks for the heads up, Bobby."

The older Winchester shut the phone with an aggravated sigh, tilting his head back and closing his eyes against the noonday sun.

Really, when were they going to get a break?

They had been missing for five days. And in that time, friggin' FBI Special Agent Victor Henriksen had shown up on Bobby's door. It wasn't entirely surprising – one of the reasons the boys had chosen to clear out of Sioux Falls was because of the possibility – but it was a pain in the ass, regardless. Henriksen hadn't done anything more than throw his weight around, but Bobby couldn't rule out the property being under watch. He didn't think the FBI had sufficient cause for a warrant or surveillance, but now they wouldn't know for sure.

Dean couldn't recall Henriksen ever bothering Bobby before. Which meant they'd changed shit again and didn't that just figure. Not like any of the unexpected changes they'd dealt with so far had ended well for them, and Dean had no illusions that this would somehow be the exception. Not with Henriksen involved. Of the many things they'd faced over the years – demons, angels, monsters, humans, the friggin end of the world – the Law had always been the most frustrating, efficient, and painful distraction. Never an enemy, not really, but absolutely the most bullheaded of obstacles. From local LEOs to FBI, getting the Colt back to hunting down Lucifer, the threat of being locked up was hardly the scariest thing they'd faced, but damn if it wasn't always the one thing they never had time for.

Especially now that their access to Angel Air had been cut off for the foreseeable future.

Worse yet, Henriksen had gone and dragged local law enforcement into it. Bobby hadn't named the Sheriff who'd shown up at his door, but he hadn't needed to. The town only had one.

Jody.

Dean hadn't flinched at the mention of her at all, and his chest – both human and angelic – certainly hadn't ached at the thought of seeing that particular friendly face.

Not that it would be friendly right now.

The man from the future lowered his head with a silent sigh, stowing all that ache away somewhere he couldn't feel it quite as strongly. They had bigger problems that future friends lost to time travel. Like the loss of access to their best (and only) safehouse. If they couldn't go back to Bobby's, the boys were left traveling the roads. Which wasn't foreign to them by any means – they'd done just that for years before the presence of demons brought them back to Bobby's front door.

But somehow, it felt wrong, now. No Bobby, no Cas. It felt like all the cards were stacking up against them. Like something big was coming. And Dean, no matter how much he'd tried to prepare, just wasn't ready for it yet.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair rather viciously, the older Winchester pushed off Baby and made his way around her to Sam's open window.

"Thanks, Ellen," his brother was saying from where he was seated inside the Impala, catching Dean's eye with a nod. The dark circles under his eyes (formed over a dozen Sundays and then a Russian roulette of games) hadn't improved with the night of sleep they'd tried to get in a heavily warded, angel-proofed motel room. "Have him call us whenever it comes through."

Sam lowered the phone and rested his elbow on the door, device in hand. At Dean's raised brows, he said, "Ellen says Ash has some new data for you, but the algorithm's still running."

The older Winchester shrugged, nonplussed. "It's nothing I don't already know."

And maybe if Ash kept that information to himself this time, demons wouldn't feel the need to blow him up. Dean could only be so hopeful.

"Don't be so sure," his brother said with a disbelieving half-smile. "Apparently Ronald is the one who gave him the idea."

Dean's eyebrows climbed in surprise. Huh. Imagine that (and he totally was – the idea of Ronald Resnik and Ash teaming up on anything was… well, it was something, alright). Perhaps, for once, Dean was going to be proven wrong about their track record with timeline changes.

"Damn," is what he said, matching the smile on Sam's face with one of his own. "Alright, then. Guess we'll see."

"Ellen said he'll call us when he's got the results. Until then," Sam tapped the side of the car with his cell (gently, of course. Heaven forbid he get Dean started on a rant about the car's paint job), and Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly. He knew the signal, his brother was telling him to get in the car. "There's something up in Wisconsin. Part of Ash's algorithm, I guess. Lots of unidentified omens? Maybe demonic, Ash doesn't know. It doesn't have any ties to the other psychic kids yet, but…"

"It's something." Dean nodded in agreement, trying to absorb some of that optimistic energy for himself. If Sam could muster it, then so could Dean. He knew his kid brother was still worried about the missing Ava Wilson. If Sam wasn't planning on giving up the search for her anytime soon, no matter what distractions – bank robberies or Tricksters-turned-angels – got in their way, then neither would Dean. Omens weren't much, especially if they weren't even the usual demonic ones, but they were something, which was more than anything they currently had to go on. "We'll take it."

Sam was already sliding over into the driver's seat, which resulted in Dean's eyebrows turning decidedly judgmental, but he ultimately opened the passenger door and climbed in. As they pulled away, Sam switched the radio on, adjusting the tuning knob. Dean's eyebrows went full Bitchface.

"Driver picks the music," the younger Winchester offered with a pleased grin. He didn't even have to finish that statement – Credence Clearwater Revival already coming through the speakers – for Dean to start groaning.

-o-o-o-
When Bobby got off the phone with Dean, Andy was rolling on the balls of his feet. Sarge's leash was clenched tightly in both hands, the kid having been about to take the German Shepherd for a walk around the property when the boys had finally called. Now Andy was waiting anxiously for whatever news Dean had about where they'd been for the last week and a half. Sarge was sprawled at his feet, deciding on a nap since a walk was apparently not in the cards yet.

"Boys found themselves a Trickster," Bobby started, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his hair. Andy's widened and the fidgeting got worse. "Which turned out to be an archangel in disguise."

(And boy, did Bobby have words for the time-traveling Winchester about that. How, exactly, had the archangel Gabriel, disguised as a trickster (who had, apparently, messed with the boys multiple times in his timeline), not made it into his cliff-notes on the future?!)

