Gabriel tilted his head to the side, neck cracking loudly. "Time travel's a bitch, isn't she? Thank god that hag's gone, eh?"

    "Gabriel," Castiel spoke clearly as he bent down, pressing his fingers to Leila's neck. A faint pulse pumped against his fingertips, a breath of relief escaping his lips. "There wasn't any rift. It didn't feel like you'd left the other room. What the hell did you do?"

    Bobby looked at Gabriel expectantly, "Or have you forgotten? Again. Boy probably doesn't know which side he's on in this war you've brought the world."

    "Listen here, and listen good, old man," Gabriel pointed to Bobby with the hand that hadn't been tucked into his pocket. "You've been pissing on me this entire time because I haven't spoken to Al since I've been back. You don't think I know what kind of pain I've caused her? I love Al with every fiber of my being. I've been to Hell and back, and you keep riding my ass about not telling her that I'm on earth again. Do you know why I did that, Bobby? Why I killed myself inside? Because if she knew I was back, she'd be right in the line of fire of everyone I've ever pissed off in my time on earth. That's a lot of damn people that could try to take her away from me again. I did it for her, you petty asshole. The first person I wanted to see when I'd been brought back was Al, of course it was Al. It was always Al. Who the hell else would I have wanted to see?" Gabriel sighed, his voice lowering, "I didn't see her because every time I'm around her, she gets hurt. And I couldn't bear to be the reason she gets hurt again."

    Bobby went to say something—likely a string of curses damning Gabriel to the pits of purgatory—but Gabriel held his hand up in Bobby's face. Castiel couldn't see what was wrong, but Bobby's eyes widened. "What the hell did you do?" Bobby managed.

    "Little trick I learned in the angel war," Gabriel stepped back, his voice shaking from anger. Castiel could see a glowing stream of blue grace coming from where Gabriel's vessel's pinky finger had been. "Flesh of the willing archangel advances any spell, any potion—it gets it to its boiling point where it can be used instantly. Because if an archangel is willing to damage their vessel, it's damn well close to an apocalyptic circumstance," Gabriel stuffed his hand back into his pocket, the slightest wince taking over his face. Castiel knew that he and Elijah had to find a way to get Gabriel to stop leaking grace, otherwise that could be the end of Gabriel again. "I may have forgotten a lot of things after being resurrected," Gabriel spoke slowly, as if calculating exactly how much time each word would take and making sure that he could calm down when the talking ceased. "But I never forgot what really matters in a lifetime. The ones we care about. Say what you want about me, Singer, but never question where my loyalty lies. Ever."

    "Gabriel, you didn't have to do that," Elijah said quietly, like he was scared of the words he was saying because he didn't want to push the archangel. "We could've found another way."

    "Yeah, and how much time did we have to think of another way?" Gabriel asked, swallowing hard. Maybe Elijah didn't notice because he'd known Gabriel for less time than Castiel, but Castiel could read his eyes. Terror. All that was behind those hazel eyes was pure, unmatched terror. Terror of the unknown, perhaps of dying again. Gabriel was scared of what he'd done, but still had gone and done it, because it was the only way. Gabriel sighed, "Look, I made my bed, and I'll sleep in it now. Is she breathing?"

    Castiel nodded, "Her pulse is slowly returning, she should be able to find her way back to consciousness soon."

    Gabriel nodded, staring down at Leila's limp body. His breathing was shaky, and his gaze was like his mind was thousands of miles away—possibly with Alisabeth, wherever she had found herself at that moment. Castiel knew Gabriel's reasons for not seeing Alisabeth, for keeping himself away from her no matter what feelings he harbored. Hurting Alisabeth would kill him inside, more than it did to let her believe he was dead. Despite his many faults, Gabriel was the one who put himself on the line every time, no matter what. Ever since his time as 'Loki,' Gabriel had stopped running from the things that haunted his every move.

    Castiel drew in a breath, patting Gabriel on the shoulder. "You did the right thing."

