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In Sam's dream, he's back home in Lawrence, in the house where he was born. He finds himself in the corner of a distantly familiar room, though it looks different nowadays.
The nursery is peaceful. Dimly lit with tinkling music playing from the mobile above the crib. The walls are baby blue and there are soft curtains decorated with colorful shapes hanging over the window. The baby in the crib--himself, he supposes--coos happily as footsteps in the hallway grow closer. "Alright, let's say goodnight to your brother." Mom sets Dean on the floor and he runs to the cradle. Hanging over the wooden bars, Sam's big brother looks so tiny dressed in his grey pajamas with his shaggy hair. "Goodnight, Sam," he says, leaning farther over to press a kiss to the infant's forehead. Mom softly pads over as well, looping an arm around Dean's shoulders as she reaches into the crib to caress Sam's head. "Goodnight, love," she whispers. "Sam..." Sam startles and looks up from the loving scene he shouldn't be able to remember, let alone dream about. He turns, half expecting someone else to be in the nursery, but the room is empty save for Mom, Dean, himself, and baby Sam. Still, he shivers. The voice sounded eerily familiar. When he turns back, expecting to find Mom and Dean still at their place beside the crib, he finds the room completely empty instead. Them, the baby, even the furniture is all gone. Yet the music from the absent mobile continues to play, softly at first then growing ominously louder. Sam spins anxiously, his heart suddenly cranking up a notch. It's a dream. Usually he can't tell but this time he can. So why can't he wake up? "Dean," he yells out, his voice echoing. "Dean?" No answer. The room feels unnaturally small all of a sudden, claustrophobic. Pasted into his corner, Sam feels his chest grow tight and his limbs lock up. Only when a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead does he realize how hot it is in the empty nursery. Yet he feels cold to his very core. He tries to call for Dean again but his mouth won't work, none of his limbs will. He can barely breathe. In the time it takes to blink, a figure appears in front of him. It's nothing more than a shadow, a dark splotch in the center of the empty room, yet seeing another presence somehow fills him with relief. His head reels and his pulse slows, muscles relaxing as if he's been drugged. When it speaks, it speaks with Dean's voice. "You alright, Sammy?" He could collapse under the weight of his relief. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Is that...really you, Dean?" "Course it is. Who else?" "How did we get here?" Dean shrugs lamely. "Dunno, man, this is your head." "It is a dream, then. Any clue how I wake up?" "Yeah." Dean walks forward and every step he takes, Sam's head gets fuzzier and his limbs get looser. He feels...funny. Like that time he got his wisdom teeth taken out and the dentist pumped him full of meds. Also like that time, there's a coppery taste in his mouth. Blood, maybe. Dean reaches around and pulls something out of his waistband. He hands the gun to Sam, who takes it without a second thought. This close, Sam can see Dean's face finally. He smiles crookedly and squeezes his brother's shoulder. But his eyes are yellow. "All you gotta do to wake up, Sammy...is shoot me in the heart." Sam startles awake, his body lurching bolt upright in bed, sweat beading his face. His breathing comes fast and shallow. It takes a moment to realize his hands are balled into fists so tightly he's left thin cuts on his palms. Instinctively, his eyes flick to Dean, sleeping peacefully in the twin bed on the other side of the motel room, blankets twisted around him. The boxy digital clock beside the TV reads 2:02 a.m. The only light to be seen is the unnatural purple glow of the motel sign just outside the window. His head is pounding, specifically the welt under his left eye from their last hunt, and his mouth is dry as cotton. Kicking back the blankets, he stumbles out of bed over to the room's dingy kitchenette. The spigot squeaks and rattles, the water blasting out like a garden hose. Sam fills a Dixie cup from the cupboard and drinks from it a dozen times before shutting off the tap and leaning over the sink, letting the sweat drip down his nose. Behind him, Dean flops over in his bed, giving a little snore. He jumps at the noise. Jesus. What was that