Andy's eyes grew impossibly wider and Bobby raised a hand to stop the rapid-fire Sign already in progress. Sarge's leash was forgotten, draped haphazardly over an elbow as he frantically moved his hands.

"Everyone's fine, for the most part. Cas got nabbed-" he had to raise that hand again when Andy immediately launched into another round of hand gestures – "but Dean's certain she's alright. Gabriel won't let her go, but apparently he won't hurt her, either."

Or so Dean said. Unfortunately for everyone else involved, there wasn't much they could do but trust his future knowledge. And where Feathers was concerned, Bobby knew better than to question it. If Dean said she'd be alright, then she'd be alright.

Lord knew (and so did everybody else) that boy would move Heaven and Earth if he thought otherwise.

Andy deflated a bit, but it was a mix of released tension as well as distress. Bobby could relate. He put his cap back on.

"As for the FBI-" The kid straightened, distress returning but in a rigid sort of way- "Dean agrees. You're lying low. Which means no leaving the house."

Hands started flying, blurring with the speed the kid was trying to protest. But Bobby was having none of it.

"And," he added loudly, forcing Andy to curl his gesturing fingers into fists and listen. Not something the kid was great at. Or thrilled to be doing. Well, tough luck. Bobby reached forward, taking a hold of the dog leash, pulling it free from where it was tucked into the crook of Andy's elbow. "We're getting too close to Azazel's battle royale. Which means you are camping out in the panic room from here on out."

Andy's eyes all but bulged out of his head. He waved his hands – really, the full length of his arms – in a big, crystal-clear gesture that said 'Oh Hell no.'

'That's in May!' he argued immediately in Sign. 'That's two months away! You can't keep me locked up for two months!'

"I can and I will if it keeps you alive, kid," Bobby argued right back, though he knew realistically he had no real way of keeping Andy locked inside. But if the kid was smart, he'd listen. It was his life they were discussing, after all.

Andy stared. And stared.

When he lunged forward suddenly, Bobby wasn't all that surprised. It didn't stop Andy from snatching the leash back and bolting for the front door. Sarge scrambled to his feet, nipping at the kids heels as he followed, barking joyously at the new game. Bobby gave chase, hollering at them both.

The images that flashed through his brain were a jumbled mess of protestation, childish outrage, and desperate pleas to at least let him live in the van, of all things.

-o-o-o-

"Alright, so," Agent Attingwood drawled into his FBI issued desk phone, receiver pinched between his ear and shoulder so he could juggle a stack of papers in one hand, scroll through a spreadsheet on his monitor, and type one-handed with the other. He'd been the damn King of Multitasking since Agent Henriksen had given him the Phone Number Assignment from Hell (what he'd been calling it in his head for the last three months) in addition to all his other Analyst work (thank God Victor had finally gotten him a starting number or it would be another three months before he had anything worth calling the man over). "With that number you gave me, assuming it is Robert Singer's cell-"

"It is," came the confident, intimidating voice that had never once actually intimidated Dave in the slightest. It reminded him of his older brother, really. Just like Agent Henriksen, Josh thought he was right about everything all the time too. And was equally terrible at admitting when he wasn't.

"-even though you refuse to tell me how you got it," Dave continued, completely unphased. "If it's the real deal, then I've narrowed it down to three numbers in the Sturgis area that consistently sent messages and made calls to one another or Mr. Singer during the time frame you provided."

Dave flipped the top page of the stack, said numbers highlighted among hundreds of calls made in the week-long period the Winchesters were believed to be in and out of that hospital. "Of the three, two consistently texted back and forth with the third, while only making a few calls or texts to each other. I can only assume – emphasis on the assumption part of this, so no blaming me if it's wrong later – that those two numbers belong to the Winchesters, and the third is Andy Gallagher."

"Run them," Henriksen demanded immediately, hardly letting Dave finish, let alone congratulate him on the gargantuan feat of pinpointing three numbers among thousands. "I wanna know where those phones are and who else they've been talking to."

Dave huffed. A little appreciation would be nice. And certainly not misplaced.

"Gee, Analyst Dave, great job with that!" Agent Attingwood said into the phone, making a face he knew Henriksen couldn't see. "You're the best! I sure take you for granted!"

"Agent Attingwood," Henriksen warned, and Dave sighed.

"You're impossible, you know that? And also, totally undervaluing my skills." Before Henriksen could warn him further – which Dave could tell was coming – he continued, "I already ran them, Mr. Bossy."

Silence stretched down the line. Dave enjoyed it immensely.

"And?" Victor practically barked.

"Aaaaand," David drawled, using one hand to scroll down his spreadsheet to the data he needed. "The Winchesters are currently off-grid, if they're even still using those phones. There's been no usage, coming in or going out. Last ping was from a college town in Ohio, two weeks ago."

Henriksen growled down the line, and Dave decided he'd probably had enough fun. He did value his job, after all. He'd rather keep it.

"However, Robert Singer has been in frequent contact with a number in Nebraska registered as a… uh, hold on," Dave had to switch tabs, pulling up the search he'd made minutes before calling Agent Henriksen, "a bar and restaurant in central Nebraska called the Roadhouse. Listed owner is Eleanor Harvelle."

"Any information on her?"

"Not much." Dave shuffled papers again, looking for the file he'd printed out on the woman. "No priors, she's owned the bar since her husband passed in a hunting accident-"

"Hunting?"

Dave blinked at the surprise – and suspicion – in Victor's voice. He double checked the info. "Uh… yeah. Don't have the details. Want me to get them?"

"Yes. And I want a full workup on this Harvelle woman."

David resisted sighing. It was all he managed to resist. "I do have other work, you know. Other agents in the FBI who need things too. Whole office full of 'em."

