I've had this one tossing about in my head for a long, long time. It's a look at "Revelations," but entirely from our resident genius's perspective. I sincerely hope you enjoy.

A/N: Dialogue that's in bold and italics comes directly from the CM episode "Revelations." Obviously, along with the characters and plot and whatnot, this dialogue is most assuredly not mine. Belongs to people much more creative than me.

There are two things that register as soon as my mind claws off the thick dark fog that surrounds it: a bright, blinding light that's hanging just above my head, and the smell of flesh that's been burning too long. My mind swims a little, trying to remember how it is I ended up in a place that would let that smell linger so long.

I blink my eyes, trying to take in the surroundings. Everything's a blur of browns and bright white light. The room won't stop spinning long enough for me to figure this out.

"They're gone," a stiff, formal voice says. It's one I vaguely remember, though right now I can't figure out just where exactly.

I try to pick up my hands to block out the blinding light. They won't move for some reason, neither of them.

"Who..who are 'they'?" I ask.

"It's just me now," the formal voice says, as if I should realize who is speaking. Right now I can't even tell if my shoes are tied, let alone recognize this voice.

"Who..who are 'you'?" I ask, desperate for some answers.

The speaker steps in front of the light, just enough for me to focus on the face. It's one I've seen before…from that house, the one in the corn field…

"I'm Raphael," the man replies, as if this knowledge should be all-too-obvious. I know I've heard that name before…but where?

The smell of burning flesh is beginning to make me queasy. "What's that smell?"

"They're burning fish hearts and livers. Keeps away the devil."

As if this explains so much.

"They say you see inside men's minds." Those sharp blue eyes keep studying me as if I were an insect under a microscope.

"I-It's not true," I reply. "I study human behavior…"

"I'm not interested in the arguments of men." The man—"Raphael," obviously, but I'm sure that's not his right name—suddenly pulls his hand out of his coat pocket. In it is a revolver, the metal glittering against the blinding light. In his other hand he pulls forth a single bullet.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks.

I know exactly what it is. It's a cone of soft lead, jacketed with a brass fitting that contains black gunpowder. However, I do not answer.

"It's God's will."

Oh, Christ. Now I remember where I've heard the voice before. It's the same one that was on those recordings Garcia pulled off the internet. The one quoting scripture. He called himself "Raphael" then, too. My mind swims back to the first crime scene, at that couple's house. Is the same thing going to happen to me?

"You don't have to do this," I say, hoping somehow I can convince this man not to go through with what he plans to do.

"Raphael" merely shushes me, loads the bullet into a single chamber, spins it, closes it up and levels his so-called 'instrument' of 'God's will.'

A thousand things are running through my mind—the people I love, the places I've been, the things I've not yet done. I'm sure the panic on my face is transparent.

I can hear the hammer of the revolver being cocked.

I can see the barrel of the weapon pointed straight at my forehead—point-blank range.

I can feel the man's determination as he pulls the trigger.

The most glorious sound in existence at that particular moment is the sound of the hammer striking an empty chamber. For a moment, anyway, it seems my life is spared.

But for how long?