This was originally my entry into the 2011 reverse bang. Unfortunately, I realized that I only managed to tell about half of the story in needed to be, so I am in the process of trying to actually finish it.

Original Summary: Dean runs into Cassie four years after he last saw her. She's a little surprised to see him, considering the many and varied reports of his death. He can't say the same. Some things just have clocks ticking on them from the moment of inception. It only makes sense that this would be one of them. Mild spoilers for season 5.

2010

The inside of the diner is a frenzy of motion and sound that is almost unreal after the hushed, still streets outside. Even the birds had sounded subdued as the sun inched its way up the horizon. Inside, the clatter of dishes, the rapid-fire comments of the cooks, the laughter of kids and still-tipsy college students blend together into a joyful cacophony that leaves Dean wincing. He rubs a hand over bleary eyes and signals to the waitress for a coffee refill. He wonders if he could convince her just to leave him with the whole pot, to save herself from future trips. It wasn't like anyone else in the restaurant needed it-they were positively perky, all on their own. After a few minutes, Sam reappears, sliding into the booth with a grimace and a grunt, a copy of the local paper clutched in one hand. "So I talked to Bobby," he says. "And I got the last paper," he adds, "Barely." He flourishes it in mock victory before slapping it on the table.

Dean frowns. "Seriously? What, are they limited editions or something?"

Sam flips the paper around so that it's facing Dean. The front page is predominantly occupied by a photo of maybe two hundred teenagers in front of an impressive civic-looking building.

"Huh." Dean kicks back another gulp of tepid, burned coffee. "Must have been a slow news day if they're featuring photos of field trips."

"Yeah, maybe. Apparently the entire senior class at the high school was in on some project for supplying cheap, portable water filters to the third world. That caught the eye of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and it all snowballed from there. And this," he says, stabbing a finger down on the photo, "is from an all-school field trip to the state legislature where they were recognized for the achievement."

"So let me guess- now every friend, neighbor, and family member is looking for a copy to cut out and put up on their refrigerators."

Sam shrugs. "That's my guess, anyway. But there are also about six dozen out-of-town reporters here, including three camera crews."

Before Dean could dredge up a suitable reply to that, the waitress bounds to their table back bearing an overloaded tray, but still no coffee. She deftly maneuvers two plates on to the table, somehow managing not to upset the entire tray. A basket of condiments soon follows. "Can I get you gentlemen anything else?" she asks.

Dean polishes off the remainder of his coffee and sets the cup down. "Just the coffee."

"You got it, hon," the waitress replies, so quickly it's probably nothing more than reflex. Before Dean can stress the importance of coffee, she's already made it to her next table.

"I bet you she forgets it. Again," he says, turning back to his brother.

Sam raises an eyebrow at that. "I thought you said it tasted like roadkill."

Dean makes a face. "It's hot and it's caffeinated. I'm not feeling picky."

"Brought it on yourself, man." Sam shakes his head. "I told you I was good to drive."

Dean looks at him sideways and conspicuously does not comment on the way Sam still favors his left side. "Nah, it was fine," Dean says at last. "It's not like I haven't pulled an all-nighter before." He cuts into his eggs and shovels them into his mouth.

Sam takes no heed. "Yeah, but usually not coming right off a job. Dude, you've had like what, eight hours of sleep in the last two days?"

It's been more like six hours, but that isn't a detail Dean feels like sharing. It's hard to sleep when my own brother keeps starring in my nightmares is not a conversation he has any intention of having. "Jesus, when did you become such a mother hen? I'm fine, Sam."

"You're an ass, is what you are." Sam answers back, not missing a beat, but it sounds almost rote, forced.

"I try. So are you going to sit there and play nursemaid for the rest of the day, or are you going to tell me what you got from Bobby?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Not much more than what we got last night. Not really. The short version is, he heard there might be something weird going on here, and told someone he'd get it checked out."

"And what's the long version? Bobby wouldn't send us here for shits and giggles. Who asked him to check it out?"

Sam shrugged, and gnawed on a piece of his toast. "Hunter by the name of Reynolds. Guess Bobby owes him a favor. Anyway, so it turns out this town has been kind of ridiculously lucky, recently. I mean, not in a way that's showy- not suicidal-teddy-bear lucky-" Dean nodded- "But still in pretty significant ways. You know the locusts that popped out of nowhere a few months ago?"

Dean frowns, brow furrowed and eyes up searching the ceiling. "The ones they thought were extinct?"

"Bingo. So those things have some of the largest swarms in recorded history. Hundreds and hundreds of miles just ravaged, including the whole northern part of this state, including the whole goddamn county, even. But not this town."

Dean grunts. "Thought this town looked a little less chewed on than normal."

"Exactly." Sam waves his fork around, food forgotten. "It wasn't on the edge of the swarm, either. So it's weird. But not really our kind of weird. Not until Reynolds got involved. Turns out he's a native of the great state of Colorado. He got wind of River Pass and started to put two and two together...and ended up with five. The man's kinda cracked, according to Bobby." Dean caught his eye. A certain degree of insanity was a given- no one in their right mind takes up chasing monsters in their spare time. To be notably unhinged on top of that was saying something.