The growl that came down the line did not form words. Dave rolled his eyes but jotted down Ellen Harvelle's name on a pad of sticky-notes on his desk, half buried under all the work he was currently doing for the demanding agent.

"As for Andy Gallagher, he has been chatting up a proverbial storm," Dave continued, switching back to his spreadsheet and shuffling papers once more for the list of numbers this particular phone had been texting. "No calls, weirdly enough-"

"The man's mute," Henriksen interrupted with a gruff response.

"Aaaaand that information would have been seriously helpful three months ago," David deadpanned. "'Our suspect can't talk, so look for a number that only sends texts, Dave.'"

Silence stretched down the line again, though this one had a distinct flavor of not-angry to it.

"Sorry."

Dave blinked. Then blinked again. He straightened, freeing one hand to pull the phone away from his shoulder and stare at it. It wasn't spontaneously combusting. Huh.

"Apology accepted," David said, still stunned he'd gotten one, as he tucked the phone back into his ear. "Alright, so now we can be a lot more confident that number is Andy Gallagher's. So, Mr. Gallagher has been texting the Winchesters' numbers a decent amount, or at least he was when they were still receiving. He's also texting a number with a Nebraska area code – same as the Roadhouse – that has been all over the place."

And Dave meant all over the place. Montana, Wyoming, Iowa, Michigan, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and that was just the last two months. There were plenty more states before that. Whoever owned that number lived on the road, far as the analyst could figure.

"It's a pre-paid, so I don't have a name for you," he continued, only a little bit apologetic (he was a damn boss for getting Henriksen all this already). "And last of all we have a Sioux Falls number he's been texting a lot-"

"Wait, what?" Victor's voice had taken on that surprise-suspicion thing again.

"It's not that surprising," Dave replied, digging for the file he'd printed up on the woman who owned the number. The only surprising thing, really, was that she was a sheriff. "Given that Mr. Gallagher's number has pinged off a Sioux Falls tower almost exclusively. Guy doesn't really get around much."

The silence that followed wasn't so much a silence as an intake of breath and a beat.

"What?"

Even Dave straightened, phone falling from his shoulder to be caught in his hand. "What, what? What'd I miss?"

"Robert Singer lives in Sioux Falls," Henriksen all but growled.

"Yeah," David answered easily enough, confused as to why that information – readily available and widely known at this point – was a big deal. "Singer Salvage Yard, just outside city limits. The same place the number's coming from, probably, given the tower it keeps pinging off of is, like, two miles down the road from that address. Why's that a big deal?"

The only answer he got was the dial tone of an agent that had just hung up on him. Dave sighed and put the phone back on its cradle on his over-crowded desk.

"Thanks, Dave. You really cracked the case, Dave. You're awesome, Dave!"

The FBI analyst gave a little shake of his head in something between irony and resignation and got back to work. Twenty minutes later, still annoyed at Victor hanging up on him (not surprised. Hardly surprised. He knew the man, after all. Just annoyed, is all), Dave decided to do a little digging of his own. He typed Agent Henriksen's government-issued cell phone number into his computer and clicked on the last number he'd contacted, seconds after he'd hung up on Dave.

A federal judge.

Huh. Guess whatever information Dave had provided was enough to get a warrant.

-o-o-o-
Persephone lowered the pages of Chuck's latest chapter, settling them in her lap as she transferred her gaze to the window right beside her. A woman was walking past the prophet's house, a dog trotting several feet in front of her at the end of a leash. The mailwoman was making her rounds in the odd, square truck that all mail carriers seemed to use. The world beyond kept spinning, heedless of what was coming.

She had already read this section of the novel twice. The prophet seemed to be dragging his feet writing what remained. Persephone was not entirely surprised. It was clear from the mounting tension of his latest writing that they were building to something. The Grand Finale, as human entertainment would call it, usually in a tone that implied nothing good to come.

Just like the author, Persephone was not entirely sure she wanted to get there in any rush, either.

"Hey, Steph?"

The millennia-old creature turned her head to the prophet, who was sitting at his makeshift desk across the room from her. He had a pen in hand and another tucked behind his ear, which he had probably forgotten was there. His right leg was bouncing up and down in a manner Persephone had quickly learned to read as unease.

"Yes, Chuck?"

"Do you, uh… want to, um…" Chuck tried for a smile, but it was a faltering, weak thing that he gave up halfway through. He cleared his throat, instead. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," she replied immediately, uncertain why he would feel the need to ask.

"Oh. Uh. Right. Good, I mean! That's, uh… good." The writer turned back to his computer, that leg jiggling faster now.

Persephone set the pages down on a side table and rose from her curled position. She didn't need to reread them a third time and the prophet's behavior suggested something was up. Persephone made her way over to the writer, who had clearly noticed her approach, given his leg stilled, then resumed its bounce, then stilled again. All the while he kept his gaze locked on his screen, fingers poised to write, even tapping nervously at a key or two, but not actually pressing any of them.

She came to stand beside the desk, positioned against the back of the couch. She leaned against the sofa, arms crossed casually, which was far more relaxed than anything she'd done when she first showed up on his doorstep all those months ago. As far as Stephanie went, it was downright making herself at home.

"Are you alright?" she asked the writer.

"Yeah, yeah, totally. I'm great. Wonderful. A-Okay." Chuck leaned back in his chair, going for casual as well but missing by a mile. His hands landed in his lap as he turned towards her, abandoning the attempt. The shaky smile was back. Steph raised her eyebrows at its return.

"Is your head starting to hurt?" She automatically reached for his pill container, buried in the couch cushions from the prophet's last headache-inducing burst of inspiration.

"No, it's not that," Chuck admitted, then winced when he realized he'd just confirmed it was something. "Just the, uh, story. Going somewhere I'd prefer it didn't. As usual."