    "I just hope it worked," Gabriel replied, nodding his head. He looked at his brother, in the eyes, in the moment. Not past him as if he were still with his lover. For the first time since he'd been resurrected, Gabriel really looked at Castiel. And in that gaze, Castiel could see every tear building up in the archangel's eyes. Voice cracking as he spoke, Gabriel managed, "This is our fault, and my god, little brother, I just hope it worked."

    "I'm sorry," Harry raised his hand as he spoke, the group looking at him. "Can I ask what exactly we want to work?"

    "It will work," Castiel looked to his brother as he spoke, nodding. Choosing to ignore Harry's question was well-worth it, considering how upset his brother looked.

    Castiel hadn't ever seen Gabriel cry before, in all their millennia together. During their time in the angel war, not a single tear had been shed by the archangel. Not when brothers and sisters fell, when God fell, not when he had to face the scorn of those who deemed him unworthy. And yet there he stood, with tears pooling in his eyes for a human girl he'd only just met months before.

    As if she'd been summoned, Leila shifted in her spot on the ground. Head pounding, she rolled from her side onto her back. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked at the four men in front of her, the Ghostfacers finding their way over when they heard her wake up. Green eyes narrowed, looking at each face, as if they were trying to decide where the hidden evil was—thought no one could blame her for that. Castiel could sense no power from the young girl, confirming his belief that Saint Dymphna had left Leila.

    Castiel extended a hand out to the young girl, carefully helping her to her feet. Leila was unsteady, knees wobbling as she stood up. Leaning against Castiel, he grabbed her elbow to keep her upright. "Leila?"

    "Um," Leila grabbed her head with hand Castiel didn't have, "Is she gone?"

    Castiel nodded. Leila radiated no power like Saint Dymphna had while in her body. There was fright in her eyes that Castiel never saw in their time tracing Saint Dymphna. "She's gone. I'm so sorry," Castiel's voice was low; like he was ashamed of having to apologize for something he should've seen coming. And, frankly, he was ashamed.

    "It..." Leila's eyes widened, like the world around her was spinning, "It's not your fault that bitch turned out batshit crazy."

    Bobby smiled, extending his hand, "Bobby Singer, you must be Leila."

    "That's me," Leila shook his hand. "Am I allowed to ask what the significance of Bobby Singer is?"

    "Those sons of bitches," Bobby scowled as he walked into his sitting room, mumbling, "All I did was raise them, not important or nothing."

    "Did I strike a nerve?" Leila asked, wincing.

    "I wouldn't worry about it, Goldilocks," Gabriel shook his head. "He gets the old man grumps sometimes."

    Leila nodded slowly, "Riiiight. And..." Leila looked at the Ghostfacers, she leaned in closer to the angels and whispered, "Who are they and will they get offended if I ask?"

    "They probably will," Gabriel replied, whispering as he shook his head, "I wouldn't push it."

    "How are you feeling?" Elijah asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

    "Um," Leila took a minute, trying to stand on her own and not use Castiel's strength to keep her upright. She doubled over, falling to her knees and heaving. Water came flooding from her mouth, Castiel and Gabriel looking at one another with wide eyes. The last of the river was still inside Leila, and Saint Dymphna hadn't stopped her from drowning, she'd only just prevented her choking longer—no doubt planning to drop her in another body of water as soon as a better vessel came about. Leila coughed, slowly right to her feet again, finding her balance slowly, "I mean... I'm alright, but we really need to stop her. She's not finished terrorizing the world."

    "You, Goldilocks," Gabriel began, putting his hand on Leila's shoulder, "Are going to go get some sleep. And lots of it. I know just the place."

    "Gabriel, is this worth it?" Castiel asked, "Elijah or I could—?"

    "No, I got it," Gabriel took Leila's arm in his hand, a peaceful smile dressing his lips, "Got a great girl I need to go see. I think I need to reintroduce myself."

And off, the golden wings flew.

*****

Connie Fairborough had been called many names, crazy being the most popular. And she was perfectly fine with that, because the world held none of her anger. Just because they didn't understand her world, didn't mean their own world was wrong. Being enlightened wasn't a bad thing, and Connie wanted to help save whatever small portion of the world she could.