dream? Somehow, he can still feel the gun against his palm. He shakes his hand and grips it into a fist. Get it together, Sam. It was just a dream, er, nightmare. Straightening from the sink, he returns to the bed across from Dean's. Sitting down quietly on the springy mattress, Sam lays down on top of the blankets, too hot to cover up. For hours he lays in the dark staring at the ceiling, unwillingly replaying the nightmare over and over again. The yellow eyes he can explain away easily. He's seen them before when the demon possessed Dad. No reason to think that was any more than just a dream. What he can't explain, however, is everything before the demon showed up. The nursery had been so vivid, down to the tiniest detail. He couldn't possibly remember it after all these years, having been so little when it burned down. Maybe his mind just...generated the room. Maybe he saw it in a magazine somewhere. Glancing sideways at Dean, Sam chews his lip. His brother is fast asleep, eyes moving behind their lids with dreams of his own. Hopefully his are better than Sam's, though he doubts it. Still, waking him now would be a dick move. They can talk in the morning. Sam forces his eyes to close and tries to relax, but every time he drops off there are yellow eyes, Dean's twisted, unnatural smile, and a gun waiting for him. By seven o'clock, Sam has given up trying to sleep. Light headed and popping Advil like candy to fight off the pounding headache, he showers and dresses in the shoddy motel bathroom. By the time he's done, Dean has roused and is sitting zombie-like on the edge of the bed. He looks up when Sam leaves the bathroom, trailed by a fog of shower mist, and yawns. "What are you doing up so early," he asks, standing and stretching his arms high above his head. "Usually I have to drag your lazy ass out of bed." Sam pauses, decides against bringing up his nightmare so soon, and shrugs. "I'm gonna head down to that store we passed on our way here. You want something to eat?" If Dean notices that he avoided the question, then he doesn't acknowledge it. "Actually I was thinking we might treat ourselves to something that doesn't require a microwave for once. That diner in town looked pretty good. You game?" "Sure." Truth be told, he's not really in the mood to sit in a crowded diner surrounded by gossipy small-town people. However, he simply doesn't have the energy to argue. So a half hour later, the two are striding through the door of the quaint diner. The place looks like something straight out of the 50's--checkered tile floors and retro bar stools and all--and smells of maple syrup and bacon. Dean smiles at the cute hostess who goes a little red in the face and giggles as she's leading them to their booth. Sam follows behind like a shadow, rolling his eyes. A bouncy blonde with a sparkling pair of blue eyes turns out to be their waitress and Dean grins at Sam like it must be Christmas day. Sam snorts and stifles a yawn. "Hey, fellas. What can I get you to drink?" "Coffee," Sam replies almost too quickly. "Okay, coffee. And you, sir?" "Uh, same." She marks it down on her pad--tactfully ignoring Dean's shameless wink--and flounces away, pony tail swinging as much as her hips. Dean watches her all the way until she hits the kitchen doors and then whistles quietly and flips open his menu. "We oughta come to these places more often," he says. "I think the local fathers would disagree with you." Sam rubs his eyes, the words on the menu somewhat blurred from exhaustion. He yawns and rolls his neck. His head is really pounding. Eventually he gives up, shuts the menu and pushes it to the edge of the table. "Order for me, would you? I'm gonna go to the bathroom." Dean looks up and opens his mouth like he's going to say something but then the waitress returns with their coffee and he shuts right up. Soon his flirtations are swallowed by the Elvis music playing over the honest to God jukebox in the corner and Sam pushes through the door marked with a stick figure man. The bathroom is only slightly more modern than the rest of the place but fortunately, the music and the chatter is muffled in here. It's a single stall so he locks the door and goes to the sink, closing his eyes against the pulsing in his temples. He squints down at his watch, the hands blurring together, and he wonders if taking six Advil in one hour would be a bad thing... His whole body feels warm. Could be getting sick. Sam turns on the