As Stephanie straightened from the sofa, pills in hand, she regarded the writer with an expression he couldn't read. Chuck turned away from it, fearing it was pity, and instead reached over to his laptop and struck a key. The printer next to Steph stuttered to life, spitting out page after page until a healthy collection lay in its tray. Chuck grabbed them, hesitating only for a moment, before he held them out to his editorial assistant.

"Here you go. Final chapter."

In the moment it took his assistant to take them, the writer couldn't help but stare at the freshly printed pages. So fresh the ink would still smudge if he rubbed at it hard enough. For a moment, Chuck entertained doing just that. Just rubbing away the last hour of work – the last year's, the last millennia, the last… forever, really – and do it all over again.

The writer shook his head, freeing himself of such morbid and… existential thoughts. The story was what it was; it always seemed to write itself more than Chuck ever did. There was something weird about that, but the prophetic author didn't dwell on it. He had bills to pay, and he supposed this was at least one way to do that.

Stephanie took those final pages with what Chuck would call trepidation. But that was probably just in his head. The back of her hand bumped against his (or maybe it was the other way around?) and Chuck stared at the spot on his hand as he brought it back to his lap. His fingers felt fiercely warm and kinda tingly.

He wondered if Steph noticed, because she rubbed at her hand as well, the motion absentminded. The writer wondered about that, at the contact and the fact that she was always somehow nicer after moments like this. The poor man tried not to read too much into those times. Instead, he turned back to his lonely computer and all the death and horrors he'd written there.

"Hey, Chuck?" Steph had dropped her hand, but she had that distant look in her eye she always got at times like this. Chuck didn't know what to make of it, but something deep within him, something he didn't even realize existed most days, had taken great care to encourage that slowly growing ember. "Do you know what's going to happen next?"

It was a weird question to ask of an author, Chuck thought. Then again, he seemed to be the kind of author that didn't know what was in store for his characters. Last minute planner, his publisher had teased, but Chuck always wondered if it was more than that. If it was weird not to feel in control of your own story.

"No," Chuck answered honestly, because he liked to think he was at the point of friendship with Stephanie that he could be honest. Maybe not honest enough to tell her he didn't even like his own story most days. But honest enough. "I don't. Sometimes I think the story will go one way, but usually when I write it… it's completely different. Not the way I'd have taken it at all."

The writer frowned at that, scrunching up one side of his face. He wondered what it would be like to write the story he wanted to write, and not the one that came to him in flashes of bright lights and a lot of head pain.

"What do you want to happen next?"

Chuck – and something altogether not Chuck – blinked in surprise. He glanced over at his editorial assistant, not sure why the question caught him off guard as much as it did. He supposed… no one had ever asked him that before. Probably because it had never occurred to anyone to need to.

"Oh. Um. Well…" Chuck had to pause, had to actually think about that answer. Funny, that. It turned out he hadn't thought to ask himself, either. The prophet smiled almost idly. "I think something big is coming," he admitted with a slight shrug. "And, well… it sounds silly, but… I want everyone to pull through."

Steph was staring at him in that way he couldn't read again. Whatever it was, it was kinda nice, even if he was pretty sure it was more pity than anything else.

"Guess it's not very good writing if everyone makes it out unscathed, though, huh?" Chuck sighed with another shrug, this one far more self-deprecating than the previously awkward one. "Tragedy maketh money, and all that. Not that I'm making much money, of course."

He chuckled with embarrassment, completely missing the downturn to Stephanie's lips. But the thing that lived deep inside him, that saw all when it wanted to, didn't.

We're close, He thought. Just a little more. One more push and she'll be where the Winchesters need her to be.

Assuming Time allowed her to play on the board at all. But that wasn't His call to make, nor would he be weighing in on it. He was interfering more than he'd planned already, and Time, while surprisingly collaborative, was not particularly forgiving of interlopers.

The drawn-out moment they weren't really having (at least, not outside of Chuck's overactive imagination) ended when his Editorial Assistant's eyes shuttered and she raised a hand to her neck, rubbing at the rapidly reddening skin there. Stephanie set the pages down on the edge of a desk, unread. Chuck stared at them, dismay mounting, as she crossed the room for her purse.

"Let me guess," he started, fully expecting Steph to finish the sentence.

He could see her expression in profile as she picked up her purse and coat. There was distaste crawling over her features, shifting into something dark – something angry – as it went. It was a look Chuck had seen several times, now, and she always left immediately afterward. As she turned back to the writer, Stephanie at least attempted a weak smile for him.

"I have to leave," she announced, indeed finishing his assumption for him. Her purse and coat were already in hand, though she hardly looked pleased about it.

"Yeah," the writer said with a sad smile. "I figured."

He didn't know why (though he suspected the reason was rather pathetic), but he never liked when his editorial assistant had to leave suddenly.

The God within him knew why and felt a specific sense of loss as well. A missed opportunity. Hard work down the drain. And so easily, too. If He weren't trying to tip the scales in the Winchesters' favor (even though He had committed Himself, so many years ago, to never touch them again), God would be indignant. To see one of His creations – by proxy, if nothing else – crumple so easily to the darkness inside her.

Especially when she had once told Him – Him! – that He was wrong about that darkness.

"It is Friday," Persephone said, so abruptly that whatever Chuck had been thinking a moment ago was gone.

He blinked out of his reverie – unsure what it had even been about – and focused on his editorial assistant, standing rigid and ready to go. Her grip on her purse was tight in a way that didn't make sense to the human. Offhandedly, Chuck wondered if she still had that deleted scene he'd given her, about the hex bag. Wondered if maybe it was in that purse she was clutching like a lifeline.

Chuck blinked again. Weird thoughts today. Maybe another headache was coming on, after all. He should find his pills. He'd, uh, kind of gotten used to Stephanie already having them on hand by the time the headache really hit.