    It didn't take long in her conversation with the Ghostfacers to know that they weren't going to listen to a word she said, no matter the amount she warned them of the danger lurking in Georgia's infamous Weeping Angel house. She could see what was coming, the white light, Saint Dymphna's true form erupting from that poor, young girl.

    Connie had been warned by the void to stay away from that house, no matter what. And although she wanted nothing more than to help, there really wasn't anything for her to do. Just do her best to try and convince the Ghostfacers that they shouldn't go. Her role in young Leila Connors' journey was small, that she knew from the moment the young girl had met the Winchesters, but it was important to her final battle. The one where she faced her demons one final time. The one where going to plan, and following what the void knew would happen, meant Leila would lose her battle, but save the Winchesters, because she cared more for them than herself.

    The void had said that Connie wasn't allowed to intervene. Leila Connors' life was destiny from the moment she left her home. The events were fated, nothing that 'crazy' Connie could do would change that. If there was one thing about her gift in talking to the void that Connie couldn't stand, it was not being able to help those destined by the fates to suffer.

    Despite the belief that she was crazy, Connie carried on her everyday life in her small Georgian town. The void had told her important visitors were coming today, and since then, she couldn't shake the tune of Travelling Riverside Blues from her head. Their journey was far, Connie knew that as she wandered the grocery store.

    The travelers were going to be tired, the void had told her. But they would still stop by, because they had never given up hope when looking for a soul they had lost months before and they had heard about the Weeping Angel house in Georgia. From what the void had told her, Connie wouldn't have to worry about the Weeping Angel house anymore, because something far greater was about to take place. Greater than anyone, even the angels, could comprehend.

    Connie had grabbed bread, roast beef, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and a variety of sandwich sauces for her guests later. She'd been told that they meant no harm to her, and they would be treated as no threat. They would be her house guests, because they were coming to get information from her about the Weeping Angel house, but she had more dire information that they needed to have.

    Humming along to Led Zeppelin, Connie paid for her groceries. Being the crazy of the town did have its perks, her checkout times were usually record considering the cashiers wanted nothing to do with her. The walk back to her humble home was short, her raven hair blew in the wind. A smile dressed her lips, feet carrying her to the melody only she could hear. As she walked through the door of her house, the void let her know that it wouldn't be long until her guests arrived.

    Walking straight to her kitchen, Connie prepared her lunchtime sandwiches for her and her guests. Roast beef laid on a bed of crisp lettuce, sharp cheddar slices, and freshly chopped tomatoes. On the bread was mayonnaise and mustard, and once placed together, the three sandwiches were carefully cut into fours, because sandwiches were made for dainty hands. And Connie was sure that there would be many questions asked once her guests arrived, so small sandwiches meant that they could ask her questions and while she answered, eat their lunches. To wash the sandwiches down, Connie had chilled beer in the fridge. The pale ale was home-brewed and of fine Georgian quality. The food and drink was placed on her small coffee table in her living room, which was adorned with frilled lace accents and smelt like she did—of lavender and mothballs.

    A knock at her door sounded. The guests had arrived.

    Connie walked to her front door, and sure enough, there they were. Smiling as she opened it, the door creaked. Outside stood two men, dressed in tuxedos that they had found at a thrift store, but were still high quality enough to pass for what they needed them for.

    The shorter one looked at Connie, pulling the edge of his blazer open and grabbing a small bifold leather case. As he held it out to Connie, he dropped the end, "Connie Fairborough, I'm agent Mercury, this is agent Perry, we're here to investigate—"

    Connie held her ebony hand up to silence the man, her beaded bracelets sliding down her forearm. The man frowned, pursing his lips—a silent question asking Connie what she wanted him to quiet down for. He looked to the taller man, who had the same questioning look on his face.

    Connie smiled calmly, "Sam and Dean Winchester? I've been expecting you. Come inside, I have sandwiches and a way to find your friend, Leila."

*****

On the Cliffs of Moher, there sat a girl. With white frost blonde hair and blue eyes that sparkled like the Atlantic Ocean that the cliffs overlooked. The young girl, hardly over twenty-five, from the small town of Lahinch, cried as she looked at the waves crash against the cliffs edge. As it was known to the other Irish natives, Aillte an Mhothair had been a place where the girl had gone to escape the world. How fitting it should be that she would end her life in the same waters she chose to watch for hours on end and forget about the world around her.

