Author's Note: Just another fic involving Bela, because I miss her and I want her back. I have a good amount of this written already and the rest planned (as the story shouldn't be too long), so I'm hoping for relatively quick updates and a completed story! Hope you all enjoy - and don't forget to review! Oh, and a side note to those of you who hate me for never finishing another one of my Supernatural stories, "Daddy's Little Girl": The story isn't dead, it's just on hold! This idea has inspired me to start writing fairly regularly again, and I'm hoping for an end to both this story and "Daddy's Little Girl" :)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing you recognize; Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and the title of the story and lyric right down there belong to Timbaland. Don't sue me - I'm broke!

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ONE
I'll never be the same . . . if we ever meet again.
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April 2010
Somewhere in the American Midwest

Dean had that typical look of perplexity on his face, the characteristic knit eyebrows and mouth half agape as he tried to digest what the angel on his shoulder had just said. "Cas…did you say vessel?"

Even as the angel nodded confirmation, Dean still couldn't bring himself to believe it. He'd swallowed a helluva lot of bullshit in this life, had followed his father's authority unquestioningly, had done everything he'd done up until this point more or less without thought. But he had to pause to take this in; it was simply the most unfounded claim he had ever heard. Coming from a man who'd fought and killed monsters all his life, this was saying a lot.

"And, I mean…just…you're sending us back in time? Again?" Dean grimaced at the thought. "Dude, this can't be that important. In case you missed it, we're kind of in the middle of Armageddon here."

"I'm aware," Castiel replied, his tone flat and cold, per usual.

Sam jumped into the conversation with both feet. "And I thought you were almost powerless, now that you've been cut off from the other angels."

"It will be…difficult. I don't deny it. But I've been conserving my energy, so to speak – it must be done." He looked from Sam back to Dean, driving home the point. "This is of the utmost importance. To have an archangel as powerful as Jophiel on our side means another solution to our countless problems."

"So now they're our problems," Dean muttered, turning away to compose his thoughts – and to steal a sip from his can of beer. "I get it, we need all the angels we can get to bitch slap Lucifer back into the pit. And one who actually liked us would be nice. But, Cas, if you had known this girl, you'd know why Sammy and I think you've gotten your wires crossed." He turned back to face the angel, meeting nothing but a grave stare of mild annoyance. "You picked up the wrong message somewhere, trust me."

"The rules are very clear and the lists are set in stone." Castiel narrowed his eyes, growing weary of the elder Winchester's impertinence. "As I know the names of every prophet across the world, so do I know the set vessels for the seven archangels of Heaven. The regulations cannot be changed to suit our needs, otherwise your brother, Adam, could have easily taken your place as Michael's vessel on Earth."

Sam visibly winced at the mention of their half-brother and Dean glanced away. Seeing as the kid was still missing, a pawn in this internal squabble between the unyielding brothers and the stubborn remaining angels, it was still a touchy subject. Dean turned back to his beer with a growl of contained rage, leaving Sam to ask the million dollar question. "I just don't understand…why Bela?"

"Not Bela Talbot; Abigail Tarrant," Castiel was quick to stress. "As I've explained, she was chosen before her birth to be the vessel for the archangel Jophiel…"

Dean broke in, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, 'because of her foreseen attributes of quiet creativity, diligence, and intelligence.' I'll believe it when I see it."

"Exactly." With that, Castiel gripped each of the brothers' shoulders tightly and shot them from the dingy motel room into the unknown.

May 1998
Maidstone, Kent, England

Stumbling to a stop in an alleyway, Dean braced himself against a brick wall to catch his breath. Reeling on Castiel, he demanded to know, "Where the hell are we, Cas?"

"Better question's probably when the hell are we?" Sam pointed out, and Dean shot him a look to shut him up.

"The year is 1998," Castiel informed them, making a feeble attempt at grooming by straightening his trench coat. He was a little worn, but truly no worse for wear, considering the trip they'd just made. He glanced up into a partially cloudy sky and noted, "It's almost five in the evening." He looked back to the brothers and nodded out towards the street. "And, if you follow this alley out to the street, you'll find yourselves in Maidstone, England, in the county of Kent."