"I will return Monday."

The writer smiled, and nodded, but for some reason he couldn't begin to explain, he didn't believe her.

-o-o-o-

"So, Mr. Miller, you were the security guard on duty that night at Milwaukee National Trust Bank?" Cole Trenton asked, sitting at Roger Miller's kitchen table with pen, notebook, and fake press credentials. "The night the Winchesters and Mr. Resnik attempted to rob the place?"

"That's right," Mr. Miller confirmed, sitting across the round dinette set. He had a cup of coffee between his hands, which he fidgeted with nervously. He shook his head, eyes taking on a watery sheen. "It was awful."

"I can only imagine," Cole said sympathetically enough. He set his own mug down on the table and picked up the notebook he brought with him, flipping it open to the first free page, about three thirds of the way through. "I've interviewed several of the civilians who were held hostage that night, but you spent the most time with the Winchesters."

Mr. Miller balked, face flushing with embarrassment. "I don't know about that. But I did escort them to the security booth and back out. Which is when they brought out the gun."

"Let's start there," Cole uncapped his pen and leaned back, projecting the picture of active interest. He had pages of eyewitness accounts of the Winchesters. He knew how they spoke, how they operated, how they held up under pressure. Now he wanted to know how they planned. "They wanted to see the security cameras. Tell me everything that happened, everything that was said. Don't leave anything out, Mr. Miller. I'm all ears."

-o-o-o-

Sam and Dean were on their fourth ghost town in Wisconsin, hoping against all hope to stumble on Azazel's new Cold Oak. Or whatever demon he had doing his dirty work, since they were pretty sure he wasn't back topside yet. Or so they hoped, at least.

They'd decided to start with abandoned towns, assuming Azazel's backup location for the Battle Royale wouldn't be particularly different than his first. Unfortunately for the Winchesters, there were a lot of ghost towns in Wisconsin. They'd narrowed it down to about a hundred-mile radius, according to Ash's algorithm determining where the omens were popping up. But that was more than half the state, so it hadn't exactly narrowed things down, much.

There were fifteen towns in that radius, either abandoned or rumored haunted, and they were systematically crossing them off one after another. It wasn't exactly efficient – the search area was huge, and they didn't even know if they'd picked the right tree to bark up – but it was all they had until something better popped up.

Speaking of. Sam's phone rang just as they were coming out of the last, empty building. A fourth bust, not that either hunter was all that surprised. This was the very definition of a longshot.

"Hey, Ash," Sam said once he'd answered the phone. "Yeah, we're in, uh-" the hunter had to glance at his phone, switching it over to GPS, to remember which ghost town they were in. They were starting to blur together. "-Stonehaven. No, nothing here."

Dean started to wander off as Sam chatted with Ash, who was hopefully calling with something further to go on. Maybe a narrowed down search area, at the very least. Really, he'd take anything.

"What do you mean, it's not safe?"

The change in Sam's tone immediately spun Dean back around, and he was marching over to his brother. Sam's brow was furled, and he gave Dean a small headshake – he didn't know what was going on either.

"Dude, we're nowhere near the Roadhouse right now," the younger Winchester responded to whatever it was Ash was saying. "We can't just drop this and head there."

Dean, who had a growing suspicion in his stomach that felt a lot like nausea, reached out and stole the phone from his brother's hand, much to Sam's indignation. As he pressed it to his ear, he heard the end of Ash's hushed, tense response.

"-just get here, Sam."

"What did you find?" Dean demanded, already knowing the answer.

Ash made an annoyed, sort of desperate sound, and Dean's churning gut hardened into the cement of certainty.

"Not over the phone," the MIT dropout responded in a way that made it perfectly clear he was repeating himself. "Get to the Roadhouse."

"No," Dean immediately said, shaking his head, grip on the phone turning his knuckles white. "Get out. Now, Ash. You and Ellen get the hell out of there. Head to Bobby's."

"What? Dean-"

"I'm serious," the older Winchester interrupted, practically barking the words like a command. "Get out of the Roadhouse. Now, Ash."

He didn't wait for the man's response, just handed the phone to his brother and started heading back to the Impala. Sam muttered a hasty, "Just do it, Ash," before hanging up the phone and jogging after Dean.

"What's going on?" he asked as he caught up, tucking his gun away as Dean dug the keys out of his front pocket.

"Demons blow up the Roadhouse to stop Ash from getting us that info," Dean answered so matter-of-factly that Sam stumbled beside him in pure surprise. "They get him, but not Ellen. She brings the stuff he found to us."

Sam swallowed roughly, trying not to think of that future. It wasn't going to happen. Dean had warned them, and Ash would (hopefully) listen. "What stuff?"

"He found a hellgate in Wyoming. Samuel Colt – yeah, the guy who built the Colt – created a hundred-square-mile devil's trap out of railroads around it."

"Iron," Sam breathed out in awe. "Wait, I remember that. They get the hellgate open with the Colt. After…"

"The battle royale," Dean finished for him as Sam trailed off in realization. He opened the driver's door, but paused, elbow on the roof. He met his brother's eyes across the Impala. "It's not gonna happen, Sam. Not this time."

"But it's coming," Sam replied, not denying Dean's statement, but not as confident as his brother. "Ash calling…. It means it's started, doesn't it?"

Dean looked like he didn't want to answer. He glanced away, fisting the keys in his hand. Eventually, he managed a nod. "Yeah. I think that's exactly what it means."

As he climbed into the car, Sam scrambling in on the other side, the younger Winchester gave a weak, but determined nod. There was a confidence in his words that he didn't feel, but one he knew his brother needed. They both did. "We better call Bobby. Warn Andy."

Dean was already spinning tires and spitting dirt as he pulled away from the abandoned town at speeds only his Baby could handle. Sam pulled out his phone, grip tight enough to hide the way his hands were shaking.

