"So," Dean drawls. "The 'source of powerful magic and necromancy' is… this. A McDonalds. Good work, Sammy."

Sam scowls and crosses his arms. "Shut it, Dean. I'm telling you, it all lead back to this. The reports, my research, the witnesses, they all had a common factor."

"Yeah, I'm sure the chicken nuggets are really hopped up on death magic. I think this one's a dud, man. C'mon, lets head back to the motel, we can start fresh tomorrow-"

Suddenly, Sam lets out a shout and draws his gun. Dean whirls around, only to see some kid slouched behind him, hands shoved deep in his pockets and his mouth twisted in a sullen line. He looks like some street rat, battered jacket and torn jeans and ragged hair. But he managed to sneak up on them. That just doesn't happen.

"What're you doing here, kid?" Dean asks, wary.

The kid cocks his head, thoughtfully. "You wouldn't happen to be the Winchesters, would you?"

Dean fingers the gun in his jacket. "Depends on who's asking. And you wouldn't happen to be our resident necromancer. Would you?"

"I don't like necromancer," the kid says, tossing something in the air- a pencil? "Sounds like Warcraft character or something. I prefer Ghost King."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, that's so much better."

"We're getting off topic. You are the Winchesters, correct?"

"Yeah. And if you know our names, you know our reputation. And that some teenager who gets his kicks from hanging out with zombies isn't really much of a challenge."

"We'll see." The kid grins, wide and thin like a skeleton. "Oh, this is perfect. Fantastic. Father will be pleased. I'll get Cerberus privileges. We all win. Well, except you. You get to burn in hell for eternity."

"Been there, done that," Sam tells him, gun still aimed. "Look, I think we need to have a little chat about your hobbies. Raising dead people? Not really a good after-school activity. Maybe you should take up tennis. Cards. I hear Mythomagic is pretty popular these days. You'd probably like the Hades figurine."

Suddenly the air feels a colder, and Dean watches nervously as shadows begin to pool around the kid's feet. "I think you pissed him off, Sammy."

"Talking time is over," the kid announces, and brandishes his pencil. Which, as the kid charges at them, is suddenly not a pencil. It's a huge freaking sword that looks like something out of 300, and Dean ducks a vicious blow downwards.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, shooting at the kid, but the shadows are leaping up to block the bullets, and since when was that a necromancy power?

The kid shouts something that sounds like Latin or Greek- and the ground splits, spitting flame and rocks as skeletons crawl out from the rip.

"Holy crap!" Dean yells, dodging the kid's sword for his life. He's fast, faster than Dean. Dean manages to get in one blow before the kid swipes at his legs, and he falls hard to the ground. Before he can move, the blade is at his throat.

Sam is surrounded by skeletons, gun kicked away and hands in the air.

The kid smiles, and it feels a little strange to be at the mercy of a boy who looks like he belongs in a church choir, but he's obviously not just a kid. No kid is that strong and fast, not even a necromancer.

"What are you?" Sam demands, his eyes shifting the way they do when his mind's racing for a way out.

"I'm Nico di Angelo," the kid says, brows creased in concentration. The shadows are beginning to gather again, this time spreading out towards them like a vicious ink spill, and Dean has a bad, bad feeling about this.

Sam's eyes narrow. "The angel. Is that what you are? One of Metatron's? Last time I checked, angels don't dabble in death magic."

"Metatron?" The kid- Nico looks confused. "Angels? What are you talking about?"

Before Dean can say anything, Cas is kneeling beside him, a dark look on his face. He looks tired, and his coat is torn and bloody.

"Demigod," he growls, and with a powerful motion, smashes the kid against the wall.

The last thing Dean sees before Cas teleports them away is Nico, rising slowly from the ground, dark eyes glaring in irritation, and a bright coin in his hand.