Well. I thought I should say something to introduce this, but as usual words fail me, so: Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak.

Dean's will was stronger than he'd realised; he managed to get halfway out of the burger joint before he gave into temptation. The buffet at the Elysian Fields hotel felt like a million years ago by now, and he was starving. He demolished burger number one in under a minute, and felt around in the warm, slightly damp bag for burger number two, stifling a smile when his fingers encountered nothing but grease-proof paper. Sam had asked for a chicken salsa wrap, no mayo; Dean had ignored him. Sam needed to eat properly, and properly meant carbs. Ah, Sammy, though Dean fondly, You really are just a teenage girl. A paranoid, health conscious, hormonal teenage girl. Being the good brother he was, however, Dean had bought him an additional side of onion rings (reasoning that they were vegetables after all) as well as an extra side of fries in case he felt like going on a binge or something. When Sam gets sad he eats.

Of course, thinking about burgers inevitably led to burger nostalgia, and that seaside shack in Delaware. That in turn led to the Green Room, to Zachariah's smarmy grin, to being told to bend over for Michael like a good little meat puppet. He felt his mood start to sour and quickly concentrated on how nice the evening was; night was falling on the sleazy part of town. Neon signs were flickering to life, the faint bass thump of the clubs was just starting up, and somewhere a phone was ringing. He shifted the weight of the bag under his arm and a warm waft of fast-food smell hit him full in the face. He glanced upwards.

Now why the hell would any of you want to destroy this? He thought, and his happiness deflated like a balloon. Gabriel's message was the first break they'd gotten in a long time, but Dean wasn't sure it was enough. With his death they'd lost a powerful ally; hell, with Cas missing in action, Gabe had been the only ally they'd had. Sam was taking it hard. Dean had left him in the motel room, watching Gabe's DVD over and over, looking for any more clues. He was adamant that the part of Gabriel that was still the Trickster wouldn't have been able to resist giving the boys one last challenge. Dean figured it was best to just leave him to it.

He was too busy considering burger number three to notice the first phone, or the second. The third he registered for all of about two seconds. The fourth was the first one he really noticed, and when he did he realised he'd been hearing a shrill ringing on and off for the last five minutes.

Huh, he thought. Weird.

He hadn't gone more than a few yards when he heard the shrill blare of a phone again, this time coming from the brightly lit window of a Pizzeria on his right. A bored-looking teenager picked up the receiver, frowned, then put it back.

But a minute later he heard the ringing from an upstairs window, and then again from another store. It followed him down the street, building to building, phone to phone, until finally he admitted to himself that the phone company wasn't just testing landlines. There was definitely something freaky going on, and when a blue phone box started ringing right by his ear he gave in and snatched up the receiver.

"What?" he snapped.

There was no sound coming from the phone at all. Not even the usual crackle of an open line. It was unnerving.

"Hello?" Silence. Dean would almost have preferred some heavy breathing.

"Aren't you going to ask me about my favourite scary movie?" he asked. The caller on the end—if there was anyone on the other end- stayed stubbornly silent.

"For the record, it's the Shining." He shrugged. "Hate the Omen. Too close to home." He was listening so hard he could hear the sound of his own blood whooshing in his ears, but still, nothing. Maybe the line was dead. Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age. "Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and hang up now. Thanks for the chat."

He replaced the receiver and glanced around the empty street. It was suddenly a lot quieter than before. The ringing had stopped.

He made a mental note to tell Sam, but when Dean opened the door to their motel room, one look at his brother blew all thought of the stalker phones right out of his head.

Sam was sitting hollow-eyed, hunched over his laptop, frantically scanning the screen. He looked awful. He hadn't showered. He hadn't changed. By the looks of it he still hadn't moved since he sat down in that same spot four hours ago. Dean had hoped that the appearance of food would be enough to rouse him, but Sam barely glanced up when he came in. And that was really, really worrying.

He threw a burger in his brother's general direction. It landed, unnoticed, by his knee. "C'mon, Sam. Food."

Sam just grunted something at him and skipped back a couple of frames. Dean sighed and picked up another—taking careful aim, he threw it again, and this time it made a satisfying "thwack" against the side of Sam's head.