    The winds curled around her cheeks, nipping at the tears that slid down. Hands pressed together, pointing towards the heavens she was hoping to enter. Breaths came out shaky, the girl spoke softly, her words lost in the winds around her.

    "Good Saint Dymphna, I wish for your guidance as I move from the world of the living," she choked on her words, sputtering as she tried to regain her already shattered composure, "to the world of the dead. I wish for a careful passage between the worlds. I wish for you to help those who suffer after my time is over, and I wish for you to look over my family in their transition from their life with me to their life without me."

    "My dear," a voice said from behind her.

    The young girl jumped, turning slowly to face whoever was talking to her. There was a woman, dressed in a blinding white dress. It should have been dancing with the wind, but the thin fabric stayed loose against her frame. The girl couldn't focus on her features, it was like they weren't truly there. No part of her face was solid, no eyes gazed back at the girl. Just a bright white light stared back, like a star shining in the night's sky. A light surrounded the woman's aura, her essence calming the young girl to the point where her breathing was normal, not shallow or shaking.

    "I am Saint Dymphna," the woman spoke, opening her arms towards the girl as if offering an embrace. Though, her arms weren't arms, per se, more streams of bright light, "And I'm here to rescue you."

    "You don't understand," the girl's Irish accent was thick, tears streaming down her cheeks like a river that was hit with a rainstorm and threatened to flood the rest of her face. "The world would be so much better without me here. There's no point in living if I'm making the people I love suffer because of me."

    "And yet, you stall," Saint Dymphna spoke clearly, though the girl couldn't see her lips. "You falter because you know the world could still use you. You could change the world, and ending your life now would mean the world never changes."

    The girl frowned, "What do you mean?" Her lips still quivered, the flood still threatening. She didn't know why a woman who she had only just met had made her stop. All she needed to do was jump, and the pain would end. Forever. Never to be felt by her again. Yet, there she stood. Like the chilled Ireland winds had frozen her in place.

    She wasn't sure how she knew, but she could feel Saint Dymphna's smile. "My girl, each life on this world is meaningful. They're here for a reason, and their lives are lived to find that reason out." She extended her hand towards the girl, though the girl still wasn't certain how she knew it was a hand. "May I help you find that reason?"

    Saint Dymphna was like a magnet. Her words sucked the breath from the young girl's lungs. But something was pulling her towards the Saint, like she was a tsunami and the girl was caught in the waves. And yet, there was a comfort there. Like the waves were a gentle ride down the slippery slopes of the Atlantic, drawing her in as she calmly drank the salt water. Drowning was inevitable, and to be calm would be to finally be happy.

    The girl nodded slowly, like the waves of Saint Dymphna's essence were cradling her into a trance. Again, she felt Saint Dymphna smile. "Can I show you the world can get better? We can run it together, in a place where no one can harm you again."

    The tsunami waves of Saint Dymphna's words were even gentler than the girl could imagine. A cradle of life, keeping her from an untimely death. It sheltered her from the edge of the cliff, keeping her from The world could be an oyster, not a burden. Her life could mean something, not take up space.

    She knew her savior would rescue her.

    Barely thinking, because the answer was obvious to her, the girl said, "Yes."

    Saint Dymphna edged closer, her burning white light enveloping the girl. The saint whispered her promises of a better world as she took over the living, breathing body. The white light encased her, showed her no remorse as it took her over. It knocked the wind from her lungs so her screams couldn't escape. Arms flew out to the side, embodying Christ on his crucifix. Head snapped back as one final plea to the heavens to save her from the on she thought would save her.

    And, all at once, the light dissipated. No screams were begging to be set free. The pain was over, because the girl was no more. Her head looked forward, towards the Irish highlands. A smirk tugged onto her lips, eyes flashing with the last of her blinding white light.

    Saint Dymphna had found her vessel.

*****

Introducing Evanna Lynch as Saint Dymphna