Virtual cookies to all my reviewers! This next chapter is kind of character development, especially between Abby and Dean. I hope you enjoy it...leave me some love! :)

Arwen

"If I would have known that a cheeseburger would get you to sit still for this long," commented Abby dryly, "I would have had made some in preparation for your arrival."

Dean clearly wasn't listening. He was seated at the kitchen table, staring at the double cheeseburger, with extra onions, that was currently reposing in all its glory on a plate on the counter. His jacket was draped around his shoulders, and that was all—he had discovered he was too sore to even really want to put a shirt on, and he'd rather eat a cheeseburger shirtless than not at all. Abby finished scooping the fries onto the plate, raising one eyebrow in amusement at the lust plastered across Dean's face as he forced himself to sit through the painfully long wait. Finally, Abby set the plate in front of him.

"Come to Daddy, baby," he said, picking up the cheeseburger. Abby rolled her eyes.

"You really don't have manners," she said in an undertone, replacing the spatula in the pan. Dean gave her his best sarcastic glare before taking a bite of the cheeseburger, closing his eyes with a sigh of contentment. "You know," Abby continued, "you were just given a cheeseburger by the hand that struck Satan the first blow in the War of Heaven. The least you could do is say thank you."

Dean paused and contemplated the cheeseburger. "Could use more ketchup," he commented around a mouthful, rectifying the shortage before returning to his enjoyment. Abby shook her head, a glimmer of amusement shining in her eye as she pulled up a stool next to Dean's seat.

"I might as well take advantage of your obvious preoccupation," she said, unrolling her medical kit. Without preamble, she selected a needle and began inspecting different thicknesses of thread. Dean paused in the middle of a bite.

"What exactly are you plannin' on doin' with that?" he asked warily, shifting a little in the chair as he looked at the long, glinting needle.

"A few of the lacerations in your shoulder need stitches," Abby said, selecting a length of thread.

"Hell no," said Dean. "You are not pokin' me with that damn thing."

She looked sharply at him, hazel eyes flashing for a moment with an otherworldly light. "Watch your tongue, Dean Winchester. I may be in human-like form but I am still an angel. You would do well to temper your words."

Dean smiled at her, cheeks full of hamburger. He swallowed. "Castiel don't seem to mind. Or are you a little more sensitive to us mortals' ways, since you're a chick and all?"

Abby put down the first needle and selected another, significantly longer one, holding it up to the light. She smiled sweetly at Dean. "Castiel inhabits a true human form. As such, he chooses to tolerate much more from you. His primary concern was to inform you of Lilith's quest to unlock the guards set upon Satan." Her eyes glimmered dangerously. "I, however, am not borrowing a mortal's body."

"So?" Dean asked blankly, shoving another bite of cheeseburger into his mouth. God, one of the worst parts about Hell, even though he couldn't remember, must have been the lack of cheeseburgers. And pie. No cheeseburgers and pie constituted a hefty punishment in itself.

Abby obviously decided not to dignify his sarcasm with a reply. She threaded the needle after sterilizing it. Dean looked at her with consternation.

"Do you have to do that now?"

"You're sitting still," she pointed out.

"But I'm eating."

"I assumed that the sensation of gorging yourself on fattening food would negate the slight discomfort of my medical ministrations."

Dean blinked. "In English, please." Sam snorted from the living room. "Shut up, Sam."

"She means," Sam said, walking into the kitchen with his arm held gingerly across his chest, "that she thought you'd be too busy making love to your stupid burger to notice her stitching you up."

"Hey," said Dean reproachfully. He shielded his half-eaten cheeseburger from Sam's view with one hand. "It's okay, baby, he didn't mean it."

Sam chuckled and pulled up the chair beside Abby, sitting down with a sigh.

"Are you hungry?" Abby asked.

"No, thanks," Sam said with a wave of his good hand. "Just have a lot to think about."

"You are very limited in your dealings with angels," observed Abby.

"I've never met one before, actually," said Sam with a bit of sheepishness.

"You popped his angel-knowin' cherry," Dean said to Abby with a roguish grin.

Abby looked confused. "I do not understand your meaning."