"Come. On. Sammy. You have to eat. It's good for you."

"No it's not," Sam said, without looking up from the screen.

Dean gazed at his brother seriously as he opened burger number three and took a bite. His eyes rolled heavenward in bliss. "No, Sam," he said round a mouth full of meat and cheese, "Goob for your shouwl."

Sam rubbed his eyes in frustration, as if trying to wipe the fatigue from his face. "I just… I don't have time, Dean," he said. "I gotta keep looking." He let out a breath through his nose and went back to fiddling with his laptop. From where he sat at their tiny table, Dean could see Gabriel's moustachioed smirk and what was probably a naked thigh.

"Look, man." Dean put down the rest of his burger and stretched. "You've been looking at that for hours. Literally hours. Face it, there is no more information hidden away in that… thing. And hey, it's not like we have nothing to work with. We know about the rings, we have a solid lead now. It's a hell of a lot more than we had six hours ago."

"It's just… I just feel like there's more to be gotten from this. Trust me."

Dean gave a short laugh. "Uh-huh. Right. And how many times have you watched Gabe bang those chicks now?"

"Thirty-six."

"Okay. That's it." Dean stood, stretched, and crossed the room to his brother's huddled spot on the bed. He loomed above him. "Sam, this is an intervention. Give me the laptop."

Sam's bloodshot eyes widened in horror. "NO! Dean—"

"It's late. You've been watching a bouncing naked angel in a fake mustache for the past four hours. You need sleep. Now eat your burger like a good boy and go to bed."

"Dean—"

"Fine." Dean lunged for the laptop, but Sam pulled it out of reach at the last minute and Dean crashed into his brother's shoulder. The two fell back in a mess of tangled limbs and cursing, each trying to hold back the other and make a grab for the laptop. Dean felt Sam's knee come into contact with his ribs, and he lurched, flinging an arm out and finding the keyboard under his fingers. He started mashing keys frantically, hoping he could crash the damn thing so Sam could finally get some sleep.

Suddenly Sam froze and rolled off him. "Dean, stop!" he yelled. He felt Sam grab his collar and haul him upright, shoving his face towards the screen. "Look!"

Dean flinched, fully expecting to get an eyeful of Gabriel's ass. Instead, a skinny, dark-haired man was settling into position onscreen. He wore a brown suit and a serious expression, which deepened to puzzlement as he put on a pair of thick-rimmed, square glasses.

"What… Sam, who's that?" asked Dean.

Sam's eyes were wide, all trace of tiredness gone. "I dunno, man. You think he's another angel?"

Dean "Maybe. Nerdy, wearing a suit, looks kind of a douche..."

"Yep, that's me," said the man on the screen.

Sam started, and Dean glanced at his brother uneasily.

"Sam, I think your laptop's possessed."

Sam shook his head, lips tightening into a thin line. "Maybe it's from Gabe," he said uncertainly. "Maybe he's got a message for us."

"Yes, I do," said the man. The eyes behind those ridiculous glasses were staring right at Dean. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I think he heard that," whispered Sam.

"Yep, and this," he said.

Sam made a scramble for the DVD box, frantically scanning the back for any new information. The man on the screen regarded them coolly.

"It's some sort or trick," Dean grumbled. "It's a trick, it's exactly like Gabriel to leave us something like this. What does the box say?"

Sam shook his head. "Exactly the same as it said the first hundred times I read it. 'The makers of Casa Erotica 1-12 are proud to present Casa Erotica 13: Sexy, high-powered business executive Tiffany is known for her control in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. But every now and then she needs to relax. That's when she pays a visit to Casa Erotica, where "room service" really MEANS—"

"Are you gonna read out the whole thing?" interrupted the nerd impatiently.

"Sorry," mumbled Sam, going slightly pink.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam and sat back on the bed, regarding the laptop with suspicion. This reeked of Trickster bullshit. It would be just like Gabriel to try and screw with them beyond the grave, Apocalypse or no Apocalypse.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked the screen.