-o-o-o-

Persephone stared at the demon in front of her, an unfamiliar meatsuit leaning against an unfamiliar car. He was bulky with thick, rippling muscles that were highlighted by too-tight clothes. His skin was darker than the last time she'd seen him, tanned gold in a way that didn't look natural. He was stockier, too, with dark, short-cropped hair, but she knew who he was well before his eyes flicked black instead of yellow.

Azazel was many things, but a showoff wasn't one of them. Which meant this was Tom. Joy of joys for her.

The demon spawn was leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles, swinging one hand back and forth. The gold chain swung like a pendulum from his grip, fading out of existence a few feet from his hand, but Persephone knew where it ended. Her neck was still aching from the bastard pulling on the thing.

"Hello, Princess." Tom had his usual smug grin slapped in place, but his eyes carried a malicious glee to them that was new. It instantly set Persephone on edge. He pushed off the car, gesturing towards her reddened neck with the same hand that held the end of her reinstated leash. "See you got my message."

"See you found a new body," she snipped back, hand tightening around the strap of her purse. "Took you long enough."

"And I'm sure you behaved like a perfect little pawn while I was gone." The smug grin lessened some, replaced with annoyance, though the malice in his eyes remained as sharp as newly forged dagger. "What did you get up to, I wonder?"

It was all Persephone could do not to shift the purse against her side. The purse that held her best shot at escaping this demon; the paralytic hex bag Chuck had provided her.

"Spa Day," she supplied with a one shouldered shrug. The picture of nonchalance and absolutely zero innocence. Tom scoffed.

"Right. I hope you got your fill of mud masks and pedicures, Princess. Time to go." He gestured with his head to the car, even as he opened the door for her.

Persephone didn't move. "And where are we going?"

The grin that stretched across his face cemented the dread building in her insides. "To acquire your prince, of course."

-o-o-o-

Sarge's whining finally caught Andy's attention and he pulled the ear buds out of his head to notice the German Shepherd standing at the entrance to the panic room, tail tucked, head ducked, and eyes looking about as uncertain as Andy had ever seen them. Sarge was nothing if not stalwart most of the time.

'What's up, buddy?' he asked in his own head, signing along with the question, knowing the dog could neither hear him nor read Sign, but it hadn't stopped him from chatting to Sarge in either form yet. He uncrossed his legs from the cot they'd dragged into the iron-walled room since Andy would be spending more than just an evening hiding out down there (and gee, wasn't he just the luckiest. Nothing like an ancient army cot older than he was and iron, sigil-scrawled walls to make home sweet frickin' home).

Andy stood, stretched, and crossed the small room to crouch in front of the dog. 'You gotta go pee?'

He made the hand signal for bathroom that Jody had taught him and Bobby – the one Sarge's previous handler had picked – and the dog whined again, turning and heading for the stairs. Andy stood, following after with only a moment's hesitation and a quick glance back at the panic room. Five minutes out of it wouldn't hurt, and it was only to go upstairs and grab Bobby so he could take Sarge for a walk.

Really, Andy could admit with very little shame in it, any excuse to get out of his little iron prison was a welcome one.

The two climbed the stairs, Andy trailing behind the much faster four-legged beast. When he got to the top of the stairs, Sarge was already waiting at the front door. Andy held up a finger – not that they'd actually taught Sarge what 'one minute' meant, but that dog was a smart one – and ducked his head into the study.

Bobby was on the phone, back turned to the psychic and, from the sound of it, he was buried up to his elbows in a case for another hunter. Andy didn't have a convenient way to interrupt the man without using his powers, and was reluctant to do that when the old hunter seemed on edge enough already. He glanced back into the hall. Sarge was staring at him with desperate eyes and whined immediately once he had eye contact.

How long had he been asking to go out? The hunt must be a bad one, Andy figured, if Bobby hadn't noticed.

Well, he could take Sarge out. Yeah, the Winchesters and Bobby had both told him not to leave the panic room, and definitely not to leave the house, but what was five minutes going to hurt? Honestly, he could use the leg stretch. Besides, Bobby's property was warded seven ways to Sunday. No demon – Prince of Hell or otherwise – was setting foot in the salvage yard.

As for the FBI possibly watching…. Andy's gaze shifted to one of Bobby's baseball caps and a knitted scarf hanging from the same hooks as Sarge's leash. He could go incognito for the five, ten minute walk Sarge would want. Really, that wasn't much. And what were the chances the feds were watching, anyway?

Andy grabbed his disguise and Sarge's leash, opening the front door. Sarge bolted with an urgent need that left his guardian wincing in sympathy. Andy followed after the dog as he disappeared into the night in nothing short of desperation.

It wasn't until a good ten minutes later that Bobby finally hung up the phone after shouting Carl Bates through a Banshee banishing spell after the thing had almost taken the head off his hunting buddy. Which meant a follow-up shouting bout for keeping a man alive when his neck was kind of hanging on by a thread. Bobby heaved a tired sigh. He really was getting too old for this.

It took another second for him to realize that Sarge was barking in the distance. Not inside the house, but from… the yard. Bobby straightened and spun around, dread pooling in his gut. Sarge was in the yard. The front door was open. And so was the basement door.

"Andy!" Bobby surged to his feet, but the stairs to the basement were deserted and no psychic came answering back with his telepathic powers or physical presence. The old hunter bolted for the front door, heart pounding. Sam had called just that afternoon to warn them shit was starting to go down. The kid knew better than to leave the panic room!

When he found Sarge, the dog was barking furiously at the far fence of his property, nothing but empty night beyond it. His leash was attached to his collar, dragging on the ground around him, but there was no sign of Andy.