"Never mind." Sam shook his head at his older brother. "Seriously?"

"Come on, have a sense of humor."

"Yeah, well, there's a time and a place."

"Who says this isn't the right time and place?"

Sam sighed and shook his head again. "I just want to know what's going on." He looked at Abby. "How did those demons know we were going to that convenience store, anyway? It was an ambush."

She gazed at Sam. "Lilith has not forgotten you. When you put the Witnesses to rest, she decided to put more effort into killing you both so you will not interfere with her plans."

Dean finished his cheeseburger and sat back with a contented sigh. "You know, you're a lot better at the whole straight-answers thing than most angels I know."

"You mean, I am better at answering your questions than the only other angel you know," corrected Abby.

"Well, yeah, that too."

"Castiel believes that mortals must be left to find their own path."

"And you?" asked Sam.

She considered the question seriously for a long moment. Dean started in on his fries in the interlude. "Well," she said slowly, "you have read Milton's work, Sam. What happens in the Garden of Eden before the Fall?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "God sends Raphael down to tell Adam and Eve about the temptation."

"Yes. Your forebears had that knowledge, but did they choose anything different than what was meant to be?"

"Eve was still tempted by Satan, and she still ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge," Sam answered slowly. He shrugged. "I thought it was just a poem."

"There are many strands of truth, Sam Winchester," said Abby.

"Can you stop with the whole full-name thing? It's kind of annoying," said Dean.

Abby frowned again, clearly thinking. "I apologize. It has been many years since I have been forced to communicate verbally. My skills are…rusty, I think you say?"

"Yeah, I'll say," muttered Dean. "Castiel seems to do fine."

"You do not understand. Comparing me to Castiel when he is borrowing a believer's body is like…comparing a kitten to a panther." She smiled a little. "I am used to roaring. I have to learn how to purr."

"Pretty sure panthers don't purr," pointed out Dean smugly.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, they can."

"What?"

"Most of the big cats can actually purr in short bursts, just not constantly," said Sam. He stopped when he saw the look on Dean's face. "What?"

"Dude, you watch way too much Discovery Channel."

"Well you watch way too much—"Sam checked himself and looked sharply at Abby. "There're a lot of things you need to work on with him."

"Bitch," Dean said.

"Jerk," responded Sam.

"I've done my research," was all Abby said, keeping her eyes on her medical kit.

For some inexplicable reason, Dean felt his ears burning.

"Are you blushing?" Sam demanded.

"No," he said furiously. "The onions…heartburn," he finished lamely.

Abby prudently stood and left the room, saying something vague about changing into more comfortable clothes. Sam immediately pounced on Dean.

"Dude, you're so blushing."

"Am not," Dean insisted hotly.

"Are too!"

The argument continued for about thirty seconds. Then Sam sat back.

"You don't want her to think you're a complete pervert," he said accusingly, pointing a finger at Dean.

"Sam," snapped Dean. "I'm not!"

"You subscribe to Busty Asian Babes."

"Shut up," hissed Dean. "How far away can she hear? And besides, past tense—my subscription expired when I was six feet under."

"Doesn't change the fact that you did, at one time, subscribe to said sinful website."

"Sam," said Dean seriously, "I swear, if you say one more word you are gonna be in a world of hurt when we've made sure that Lucifer isn't gonna walk the earth anytime soon."

Sam looked at Dean suspiciously. "Do you…want her…to like you?"

Dean shifted in his chair. "Figured you don't want an angel dislikin' you, Sammy."

"It's Sam," the younger Winchester corrected absently. "Then why are you arguing with her, Dean? Pretty sure that's high on the annoyance list, there."

Dean shrugged a little and then winced as his shoulder reminded him sharply of the pieces of glass that had very recently made his flesh their temporary home. "Just how I am. How I ended up."

"How you ended up? What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean sighed. "Well, how normal is it to have your father sell his soul to save your life…and then sell your own soul to save your brother's life…go to Hell because of this whole deal…and then pop up out of a grave like a daisy after a couple of months? Seriously, Sam, we've been hunters a long time. Had to mess us up somehow."