"I'm a time traveller," said the man. "Or I was. I'm stuck in 1969."

Suddenly a pretty black woman elbowed her way into frame, lips pursed and looking extremely ticked off. "We're stuck," she snapped, glaring at Sam and Dean. Like her companion, she had a British accent. "All of space and time, he promised me. Now I've got a job in a shop, I've got to support him!"

Dean chuckled, and her… friend? Lover? Kidnapper?...looked scandalised. "Martha!" he scolded, indicating the screen. She moved out of the shot with a quick "Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all. Dean found he rather liked her.

"Wow. Martha, huh?" He grinned at the time traveller. "Think I'd have a chance?"

He looked thoughtful. "Quite possibly."

"Though on second thought, 1969? Suppose she'd be kinda wrinkly and gross now."

"'Fraid so."

"I mean, it's been what, 40 years?"

"Thirty-eight," he corrected, frowning.

"He's wrong," said Sam.

Dean looked over at his brother, who was scribbling down as much as he could in his journal, a feverish glint in his eye. "What do you mean he's wrong?" asked Dean, and Sam glanced up for the briefest of seconds before ducking back to the paper.

"I mean, it was forty years ago. Give or take. Probably more like 41 if you wanna be anal about it."

"So… what are you getting at?"

"I'm just saying, something about this seems off."

Dean heard the man sigh, and turned back to see him looking exasperated. "People don't understand time," he was saying. "It's not what you think it is."

"Then what is it?"

"Complicated."

Dean felt a surge of irritation. He might not be all that bright, but he was far from stupid. Having his intelligence dismissed by a man he'd never even met stung. "You wanna vague that up a little?" he growled.

"Very complicated." His expression—a slight lowering of the lids, a small nod—suggested that he considered trying to explain a waste of his time and energy. Dean had seen that expression on Cas a few times in the past, and it did not get more endearing with time. Dean did not appreciate being dismissed.

"Look," he said, leaning forward. "I don't care if you're just some dick angel, one of Gabe's tricks, or the Doc Brown for the hipster generation. It's the Apocalypse." The man on the screen looked taken aback, and Dean scowled. "People have died, and I'm pissed. Talk."

The man licked his lips. "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect," he began. He looked like he was trying to shape the concept with his hands. "…but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey…" he trailed off. "…stuff."

Dean glanced at Sam. "You get any of that?"

Sam looked lost. "Just word-vomit."

The time-traveller looked apologetic. "It got away from me, yeah."

Sam ran his hands through his hair. "I don't understand. If he said all this stuff forty years ago, why does it sound like he can hear us?"

"Well, I can hear you."

"I'm sticking with the angel theory," said Dean abruptly.

"What?"

"Think about it. What do we know that can time travel, bend reality, and eavesdrop wherever they damn well please?"

"You think the angels can hear us?"

"Not hear you exactly," the man interjected, "but I know everything you're going to say."

Dean shuddered. "Well that's creepy."

But Sam was shaking his head, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. "I don't think this message is for us," said Sam slowly, "however well it fits."

"Well then, why did Gabriel bother to hide it on the DVD?"

"I'm not sure he did."

"Then why—"

"Look to your left."

They looked. To their left, the one window remained dark, curtains shut tight against prying eyes. "Sam," Dean barked, but Sam was already on his feet and halfway across the room, gun in hand. He lifted the edge of the curtain and peered into the street below. Dean saw the muscles in his back tense suddenly. "Crap," Sam said. "Oh, crap."

"What?"

"We've got company."

"Shit," Dean grabbed his gun and joined Sam. He was right. In the street below he could just make out two dark figures, standing motionless in the shadows. It was impossible to see from here, but Dean was willing to bet his pool money that they were wearing cheap suits.

"Angels," breathed Sam. "They haven't spotted us yet."

Dean ran back to the bed and started hurriedly stuffing things into their duffel bag. They had to get out of here, now. He paused when he spotted Sam's journal, lying open next to the laptop. The pages were filled with squiggly lines. "What's that?" he asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. "I was writing everything down."

"I've got a copy of the finished transcript," added the Doc helpfully. "It's on my autocue."