"And what are we supposed to do in Kent?" Dean said, his voice growing louder as his anger increased. "Wait around until Bela wanders by and then kidnap her to keep her safe? She's not going to let us talk to her, let alone believe anything we have to tell her."

"She's a child, Dean," Castiel argued back, genuinely surprised by Dean's outburst, and his tone told the brothers, clearly, that they were being ridiculous. "Abigail is a fourteen-year-old English girl who must be kept from selling her soul. We need her. It's simple."

"Simple?" Dean gave a humorless chuckle. "Nothing's simple with Bela. She's a traitor and a greedy, conniving little…"

"She told you about Lilith," Castiel reminded him with his usual quiet confidence. He would win them over and get them going – eventually. He was used to letting Dean rant and he was willing to let it happen because, in the end, the angel would get his way. "And if Adam has any hope of survival, we'll need an archangel on our side. Saving Abigail may make the difference."

Dean crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest. "She almost killed us. And she had my car towed. That bitch."

"True. But that was Bela. You'll have to start thinking of the woman you knew separately from the girl she is now, Dean; I believe you're in for a shock." Castiel stifled a sigh. "Come on. We only have a few days until she's set to meet Lilith. You'll have to come up with a credible reason to speak to her in that time, in order to either sway her from making the deal or keep Lilith as far from Abigail as possible."

Sam shrugged at Dean, trying to keep the peace. "Easy enough."

"Yeah, in our time," Dean shot back. "In 2010, we've got everything we need to get into someone's house – the clothes, the badges, the paperwork. We don't have anything here."

"That can all be arranged," Castiel remarked casually, stepping past the brothers to lead them out onto the street. The Winchesters were trapped here until the angel decided to send them back. With a helpless look around, Dean beckoned for Sam to follow Castiel; they had no other choice.

Seven o'clock, Sam decided, should be an appropriate time to come calling – after dinner but not late enough for anyone to be thinking of going to bed. He climbed into his accustomed seat in the rented car that had been awaiting them at a hotel in town that a guidebook had called "charming," smoothing out the tie Castiel had presented him with, along with a dark suit and a matching set for Dean. The angel had come prepared – he'd apparently learned how to exchange money, and most of the American dollars the brothers had been hoarding from various hustling scams were now in British pounds – and the money paired with his icy exterior had hurried the woman at the front desk along in checking them in and finding them a car. The suits had materialized within the hour, followed by all the proper paperwork that listed Dean and Sam as CIA agents. It was a tall order to fill, but better than trying to pass the decidedly American Winchesters off as faithful servants of Her Majesty.

It took Dean a full five minutes (and three attempts to get the car to start and steer) to realize he was sitting on the wrong side of the car to drive. In a torrent of expletives not meant for mixed company, he demanded that he and Sam switch seats, then stormed over to the correct side and did his best driving on the wrong side of the road.

Castiel had given them an address and a few names and then, conveniently, had vanished, so the brothers were left to find the sprawling land and the stately manor house the Tarrant family called home. They rode up a tree-lined gravel driveway that ended in a sweeping circle before the Tudor-style mansion, every tree, bush, and flower in bloom across the dozens of acres the family owned. The sun was just starting to set at this hour, the days growing longer as true summer neared, and Dean parked in the shadows cast by the slanted roofs and gables. The brothers approached the front door in twilight, scanning the area for details – which lights were on in which rooms, other cars (or people) lurking in the vicinity, and obvious paranormal activity. Satisfied that the area was clear, Dean straightened his suit jacket and ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, then knocked.

A man well beyond middle-aged but not necessarily elderly opened the door within seconds, looking spiffy in regal silver hair and a plain suit. Dean went for his badge, flashing it quickly before inquiring, "Thomas Tarrant?"

The older man gave a small smile in reply. "Heavens, no – I'm just the butler. Can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're here to speak to Mr. Tarrant. I'm Agent Morrison, and this is my partner, Agent Densmore." Sam flashed his own badge on cue, while the man at the door gave it only a cursory glance before turning back to Dean, with interest. "We're with the Central Intelligence Agency. We'd just like to ask Mr. Tarrant a few questions about a small matter."