"You've been a hunter a long time. I've only got a few years under my belt."

"But you got in the game just in time for the action." Dean attempted to grin and failed miserably.

"Mess you up, maybe," Sam continued in his train of thought.

"Not funny."

"Come on, Dean, yeah it is."

"Not really, considering the fact that I don't even know whether I'm all here."

"What?" Sam sat up straighter, rearranging his arm with a slight grimace. "What are you talking about?"

"What if…I didn't come back all the way?" Dean asked seriously, green eyes pensive. "What if the reason I can't remember Hell is because I lost a part of myself there?" Then he looked up and saw that Sam's face had settled into a worried expression. Oops. Time for a diversion tactic. "But hey, that angel chick is hot, right?"

Sam's face relaxed and he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you haven't changed a bit."

Dean winked at him and smiled. Sam grinned back and got up, stretching with a groan. "Think I'm gonna go try to get some sleep."

"Did you call Bobby and tell him what's up?"

"I told him we'll be a little longer than we planned," hedged Sam.

"Did you tell him about the angel chick?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because…I didn't think he needed to know. Yet." Sam shrugged with his good shoulder. "Call it a hunch but I feel like an angel should be laying low. Hence the fact that Castiel only appears to you."

"Yeah, well, this chick doesn't seem to be followin' Castiel's playbook, if you know what I mean," pointed out Dean.

"You haven't exactly been nice to Castiel."

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved another French fry into his mouth.

"Are you finished with your meal?"

Dean jumped and looked behind him to find Abby standing behind his chair. "Je—jeez, what are you, a ninja?"

Abby smiled a little. "No. I have not had enough martial arts training to be considered a ninja."

"He means you're really quiet moving around," clarified Sam.

"I know," Abby replied. "But it seems to frustrate him when I don't respond to his sarcasm."

"Hey," said Dean. He blinked. Abby had changed into a green t-shirt and a pair of soft grey sweatpants. Somehow the laid-back outfit looked better on her than her earlier business attire. He had to shake his head a little. Focus, Dean. Focus.

"If you're done with your meal, I would like to look at your shoulder again. A few of the lacerations are deep enough to require stitches."

Dean pushed his plate away. "Sure, why not."

Abby pulled up a chair as Dean shrugged off one side of his jacket. She peeled off the gauze dressing and he bit back a sound of pain as she swabbed his shoulder with disinfectant again. The used gauze came away bright red. He winced and turned his head the other way as he saw her threading the needle. She paused. "Would you prefer me to numb the area with my…talent…or not?"

As much as Dean didn't like the idea of stitches without anesthetic, he shook his head. "Got any tricks in your magic bag there?"

"I did not have time to acquire all of what I wanted."

"Any chance of gettin' ahold of some whiskey then?" Dean asked hopefully. He'd ridden out a few bullet extractions on waves of Jack Daniels.

"I cannot risk clouding your judgement in so tenuous a time." He gave her a look. She smiled her small, enigmatic smile. "I apologize. I keep forgetting that you prefer words with no more than three syllables." She double-checked the threaded needle, swabbing it again with anesthetic. "I don't want you hung over anytime soon."

"Guess that makes sense," Dean said grudgingly. He set his teeth as he felt the first sting of the needle.

"So," Abby said from slightly behind him as she worked. "You must have questions for me."

"Maybe."

"Ask one."

Dean gripped the edge of the table and grunted as he suppressed the urge to move. "How 'bout the classic. Why does your boss let demons and their buddies make the world their playground, huh? Why doesn't He do somethin' about it?"

"If He did something about it, would it give people like you the choice to do something about it?" Abby asked quietly.

"None of this answerin' questions with questions bullshit. I get enough of that from your friend Castiel."

"Life is about questions, though," Abby said. "It's all about choice."

"What choice did I ever have?" demanded Dean.

"Hold still," she scolded. "You always have a choice, Dean. Think of life as layers of choices, all tiered under the…I think you would call it…the million-dollar question."

"And what's that?"

"To accept God or to reject Him."

Dean made a dismissive noise, then grimaced.

"Sorry. This one's a little deeper than the first one."