water and cups his hands under the stream, splashing his face. He shivers at how icy cold it feels in contrast to his warm cheeks, and not in a relieving way. "Ahh..." His face scrunches up, a stabbing pain behind his eyes. It's not until his knees begin to go weak and he finds himself sinking to the cold tile floor that this isn't a normal sleep deprivation headache. Just as the first flashes of the vision begin to pierce through his head like a hot knife, someone knocks on the door. A huge, dark room. Mud floors, block walls... "Ahhh..." Sam clutches his head. The person at the door knocks again, harder this time. The handle rattles a bit. There are people. Hundreds of people, all standing in the darkness, crammed together like sardines. "Hello? Is somebody in there?" Children too. They look scared. One woman hushes her crying child, but she herself does not look frightened. There's an eerie calmness about her. She smiles as she wipes away her daughter's tears. The knocking stops briefly, two voices are talking outside. "Sam? You in there?" A man is speaking but Sam can't make out his words. His speech is broken into fragments as the vision splinters and jumps. The people stand in loose rows, smiling at the unseen man with brightness and trust. "Sammy?" Dean pounds on the door. "Zip it up, man." The adults are passing something down the rows. Bowls. Incrested wooden bowls full of something small and white. Pills. "Sammy?" The door knob rattles again and Dean swears. "Talk to me, man. Are you alright?" "Mommy, I'm scared..." Her thin accent is marred by tears. "Don't be scared, sweety. We're going to a better place now. The prophet is going to take us to heaven." "But--" "Shhh, baby. Here, swallow this. It will taste bad going down but that won't last long, I promise." "Ahhhh...ahh..." Sam groans. The floor is hard under his head but he can't move his body. Everything hurts. Dean is talking urgently with someone on the other side of the door. He hears the jingle of a key in the lock. Everyone takes a pill. They swallow them dry then sit down on the mud floor and hold hands, singing hymns as one of them collapses to the dirt. Then another, and another, and another, and another until no one is left to sing. No one but the man who told them to die. Only the prophet is left standing. The door bangs open. Dean's eyes are wide with terror and his face pales when he sees his brother. Sam is flat on his back on the bathroom floor, his hair frayed out around his head, eyes rolling, body convulsing. "Call an ambulance," someone yells. Dean scrambles to his knees and grabs Sam's shoulders, shaking him. "Sammy? Sammy!" He strips off his jacket and bundles it under his brother's head so he won't hit it against the hard floor again. "It's okay, Sammy. You're okay. Calm down." The prophet's face is shrouded in shadow. Everything but his eyes. They glow acidic yellow in the darkness. "Come and find me, Sammy... Or all these people are going to die." Sam's body suddenly falls completely still, his eyes fluttering shut. In that instant, Dean's heart stops. There's a crowd outside the bathroom, gawking at the horror show on the inside but Dean doesn't even hear them. Sam doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Dean's hand trembles as he shakes his little brother. "Sammy?" It comes out no louder than a breath. "Sammy?" No, no, no... Dean's hands hover uselessly, his eyes going bleary with panic. "No you don't, little brother. Come on." He grits his teeth and reels back his arm. A woman outside the bathroom startles at the crack his hand makes slapping across Sam's cheek. But it works. Sam surges back to life, sucking in a lungful of air, eyes snapping open. Instantly, his hand goes to his cheek and unfocused hazel eyes blink and look around as if searching for what hit him. They land on Dean and Sam gapes at him. "Dude. Did you slap me?" Dean sits back on his heels, heart still hammering away in his chest. The people outside are suddenly murmuring among themselves. "Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Um, why?" Just as soon as he asks, however, Sam seems to realize where he is. He blinks and looks around, brow scrunching up almost comically. "Dean...why am I on a bathroom floor?" "Because you had another one of your damned Mind Freak moments. Can you walk?" "Uh, yeah, I think so..." Sam gets unsteadily to his knees, then sways and lands back on all fours. "Maybe not," he puffs