Sam shrugs. "He's harmless, I guess. Relatively speaking. The point is, Reynolds looked at the omens around River Pass, and the eclipse last month, and the earthquakes four months ago...and Carthage," Sam stumbles over the word, "And figured it was the plagues of Egypt, you know, the whole nine yards." Dean gulps down some more terrible coffee and rolls his eyes before motioning Sam to continue. Sam gives him a wry smile. "So Reynolds gets it into his head that the only logical thing to do is to started looking for the chosen people. And here's Raighsville. Untouched by locusts, missed the total eclipse of course, and it's got the lowest infant mortality rate in the country. He decides to mosey on down here and just wait it all out. Except it doesn't exactly work that way. Every time he gets near the city limits, he wakes up eight hours later in a town on the other side of the state with one hell of a headache. So he makes some calls. And sure enough, no one else- hunters, at least- can get near the place. Same thing happens to them. Word gets 'round to Bobby, who files it under weird-but-not-important up until four days ago, when Reynolds tracked a whole group of demons here-"

"And?"

"And as soon as they crossed the city limits, they all burst into flame. Reynolds got a hold of the local paper, and the best the coroner could come up with was spontaneous human combustion."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "I don't really see the problem here."

Sam gives him a look that clearly means you're kidding me, right?

"Seriously, Sam. I mean, why us? This isn't exactly apocalyptic, it's unlikely that even something that's roasting demons would have any luck against Lucifer, and we don't really have the time to waste on an eight-hour magically induced blackout."

Sam shrugs. "I dunno. He called me an idiot and got kind of sarcastic when I said as much. No problem, he said, I'll just call one of all the other hunters who've got angels of the Lord on speed dial next time."

Dean shakes his head, but declines to comment on that. "I'm starting to think his priorities are a little screwed. I mean, it worked, obviously. Or probably- there's nothing to say the Reynolds guy didn't spend most of those eight hours wandering around town before getting whammied- but either way it's not really what I'd call a priority item."

"Even so-"

Dean sets his fork down. "No, I mean it. It's a waste of time. You know what mysteriously fortunate towns say to me?"

Sam sighs his my brother is unreasonable sigh."Could be a sign of something larger, who knows. Still. Maybe it's something we can use. It won't kill us to look- you need to sleep, anyway," Sam breaks out the earnest eyes. "And if I'm sure of anything, it's that at least if we poke at this beast, it's not likely to start poking back. We'll get a room, catch some sleep, shower, and do a little looking around for Bobby before taking off. It's not like we don't owe him."

Dean made a face and shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something just as the waitress rushed past, coffee pot in hand. "Hey!" he shouts, trying to flag her down.

The waitress pivots on one heel and spins back around. She . "Oh! Sorry. I forgot," she said. "Just give me a sec, I'll be right back- I'm empty." She shook the pot and then hustled off back towards the coffee maker.

"I swear I'm gonna to tackle her next time." Dean said. He turned back to his brother, but Sam was looking past him. Dean craned his head to see.

A small drama was apparently taking place a few tables down. There was a man down on one knee, a woman up on her feet, and a crowd gathered around. "Oh my god, yes! What the hell took you so long?!" shouted the woman, a small box clutched to her chest. The entire restaurant burst into applause.

The waitress reappeared at Dean's shoulder. "Kids these days," she said, shaking her head. "Third one this week." She topped off his mug and bustled off again before he could respond.

"What the hell is wrong with these people?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged. Dean gulped down more of the terrible coffee. "Must be something in the water."

Sam glanced back at the happy couple. "Maybe they should bottle it."

Someone had gone to a lot of effort to extend the wallpaper on to the ceiling, though Dean was at a loss as to why. It was slightly more entertaining than staring at the standard stucco or perforated tile, but only if you considered 'so ugly my eyes are about to start bleeding' an improvement on boring.

He should have fought Sam harder over library-duties. Sam was undoubtedly up to his elbows in microfiche by now, and turning his dimples on any elderly female librarians who frowned on his bogarting of the machine, but it had to be better than staring at the goddamn ceiling.

Dean was supposed to be catching some z's. The job- couldn't really be called a hunt- didn't really call for more than some basic research, and that was a one-man job. And Christ, he needed the sleep- a week's worth, maybe, but right now he'd settle for just five hours if he could get it. Sam would have time to complete the geek quest, and Dean's head would stop feeling like someone had stuffed it full of cotton, and then maybe they could even get a bite to eat before heading out. But his body wasn't cooperating. He'd managed to doze off once or twice, but he'd plunged immediately into fractured, unsettling dreams. They'd blurred into incomprehensibility as soon as he'd woken, but they left him itching with the sense of something off, wrong. They were better than the hell replays, but not really a whole lot more restful.