"So. The million-dollar question is to accept the man upstairs, or reject him," he said, voice frayed a little by the effort it took to hold still.

"Yes."

"And how are we supposed to know what this God wants us to do? Don't tell me to go read the Bible, because I'm pretty sure there's nothin' in there about what to do if you have to choose between exorcisin' a demon from a girl and lettin' her die because that demon jumped her body off a building, or lettin' her live and lettin' that demon keep borrowin' her body. There's nothin' in there about shootin' your own father because he's possessed with a demon that killed your mother and fed your younger brother his blood. There's nothin'—"

"Dean." Abby moved into his line of sight, hazel eyes compassionate. Dean took a big, shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "You're angry. That's your defense against the evil you witness. It is understandable." She touched his arm with two fingers. He felt some of the pain ebb away, and he let her do it. He was so tired of fighting. Fighting everything. Abby moved closer and finished stitching. She picked up a tiny pair of scissors and snipped the thread. After taping another large square of gauze over his shoulder, she helped him shrug back into his jacket. Then she sat down next to him. He smelled her again—with any other woman he would have said he smelled her perfume, but she wasn't exactly the girl next door, and he was sure that the scent that moved in her wake would not be found in any bottle on a department store shelf.

"Do you want me to answer you, Dean?" she asked him seriously.

He swallowed. "Yeah. I'd like some straight talk for once."

"It's not going to be as straightforward as you like."

"Try me."

She held his eyes with her gaze. "Knowledge isn't the question. Obedience is the question, and faith is the answer."

Dean stood up, shoving his chair back with all the force he could manage. "See, now that's the bullshit your kind always gives. So damn enigmatic. Maybe that's why everything's so messed up down here—your type aren't very efficient communicators." He turned away and made for the living room, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. "Maybe if God wouldn't speak in riddles us mere mortals might have a better idea of what's expected of us." With that, he stalked away.

Abby cleaned the needle and repacked her kit with a neat precision. She stood and after grabbing a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, she headed back into the living room. Sam was stretched out on one of the couches, his legs dangling over the far armrest; and Dean was slouched in the overstuffed armchair, staring at the carpet, apparently lost in thought. Abby touched Sam's good shoulder gently. He squinted up at her as she offered him the bottle of water. "I thought you might be thirsty."

"Thanks." Sam tried to unscrew the lid with one hand and then smiled up at her sheepishly. She took the bottle, opened it and gave it back to him with an answering smile. He gulped down half its contents, sighed and set it down by the couch. He opened his mouth to ask her a question when she froze, every line in her body hardening with tension. A shiver ran through the house, and the timbers groaned as if in warning. Dean raised his head.

"Something is coming," Abby said, her voice trembling with more than one layer, the edges of her hazel eyes blurring into gold.

"Hold on with the power surge," snapped Dean. "Do you know what it is?"

"No."

Sam sat up and looked sharply at Dean. "The Colt and Ruby's knife are in the car."

"How much time do we have?" demanded Dean.

With an effort, Abby pushed down the glow, sliding back into her own skin. "We have at least five minutes. It just passed into the outer ring of my senses."

"What, so you're like, psychic too?"

"In a way, but it would be more accurately described as an expansion of sensory experience."

Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Sam. "Let's get the Colt and Ruby's knife."

"I will get the Colt and Ruby's knife," corrected Sam. "You're going to stay put."

"Hey, I'm the older one, I get to order you around, not the other way," protested Dean half-heartedly. His head was aching—the gash across his forehead, so nicely given by the linebacker demon's pistol, bothered him, and his shoulder ached sharply. His ribs, too, warned him not to move too quickly or emphatically.

Sam stood and walked out of the room.

"Aren't you gonna go with him?" Dean demanded of Abby. "Protection? Isn't that kinda your job?"

Abby did not answer him; her eyes glazed over with a faraway look. Then she blinked. "There is no immediate danger." The lights flickered and Dean gripped the armrests of the chair, clearly ready to rush to Sam's defense. "Do not worry. I am much faster than mortals and most demons."

"Most demons?"