out, suddenly out of breath. "Dean...we need to go...people are gonna die..." The vision comes back to him in pieces. All those people... "Yeah, I figured. But let's keep that between us for the moment, huh?" Dean loops an arm around his brother's waist and hoists him to his feet, while the crowd of onlookers back away slowly and stare as if they're leppers. "You good?" "Yeah..." "Wait," someone says weakly. "That was a serious seizure! He needs to go to the hospital!" "No, no, ma'am, I'm fine," Sam says breathlessly over his shoulder. "Happens all the time." They hobble to the car, stopping only long enough to throw a wad of cash at the register for their uneaten meals. Once both of them are inside the Impala, Dean peels out onto the road. "Where are we headed," he asks. "Um..." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling to remember details. "I--I don't know yet, give me a minute..." They stop at the motel and Dean throws open the driver side door, pausing. "You sure you're okay? That lady was right...whatever happened, that wasn't your normal 'That's So Raven' thing..." Sam nods, rubbing his forehead. "I'm fine. It was just...a really strong vision, I think. It was so vivid..." Dean frowns. "Well you just...stay here. I'll go get our stuff." "Don't forget to pay for the room," Sam yells after him as he jumps out. Whether Dean hears him or not, he isn't sure. Doesn't really matter though anyway. He's got more important things to think about. That room. What was it? Where was it? It had...mud flooring and block walls. A basement, maybe? Root cellar? He didn't see any windows in the vision so that seems pretty likely. But a basement of what? Dean returns with their duffel bags and tosses them in the trunk. The woman and the child, they had accents. Southern. Texas? Or Tennessee? Dean hops in and revs the engine. "Okay so where we headed, Tangina Barrons?" Sam gives him a face. "I don't know, man. Usually there's some indication of where to go but this time..." He trails off, remembering the bowl. "Sam?" "Hang on. Where's my laptop?" Dean grabs it from the trunk and Sam fires it up. "The bowls the people were passing around. They were incrested with some kind of insignia. The Virgin Mary or something, with a halo of light behind her head and...something else." Dammit. "What? People passin' around bowls? Sammy what kind of dreams are you having?" "Shut up. Hold on." Dammit! What was it? Why can't he remember? It hits him like a brick, suddenly and without warning. He taps out the description of the logo and finds the correct church, narrowing down its location by state which isn't difficult. The church only has two locations. "We're going to Arizona," he says, shutting the laptop. "Alright..." Dean steers them out onto the highway heading west. "So you ever planning on telling me what the hell you saw?" Sam swallows thickly. It's still sinking in for him so getting the words out is hard. His stomach squirms at the thought of that poor little girl, crying, begging her mom... "I think it was...some kind of mass suicide."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sam manages to catch a few hours of rest in the car after downing a pair of sleeping pills. The drug induced sleep is so dark and deep that he, thankfully, doesn't even dream at first. Unfortunately the peace doesn't last long. But then again, when does it ever? "Kill me, Sammy," Yellow eyed Dean whispers, grinning ear to ear. "I can't protect you anymore. You're a monster." "Shut up," Sam yells. The nursery is burning this time and he can hear a woman screaming. He clamps his hands over his ears. "Just shut up and leave me the hell alone!" "You're a freak, Sam. You know you're different. Why are you pretending to be someone you're not?" Yellow eyed Dean steps closer, shoving the gun into his hand. "You know you can't save those people! You can't even save yourself for Christ's sake!" "Shut up, Dean!" Part of him wants to drop the gun. He knows he should. So why doesn't he? "The demon killed Mom to get to you. It's your fault she's dead. Jessica, too. It's your fault our lives are like this. You knew it was going to happen, you saw it days before Jessica died and you didn't do anything to stop it." "Dean, I swear to God...shut up!" The gun feels heavy against his palm. The flames in the room lick higher and higher, swallowing the house. "You don't think Dad knew that? You don't think he hated you because you killed