"How?"

"I told you. I'm a time traveller. I got it in the future."

"None of this makes sense," groaned Sam, from where he was hurriedly daubing a banishing sigil on the wall.

"Damned right it doesn't. You can do shorthand?"

Sam scowled. "So?" he asked defensively.

"You want to be a secretary or something?"

"What matters is we can communicate," said the Doc, effectively cutting off Sam's retort. "We have got big problems now. They've taken the blue box, haven't they? The angels have the phone box."

"Dean, what is that supposed to mean?"

Dean flung his hands up in despair. "I don't know, Sam! I don't know." He started rifling through their bags for something, anything that would slow the angels down. "You can add it to the frigging long list of questions I don't have answers to, like what the hell Gabriel is up to, or why this guy is hiding in a porno, or how the halo patrol managed to find us when—"

He froze. He was stupid. He was really, really stupid.

"The phone box," he muttered.

The phones. Following him down the street.

"I know how they found us," he told Sam.

"How?"

"Looks like the angels have had to take a leaf out of the mud monkey's book." At Sam's confused expression, he continued, "Phones, Sam. When I went out for burgers earlier practically the whole town was ringing. They followed me down the street, it was like something out of a Hitchcock movie. I answered one but there was no-one on the other line."

"You're saying they've been calling every phone in the country on the off-chance that one of us might pick up?"

"Looks like."

"That's stupid."

"No. It's awesome."

By now the Doc was babbling about something else. Dean heard a few words—"lonely assassins" and "quantum-locked" - but he wasn't really paying any attention anymore. He hoped that whoever the message was meant for had received it in time, because it clearly wasn't meant for him and Sam.

"It's awesome," Dean repeated, "because it's desperate. Because they're scared. We're scaring them, Sammy." He felt his old grin rise to his face, his old cocky, shit-eating grin that he hadn't worn in, hell, over two years now. His brother paused in drawing the sigil.

Dean took a breath. They probably didn't have time for this. They didn't have time for a whole lot of things, recently, but this felt important. This was something Sam needed to hear. "We can do this," he said. "I know we can. A week ago…" he forced a laugh. "Well, let's just say I wouldn't have been putting any bets on our team. But Gabe's given us something to work with. For the first time since this whole mess started, we have a plan. And those douchebags upstairs are crapping themselves."

Sam smiled, and it was like he was ten again, looking to his big brother for reassurance. "You think so?"

"I know so. We're gonna make it through this, Sammy. One way or another."

Sam laughed shakily, and looked at his boots. "Okay," he said. "Okay, Dean."

Behind them Dean heard the Doc say, "And I'm sorry, I am very, very sorry, it's up to you now."

He turned to glare at the laptop. "Yeah? So what else is new?" he muttered.

The lights began to flicker. The brothers sprang into action, Sam putting the final touches on the sigil, Dean tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. "We got a way out of here?" he asked.

"Fire escape," replied Sam. "Leads onto an alley. We can get round the back to the parking lot, into the Impala, high-tail it to Bobby's."

They heard the rattle of the doorknob. Sam spun just in time and as the door crashed open he slammed his bloody palm against the sigil on the wall. Dean flung his arm up to cover his eyes, and not a moment too soon—he saw the world flood red from behind closed lids as the angels were ripped away from Earth in a blinding flash of light. When he opened them again dark spots danced across his vision. There was no sign of anyone, though the splintered door hung from its hinges.

"They saw us. There'll be more on the way." Sam shouldered his duffel bag. "You ready?"

"I'll catch up. Go."

"The computer—"

"I'll get it, just go."

Sam took off running. Dean whirled and grabbed the laptop from the bed—the guy in the brown suit was still talking, but Dean was pretty sure he had long since finished saying what he needed to say.

He was just reaching down to snap the laptop shut when the man looked at him. He faltered. There was a pause that couldn't have lasted more than a second, but which seemed to stretch all the way from 1969 to 2010, to Dean Winchester, stood in a sleazy motel room at the end of the world.

"Good luck," said the Doctor.

Dean closed the lid.