"Nothing too serious, I hope," the butler replied conversationally, then beckoned the brothers into the foyer. He shut and locked the door behind them, adding, "Wait right here, just one moment…" before vanishing into the depths of the huge old house in search of its owner. Sam and Dean shared a look. Beyond the foyer was an enormous, sweeping staircase. The banisters were in the same wood as the floors, every surface polished to perfection and every trinket or work of art precisely in place. It was the lap of luxury and exactly what they'd expected a woman with taste like Bela to have come from.

After a few minutes of waiting, another man returned to greet the Winchesters. He was tall, just a hair shy of Sam's height, with wide shoulders, an athletic build, and a confident stride. Dressed in a business suit with a garish tie loosened at the collar, he came forward with a grin of welcome on his face, though the nervous twitch of the eyes didn't escape either of the hunters.

"Good evening," he said in greeting, his voice deep and rich. "I'm Thomas Tarrant. Perkins tells me you gentlemen are from the CIA? Quite a haul, all the way across the pond, aye?" He gave a booming laugh and grasped each of their hands in a firm, warm handshake. "What can I clear up for you?"

Sam took the lead. "We can't go into too much detail, Mr. Tarrant, I apologize. But my partner and I have been following some illegal activities across the globe, all of which seem to have their origin in this part of the United Kingdom."

"We were actually hoping to speak to you daughter," Dean put in.

"Abby?" Thomas seemed genuinely perplexed. "What the devil has she got to do with an international criminal investigation?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing at all," Dean quickly assured him, "but sources tell us the daughter of one of our major suspects may be a student at your daughter's private school."

"Ah, I see – chasing the father by interrogating the daughter? Wise, gentlemen, very wise." Thomas graced them both with an appreciative smile, the kind of look shared between conspirators. He was warm and jovial enough, but there was obviously something not quite right with him. He took a step backward, beckoning for the phony CIA agents to follow his lead. "Come along, then, and I'll see if I can't find her for you."

They walked through a labyrinth of well-trimmed halls into the south wing of the house, until Thomas, at last, paused before a set of heavy double doors. "My study," he explained, and a small smile played on his lips. "She's always lurking around in here." He turned both of the ornate curved handles and shoved the doors open before him to reveal a relatively large room lined on all sides by books, ranging from contemporary novels to ancient tomes. A large fireplace, the hearth and mantle in white marble, was set into the wall opposite the doors, while a desk comparable to that of any CEO in the world stood to their right and a cozy sitting area filled the space before the fireplace. On a thick rug stood a coffee table, a sofa, two ottomans and their matching armchairs, and in the armchair nearest the darkened fireplace, highlighted only by the single bulb of an expensive reading lamp, sat a girl. The moment before the doors had opened, she had been nestled against one arm of the enormous chair, her feet tucked under her and a heavy book settled on her lap. As the doors swung open, her head shot up from the page like a fox startled by the hunting hounds, her entire body stiff and alert as her eyes went wide with unabashed terror at the sight of her father's hulking frame in the doorway. The pin-straight hair was the same shade of brown and her eyes were almost the same, missing only the glint of contemptuous mirth she'd learned later in life, but Dean's breath caught at the sight of Bela as a skittish teenage girl, huddled in a chair, reading, like any other studious nerd on the planet.

The girl's eyes roved quickly from her father to the two younger men accompanying him into the room, as if assessing the danger she was going to be in. Sam, too, was struck by the haunting eyes of someone so familiar, yet entirely not who he and his brother had known her to be, and the emotions plain on her face somehow didn't fit there, as she'd only ever seemed to capable of devilish glee and aggravated impertinence.

Thomas crossed the room to his daughter, who had forced a weak smile to greet him. "Here you are, Abby, as always. Sweetheart, these men are from the CIA. They'd like a word."

"Y-yes, Daddy," she stuttered obediently, steeling herself against the hand he rested on her shoulder.

Thomas turned back to the Winchesters, indicating the sofa across from where his daughter sat. "Have a seat, please. Would either of you care for something to drink?"

The girl obviously wouldn't be of any help with her father in the room. Dean snuck a glance at her before replying, "No, thank you, Mr. Tarrant. But we were hoping to speak to, eh…Abigail alone." That name didn't sound right on his tongue. He shrugged. "It's a little easier that way. Kids clam up when their parents are watching."