He stares at the ceiling for another ten minutes, then sits up. "Fuck it," he says to the room. It doesn't answer, but it doesn't matter: It's five o'clock somewhere. He leans over and scrounges around for his boots and puts them on. He pulls himself off the bed, wincing as he does so, and wishes like hell that his eyes would stop feeling like they'd been boiled in acid.

He checks his gun and wallet, tucking both away before stumbling out of the room. He shuts the door behind him, and squints out into the bright sunshine. He almost wishes Sam hadn't taken the Impala, but driving would be kind of counterproductive, all things considered. They passed the college right before hitting the motel, and if there is one thing you could count on about higher education, it's that there are always places serving plenty of cheap beer and fried stuff as close to campus as regulations allow. Dean slouches into his jacket and starts walking. His stomach rumbles in encouragement.

He doesn't have to go far. After a few blocks, the breeze brings the unmistakable smell of deep fat fryers and stale beer. It's emanating from a faux dive called the Rust Bucket Bar & Grill – complete with the rusted out back end of an old Dodge truck jutting jauntily from the roof- but the food smells good and there's a crowd lingering outside.

He pushes his way in through the novelty swinging doors hung just inside the entrance. Inside is a crowd just as big as the one outside, and just as varied as the customers at the diner. Dean ducks past a knot of college kids clustered around the waiting area and shoulders his way through the crowd in the bar up to the front. He finds himself nearly eye-to-eye with an old stuffed swordfish that's been nailed to the wall. Dean glances at it with a skeptical eye and turns his back to it. An old man sitting on the bar stool next to Dean gives him an inquisitive look from around a huge cheeseburger. Dean ignores him and looks over at the bartender, who is closing out the tab of three women in serious-looking business suits. They'd almost look out of place in the rowdy, happy chaos of the room except for the way they keep falling into deep belly-laughs and covering their faces with their hands. One of them catches his gaze and gives him a salacious wink and a wicked smile. She manages to hold it for a full ten seconds before laughing again, color rising to her cheeks. She turns back to her friends who nudge her hard with their elbows.

Dean hides a grin of his own, much to his surprise. The good-natured joviality of the crowd is infectious, and as unlikely and unexpected as it is, it's wearing down the tension in his shoulders and killing the headache he's been nursing for at least four hundred miles. Despite everything, he's feeling more human and more alive than he has in- years. Something in the water, he thinks and frowns. The conversation in the diner flickers in the back of his mind. He missed something-something the waitress had said-

"Can I get you something?"

Dean glances back at the bartender, feeling the last threads of whatever it was escaping his mental grasp, and he gives the short, freckled, middle-aged woman leaning on the bar across from him a reflexive smile. She repeats the question, louder this time. "I'll take a beer," he says, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the crowd. "Whatever you've got on tap."

She bends down and pulls a cold glass out of a small fridge, then sets it on the bar. "Sure thing, hon. Gotta preference?"

"Whatever's good."

She frowns at that, taking it lot more seriously than he expected. It's one of those bars. "It's all good, but we've got a seasonal just in I think you'll like."

He's feeling skeptical, but merely shrugs and says, "Fine with me." He watches as she fills the glass, foam rising to the top but not overspilling the glass. He pushes some money to her and tells her to keep the change before grabbing the beer and retreating to a less-crowded corner near a couple of beat up old pool tables. He leans back against the bar separating the bar from the dining area. He tastes the beer; It's light and crisp and odd, but it's not bad. He drinks long and deep from the glass before setting it down on the counter. The glass is almost swallowed by fake vines and plastic leaves pouring out of the equally fake planter that screened the bar from the entrance. Dean rescues the beer from the encroaching vines, intending to finish it off, when some little niggling instinct starts flashing in the back of his mind. It's a feeling he's more used to associating with ducking pool cues in bar fights and being jumped from behind, but this time it's a voice, half-heard through the chatter of half a hundred other people. He brushes the vines aside, and looks through the trellis at a woman saying something to the hostess. She brushes her hair away from her face and catches sight of him from the corner of her eye. She stops and turns to stare directly at him.

"Dean?"

She almost looks affronted. Dean feels strangely disconnected from the moment, like it's something he saw from a distance a long time ago. He meets more people in a year than most do in their lives: a parade of people- mourners and victims, cops and monsters, waitresses and one-night stands. They don't put in repeat performances; it's the nature of the job. He'd lost track of the number of people who said they'd never forget him,but there's a weird kind of comfort in never knowing if they did. It's bullshit, but the kind he can tolerate. And then there are the small number of people and places and things that always seem to come back around. He's lived his life haunted by a sense of inevitability, like someone watching two trains glide down the same stretch of track. Some lessons have to be taught in blood and pain before they sink in, and this is one he's learned well: there are some things that can't be changed, can't be bargained away. It's not destiny; destiny's just bullshit pushed by those who don't want the marks to realize the game is played with loaded dice. This isn't. There's no one rigging this game. Some things just have clocks ticking on them from the moment of inception.

It only makes sense that she'd be one of them. He takes a breath.

"Cassie."