-o-o-o-

The Winchesters were headed out of Wisconsin and towards South Dakota as fast as they could, pushing speed limits and the boundaries of safety, as night fell. Rain came with it, pushing the boundary of sleet as the temperature dropped with the sun. It came down in patches as they drove, forcing Dean to drive a hell of a lot slower than we wanted to.

By the time they pulled over for gas just outside of La Crosse, Wisconsin, the rain had abated but the road was scattered with puddles and it was near freezing out. Sam climbed out of the car, already heading for the restrooms on the side of the convenience store attached to the pumps. It wasn't clear if his jog was out of necessity or to keep warm.

"Make it quick!" Dean shouted over the top of the car. He'd already told the beanstalk that he wasn't allowed to leave the warded confines of the car ever, at least not until they had a panic room to transfer him to. The look he'd gotten for that hadn't quite been a Bitchface, but it had been close.

"And if I have to pee?" the brat challenged back, though Dean could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn't actually going to fight the man with all the future knowledge on this.

To his horror (and exasperation), Sam had spent the next ten minutes, at his brother's instruction, searching the front and back seats of the car for a bottle. He'd come up empty (to his relief). Which meant he was now heading towards the gas station restrooms, with their running water, soap, mild privacy, and ventilation.

Which wasn't much, considering the state of most gas station bathrooms, but it was definitely a step up over peeing into a water bottle with his brother riding shotgun to the whole experience.

Sam waved an arm in response to Dean's pestering, not bothering to turn around or respond. The older Winchester made a face of frustration at his back, but turned to fueling Baby. As the gas started pumping, he glanced towards where Sam had gone, checking he was out of sight before pulling out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts quickly before dialing, tapping a nervous beat out on the Impala's roof with his free hand.

"Ah, Squirrel. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Miss me already?"

"Shut up, Crowley," Dean growled into the receiver, checking again, almost compulsively, that Sam wasn't nearby.

"Charming as always," the King of the Crossroads drawled, and Dean could practically see his deadpan expression. "What do you want?"

Dean licked his bottom lip, nervously, then bit down on his tongue. He was the one who'd made the call, but he couldn't bring himself to ask the question he knew he had to ask.

"I'm waiting."

The older Winchester rolled his eyes, grunting as he cleared his throat. "Is there any way to make a deal without booking myself a one-way ticket to Hell?"

"Oh for the love of-" Crowley cut himself off, but Dean could hear the disbelief-fueled outrage behind the words. He winced, if only because the demon had a point. And it was never a good situation when the demonwas the voice of reason. "How hard is to just let the moose die, you codependent waste of plaid!"

The hunter pulled his head back, staring at the phone for a moment as his brain attempted to process that insult. As he brought it back to his ear, Dean fell back on his reliable, old friend: anger.

"Can it and answer the question."

He could all but hear the crossroad demon rolling his eyes, and the hunter checked over his shoulder again to make sure Sam wasn't headed back.

"No, there's no way to save your brother without selling your soul, and there's no way to sell your soul without going to Hell." Crowley didn't sound sorry about that, but Dean could detect something in his voice. Exasperated resignation, maybe. Like Dean starting the Apocalypse was a given and Crowley had just been humoring him by believing otherwise. "Sorry, Squirrel. Those are the rules."

The hunter ran a hand over his face. Yeah, he'd figured. But he'd had to ask. He'd had to try.

"Not sure it matters, really," the King continued, almost offhandedly. "Lilith's got something of a backup in place, as it were."

"What?" Green eyes snapped open, and both panic and hope flared in equal measures, leaving Dean nauseous with the combination. "What is it?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

Dean bit back the growl as all that nausea sunk into his gut like lead, leaving him feeling sick in an entirely different way. He had no idea if Crowley was telling the truth or not, but it didn't really matter, did it?

"Whatever it is, it's in the charming state of Minnesota," Crowley continued. "The part I've been stuck with, at least. I've been stuck in this freezing state for three days, Squirrel. Why you humans choose to live in these places, I will never know. My talents are wasted like this."

Dean tuned out as Crowley continued bitching and moaning. Minnesota? The tine traveler frowned, trying to think of a time Hell had gotten up to anything there. A second Hellgate he didn't' know about, maybe? Was that Lilith's backup plan?

Dean's phone gave a beep, causing him to pull away to stare at the screen. Bobby was calling. He ignored it; he could call the old hunter back once he was done with the demon.

"You're from Scotland. Like you've got room to talk," he snapped, bantering with the demonic King coming almost as naturally as breathing. "Now find out what they're up to. We're out of time."

"Excuse me, am I wearing a sign that says, 'Dean Winchester's slave?'" Crowley sniped right back, offence loud and clear, but there had been a moment of silence that Dean didn't pick up in his distracted frustration. An edge of tension to his voice that might have informed the man from the future he'd just slipped up. "You boys already owe me one favor. When do I get my back scratched, exactly?"

Dean's phone beeped again, and he pulled away again to see Bobby's number flashing on the screen. Shit. That couldn't be good. He ignored it again, but switched priorities to ending the apparently useless conversation with Crowley quickly.

"Gonna be hard to scratch anything if we're all dead," Dean growled back, deciding not to taunt the demon by telling him he had a nice big knife on him right now if the King felt like getting scratched.

The gas pump clicked and shut off, and Dean pulled the nozzle away from the tank. He'd just settled it back in its cradle, completely ignoring whatever Crowley was moaning and complaining about in his ear now, when Sam's phone started ringing from inside the car.

Shit. That really couldn't be good.

"Gotta go, find out what's going on in Minnesota." He snapped his phone shut on the crossroad demon's indignant squawk, not caring in the slightest that he'd hung up on the crossroads King. With a cuss, Dean pulled open the driver's door and crawled headfirst into the car in search of his brother's phone. By the time he found it on the passenger side floor, the call had gone to voicemail. With a growl and another swear, Dean grabbed the stupid thing and straightened up.