Thomas glanced down at his daughter with an understanding glint in his eyes, managing a slightly intimidating smile when she raised her eyes to meet his and offered a tiny smile of her own. "Children," Thomas murmured with a sigh, then patted Abigail on the shoulder and turned to leave the room. He paused in the doorway and looked back to Sam and Dean. "If you require assistance, just yell for the butler, Perkins – you've met Perkins? – good. And I'll only be down the hall in the parlor if you need me." He eyed them all once, then backed out of the room with a bow of the head, shutting only one door firmly and leaving the other ajar, undoubtedly to eavesdrop.

The air settled and there was a full minute of complete silence. The teenager seated across from them didn't seem to be breathing, as she clutched the book tight to her chest and tried to keep from staring at them with unguarded interest. Sam slipped a small notepad and pen from the inside pocket in his suit jacket and Dean shifted on the seat, giving the room a once-over out of habit. It was a nice place, but he could never understand how these rich snobs managed to feel at home in a place that closer resembled a museum than a living space.

The elder Winchester cleared his throat loudly, noting how the girl gave a strangled gasp in fright at the sudden sound and focused all of her attention on Dean. It made him uncomfortable, those eyes boring into his, the personality at odds with everything he'd come to believe about Bela. He leaned forward and plastered a charming grin on his face. "So, uh, Abigail, right?"

"…Abby," she corrected shyly, mustering a weak smile in reply to his own.

"Abby. Right." He nodded his chin down the couch, in Sam's direction, where his brother sat with pen poised, waiting to take notes that were relevant to the case at hand. "Make a note of that."

She chuckled at that, softening towards them. "Abby Tarrant. Shall I spell it for you?"

There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but Dean heard it that way. He restrained the usual urge to throttle her and continued on with the meeting. "I think we've got, honey. I'm Agent Morrison, and this is Agent Densmore…"

"Like The Doors?" she interjected, with a smile that was a little more genuine.

Damn – leave it to Bela to be a fan and blow our cover. "Yeah, we've heard that a million times. Ironic, huh?" Dean said smoothly, recovering with ease. "I'm really more of a metal fan, myself, but you have to show the ancestors some respect." He couldn't believe he was having an honest-to-God conversation with this woman he'd never thought of as more than a step or two above a maggot. Maybe Cas had been right – he was definitely shocked by all this.

Sam broke into his brother's thoughts to get to the point by asking, "Abby, what school do you go to?"

She glanced sharply at Sam, as if she'd forgotten his presence, then grew quiet again. "The…the prep school – the only one here – on the other side of the town." She huddled deeper into the armchair. "Did something happen? Am I in trouble?"

Sam shook his head and was careful to keep his tone quiet, working his sympathetic eyes and kindly half-smile to his advantage. "No, you're not in trouble. We're actually trying to find out a little bit more about one of your classmates. Or, maybe, she's a friend of yours from outside school?"

"She's blonde, probably a little younger than you," Dean picked up. "She might have said her name is Lilith…?" It wasn't subtle, but he doubted Abby, who looked about ready to have a breakdown over a simple conversation, was a spy for the Underworld. And, besides, he wasn't entirely sure what other names the demon could have been living under, if she'd given Abby a name at all; it was worth a try.

She regarded them both with suspicion. Slowly, choosing the best course on which to proceed, she replied, "I don't know anyone like that."

"You're a terrible liar; you know that?" Dean almost added that she needn't worry about this fact – she'd be a master of the art of manipulation, someday – but held his tongue and waited for a reply.

Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grasp on her book, either trying to keep from getting angry or frightened; it wasn't entirely clear which. She shot a glance at Sam's notebook, met Dean's eyes for less than second, then gave a tiny gasp and averted her gaze to the hearth. She didn't say a word.

Sam shared a look with his brother, silently asking how to proceed. Which one of them could handle this situation better? Dean could be charming – or harsh. Sam was a little easier to talk to, but she didn't seem to have responded very well to him. Dean rubbed the back of his head and took the reins again. "See, Abby, we don't want you to be in trouble, but you'll be just as guilty as your friend if you don't tell us where we can find her."