"It has been a while since I have taken this form. I am still not used to its limitations, and I have to err on the side of caution. If I accidentally push the boundaries too far and revert to my natural state, it would be the equivalent of dropping an atomic bomb on this house and everything in it."

Dean gave a low whistle, the image of the crater around his grave coming to mind, the trees flattened as if from an explosion. He definitely didn't want to see that kind of power in action; he rubbed his arm against the goose-bumps crawling down his skin. "Okay. So do we know whether this thing is good or bad?"

"It is bad," Abby replied. Her lips curled slightly in an expression of disgust. "That much I am able to feel."

"Damn." Dean put his head in his hands and then jumped as if shocked. "Sorry! Didn't mean to…you know, swear."

Abby tilted her head as she looked at him, reminding him of a curious bird, or dog. "You do not usually apologize, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, well, going to Hell kind of changed my perspective a little."

Her expression of careful examination and curiosity deepened, brows drawing together. "You are afraid that you are not the same person as you were before you died."

Dean stared at her. "No way you can tell me you're not psychic, lady." He swallowed. "Might be a part of it," he admitted, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. Why was he spilling his soul, so to speak, to this angel-chick they'd met only a few hours ago? She listened so well, it made keeping his secrets really hard. And he wasn't sure he liked that particular feature of the Winchester bodyguard detail. The protecting against evil, that he could handle.

"I'm sorry," she said, "for making you uncomfortable. But if you want to talk about anything, I have a few thousand years of experience, so I give some pretty good advice."

"I'm not so good with the touchy-feely therapy stuff," said Dean after a moment. He noted that Abby had started to relax her dialogue, and he was grateful because his head was starting to hurt like a sonuvabitch and he couldn't understand her large SAT-prep words.

Sam arrived back in the room, Ruby's knife in one hand and Colt in the waistband of his jeans. As he was handing the knife to Dean, he noticed Abby's sudden sharp interest in the weapon. He offered it in an open palm for her inspection. She picked it up and looked at the metal closely. Then she drew it back and stabbed herself in the stomach.

Dean started forward out of his chair and Sam gave a yell of surprise, lunging forward with one hand raised as if he could stop her. Abby looked up, clearly startled by their reactions: the tip of the knife had only penetrated her skin just enough to draw a few drops of dark liquid. She offered the knife back to Sam unconcernedly.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked breathlessly, staring at her stomach. She lifted the edge of her shirt and wiped away a glittering substance that they could only assume was akin to blood.

"I wasn't familiar with the metal of the knife," she said, as if that explained everything.

Dean snorted. "So you try to stab yourself?"

"Trust me, it would take much more than an abdominal stab wound to come close to killing me," Abby replied. "But I wanted to see if the makers of the knife had perhaps created something similar to my sword."

"Your sword?" Sam repeated blankly.

"Yes. Oh. I forgot you cannot see it."

Dean suddenly remembered Abby standing on the linebacker demon, fist raised above her head right before she exorcised him. "You have an invisible sword. That exorcises demons," he said in his best dry, I-don't-believe-a-word-that-you're-saying drawl.

"It is invisible when I require it to be. But I can make it tangible, if that would put your mind at ease."

"I'm beyond the ease point," Dean said.

Abby ignored him and touched the air by her side. Her eyes flashed golden for a brief moment. There was suddenly a long, slim scabbard by her side, artfully made from dark, well-worked leather with gold accents. The sword's grip was of the same well-worn leather, almost faded to grey; there was an emerald set in the pommel, faceted to brilliantly reflect light. The weapon was not flashy in the style of dress swords—it had clearly been made for use, and it had clearly been used.

Sam was clearly fascinated. "Is that…the sword…"

"That struck Lucifer upon his helmet in the War for Heaven?" Abby smiled. "Perhaps."

"Can I see it?"

Abby shook her head. "Another time." At Sam's crestfallen look, she reminded him, "We must take care of more important matters now. Something wicked this way comes."

Dean groaned. "Don't they train you not to use clichés?"

"It accurately describes our situation, so I thought it was appropriate. Some evil creature is nearing the house."

"Yeah, what else is new." Dean stood and hefted Ruby's knife in one hand. "How bout let's give him a warm Winchester welcome."