As he did, a flash of light caught his eye and the hunter's head whipped to the left. But it was just the headlights of a car, turning into the gas station and catching his necklace, hanging from the rear-view mirror. The man from the future stared at that amulet, the gold head and cow horns swinging gently as a result of Dean's own commotion. Even after the headlights had moved on, leaving the gold dull in the darkness of the car's interior, Dean continued to watch the thing that had a tendency to glow in the presence of God. It certainly wasn't glowing now, but those blank eyes were staring at him, like the amulet was watching him right back.

The phone started ringing again, and Dean nearly dropped it.

"Jesus," he muttered to himself, backing out of the car and flipping his cell open without looking at the caller ID. The car that had lit up his amulet was pulling up to the next row of pumps. There was a woman in the front seat and a tanned man in a too-tight, black turtleneck climbing out of the driver's side. He headed for the store attached to the gas station. The girl remained in the car, playing on her phone. Dean tracked the man's progress warily, making sure he wasn't headed for the restrooms, before barking into the phone, "What?"

"He's gone," Bobby's voice was rushed, loud and panicked, in Dean's ear. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard panic in his surrogate father's voice. And none of those times were good memories.

"The kid's gone," Bobby repeated, still in a rush. "He took the dog out for a walk, of all things, and he's just… god damnit!"

Dean closed his eyes, the hand that rested on top of the Impala curling into a fist against her cold metal. First Ash, now Andy. He knew what that meant, but he couldn't get past the overwhelming sense of failure and fear blocking his way to doing something about it.

It was coming all too fast. Falling apart in his hands, like sand or water that he had no hope of holding onto. Hell, he was pretty sure trying to hold onto it was just making him lose control that much faster.

Azazel was early. By months. Again.

The hunter opened his eyes beneath the dimly lit gas station roof, one of the halogens flickering obnoxiously above him while panic tried to swallow him whole from the ground up.

Sam was next, and they didn't have Cas.

Son of a bitch. It was happening. It was happening now, and they didn't have Cas to save their sorry asses when it all went to shit. When Sam inevitably died because Time was a bitch, and Dean sold his soul one way or another because some things just had to stay the same.

"Sam."

The breathless word left Dean's mouth before his brain even registered it, but once it did his gaze snapped to the side of the gas station, where the bathrooms were. Sam had been gone too long. He could hear Bobby barking at him in his ear, but the words didn't register.

"We'll find Andy," he promised into the receiver, spoken in a rush. He shut the phone on Bobby's panicked response, the old hunter realizing exactly what Dean was realizing. But he didn't have time to keep Bobby updated. He had to find Sam and get him back inside the warded Impala right now. They could call the old man back as soon as Sam was safe.

Dean jogged towards the restrooms, trying not to all out run and only barely managing it.

"Sam?" He pounded on the door to the men's restroom and got no response. That panic, which had been steadily building, flared into something so strong it was all-encompassing. It was all he could feel, and it was painful. "Sam!"

He shoved at the door with his shoulder twice before backing away and kicking it open. The door gave with a bang, bouncing off the inside wall hard enough it almost slammed closed once more. Dean shoved it back open with his arm, only to find an empty bathroom inside. He kicked the door to the women's restroom down too, revealing another empty room.

No. No, no, no no nononono.

"Sam!"

Dean sprinted around the corner of the building, headed for the front of the store. Inside, the lights were too bright and the space too quiet. There was a humming in the air that was probably the halogens, but raised the hair all over Dean's body and made his skin crawl. It was the only noise in the place.

He found the attendant first, sprawled and bloody behind the counter. Another customer lay dead in a pool of her own blood by the coolers. No Sam. No demons. Nothing.

Just like last time.

The hunter stumbled back outside, mind racing with what to do next. He had to call Bobby. He had to find Sam. And Andy. He had to find Azazel's new Cold Oak. He had to stop it from happening all over again.

Dean drew up short in the middle of the gas station parking lot when he realized a woman he didn't know was leaning against the side of the Impala, next to the passenger door, like she belonged there. She was short as hell, curvy in a stocky away, with a head full of blonde hair.

The girl from the car that had pulled up next to them. Her male companion was nowhere to be found. Just like Sam.

"Hey!" Dean called, already reaching for the gun in his waistline. It wasn't his ivory-inlaid Colt, laying broken in pieces in whatever fucked up pocket dimension of Gabriel's they'd left behind, but it was still a weapon. He trained it on the stranger who dared mess with his family and his Baby.

The woman, who had been playing idly on a phone, scuffing a sneakered toe against the asphalt, looked up at his cry. Dean froze at her glowing, green eyes.

Azazel's girl.

-o-o-o-

The house around her was still dark as the day she'd arrived, though there was significantly more collateral damage now. And blood, sweat, and tears. The haunted silence was shattered by her foot connecting with Sam Winchester's knife, sending it skittering across the dust-strewn floor. It left a trail of freshly strewn blood in its wake.

She bent down, chest heaving with each erratic pant, and wrapped trembling fingers around the hilt. With each use, her hand shook less and less. Eventually, she knew it would no longer shake at all.

Ava Wilson straightened, sweat dripping down her forehead, clothing torn and dirtied, but knife in hand as she stared fiercely into the darkness. Once soft, green eyes were hard. Her voice, when she spoke, was equally so.

"Next."

A figure in a too-tight turtleneck stepped out of the shadows, a smug smirk in the corner of his lips. His eyes weren't yellow, like she had expected at the end of that first day, but black as coal. She knew them well, after all this time.

"Coming right up."

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

A/Ns: You know…I think I'll just leave it at that. No author notes today ;P