She looked up at that, practically shaking with fear at the idea of guilt by association, for a crime she couldn't even imagine. She half opened her mouth, forming a reply, then shut it again and rested her chin on her book, lowering her eyes again, resolutely.

"Come on, we just want to know if you know her." Dean inched forward on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees and head lowered, as he tried to catch her eye. "It's just us in here – just you and me. And the sasquatch here, but he really doesn't count, right?" She raised her eyes a bit, but lowered them immediately. There was something there, a spark of intrigue. Dean smirked. Gotcha. "You don't even have to say anything, Abby. Just nod if you know this girl we were telling you about." She didn't move. "Think about it – a little blonde girl, maybe you met her at school, maybe in town, maybe in your own backyard. She probably told you things, made a few promises."

"Did she say that she could make things better?" Sam asked quietly, setting the notebook aside.

The brothers waited in silence. Thirty seconds seemed an eternity until the teenager before them, slowly but surely, gave two subtle nods of the head.

With a heavy sigh, Dean sat back on the couch, settling comfortably into the leather. Now they were getting somewhere. "Did she make you an offer? Some kind of deal?"

"She…" Abby pursed her lips, putting her thoughts into words with careful consideration. Dean waited; Sam took up his notebook again, quietly, and waited for the answer. "She talked about how she had…helped a lot of people. She talked about deals; I got frightened by it all and just told her I was fine and walked away."

Good girl. "So, you didn't make one of those agreements with her?" Dean prodded. It complicated things that Abby had already met Lilith, that, maybe, they were already forming some kind of strange friendship, but if she wasn't considering a deal yet, then they were still in the clear.

Thankfully, Abby shook her head. A little reproachful, she replied bitingly, "Didn't I say she frightened me? Why on earth would I have pursued anything with her?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at the sudden insolence while Dean managed to keep his small smirk from becoming a full grin of contempt. In response, Abby glanced from one brother to the other before dropping her head again without another word.

"And have you talked to her since?" Sam asked, as he jotted down a few notes on what they were dealing with.

She shot Sam a look, obviously growing exasperated with them both. "Of course not," she scoffed, immediately averting her eyes again and muttering an apology. She hadn't meant it to come out quite so rudely, but wasn't it obvious how badly shaken she was with this Lilith business? And, now, to have the CIA coming after the girl? Who knew what Abby could have gotten herself into? She resolved to never speak to the strange girl again, even if Lilith did have the pleasurable habit of showing up just when Abby so desperately needed someone to talk to. Meekly, she raised her head and saw Dean, eyeing her with something like amusement...or maybe confusion? "Is that…all?"

Sam glanced at his brother and gave him a nearly indistinguishable nod. Dean had noticed it, too – Abby was done for the day. Besides, they had a good amount of information to go off of now. They just had to keep the house under surveillance and keep their eyes open for Lilith. Whether the keeper of the deals died or not wasn't entirely the point; they were just here to keep Abigail Tarrant safe, to keep her from growing up into Bela Talbot.

Dean stood first and Sam followed his lead. "I think we're done here, for now," Dean said. He looked down at Abby, who was still curled into a defensive ball in her armchair, and graced her with a devastatingly charismatic grin. "We may have to be in touch again, but you've been a big help today. Oh, and if you think of something we should now or if you need us for anything…" He dug one of the business cards he'd swiped from the hotel's front desk out of an inner pocket on his suit and held it out to the girl. "This is where we're staying, room three-oh-four. Give us a call."

After half a moment's hesitation, Abby reached out a hand and grasped the offered card between two fingers, careful not to brush Dean's fingers with her own. She felt her face color, knowing his eyes were on her, and she kept her head bowed. "Thank you, Agent Morrison," she murmured, and tucked the card into her book for safe-keeping. The brothers left her there, running, conveniently, into Thomas Tarrant in the hall. They thanked the man for his time and then left. Sam was flipping through his notes, trying to brainstorm ways to lure Lilith into some kind of trap, to keep her away from Abigail; Dean was just impressed that Abby had remembered his pseudonym, when he had entirely forgotten who he was supposed to be.