Mom?" Dean edges closer. He's not smiling anymore. "I hate you too, Sammy... Deep down, you know I do. You ruined everything. You ruined any chance of me having a normal, safe life." There are hot tears streaming down his cheeks and he grunts in pain. His head is pounding. The fire roars around him but he doesn't burn. "I'm gonna have to kill you one day, Sammy. Dad warned me." Dean backs up a step and opens his arms, smiling again. "Unless you kill me first." Grimacing at the pain, eyes bleary, Sam chokes back a sob as he lifts the gun. He doesn't try to. His arm just moves. The barrel levels with Dean's heart. "Go ahead, Sam. Pull the trigger. Do it." "Dean..." He jerks awake at the bang of the gun. "So...we're really not gonna talk about this?" Dean glances fleetingly at his brother, then back to the road. Sam is pressed against the door, as far from his brother as physically possible, staring out at the passing woods. He hasn't said a word since he woke up, jumping out of his skin so hard Dean almost crashed the Impala. That was an hour ago. "Seriously, you want me to put on some sad music or something?" "Shut up, Dean," Sam mutters. He is really not in the mood for his brother's shit. "He speaks! I was startin' to wonder if there was a mute button somewhere I didn't know about." Sam doesn't reply and Dean sighs dramatically. "Well if you're gonna be bitchy, the least you can do is navigate. Where are we going? 'Cause if you haven't noticed, Arizona's kind of a big place." "The town's called Hermosa. It's just south of Phoenix." "And that's where your mysterious mass suicide is gonna happen?" "Not if we can stop it." It takes them seven hours to reach the border of Arizona. By then, the sky has burned from bright cerulean to fiery orange. The clouds that streak the sky are black and magenta and long, creeping shadows stretch out across the rocky terrain. Hermosa is still several hours away but somehow, no matter how far they drive, it doesn't feel like they're getting any closer. Sam drums his fingers on the steering wheel and glances sideways at Dean, napping in the passenger seat. As always, his pistol is tucked into his waistband. Sam can see the edge of it poking through the gap between Dean's shirt and pants. Jesus. He looks away. He knows he should talk to Dean about his dreams. They're not normal nightmares. He's sure of that now. Dean has a right to know about this, but for some reason every time he opens his mouth, the words evade him. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, gripping the wheel harder. All those other special children. They all said the yellow eyed demon visited them in their dreams, just before they went homicidal... Max, Weber...they killed people just because the demon told them to. Is that what this is? Is it his turn to go postal now? Dean shifts in his seat, yawning, stretching his arms. He rubs his eyes and squints at the clock on the dash. "Damn, Sammy, why'd you let me sleep so long?" He yawns again and rolls his neck. "Looked like you needed it," Sam says. Dean is quiet for a moment and Sam can feel his eyes on him. "You want me to drive for a while?" "Nah, I'm good." He sits up. "You sure? It's been like three hours. Them long legs of yours gotta be gettin' stiff by now. Besides, you should get some sleep before we go to Hermosa." "I don't want to sleep." As soon as he says it, he knows he's spoken much too quickly. "Ahh." Dean nods, smiling thinly out the windshield. "So that's what this is about." Sam frowns and glances over quickly. "What?" "You're having nightmares again." Sam isn't sure why he flounders for a lie to cover it up. Wasn't he just thinking he should talk to Dean about the dreams? "Is it Jessica?" "Uh, something like that," Sam says softly, keeping his eyes locked on the road. "What is it then!" Dean all but throws his hands into the air in exasperation. "Obviously it's something bad, otherwise you wouldn't be so afraid to tell me. But I promise you, Sam, nothing you say at this point will surprise me--" "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, Dean..." "--So quit bein' such a little bitch and just lay it on me." At Sam's sidelong look, Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. "Don't make me say please, man. You know I hate to beg." Sam cracks a thin smirk. "I don't think the girls at that bar in Pittsburg would agree with you." Dean snorts. Turning in his seat, he waits for Sam to talk. Sam, in turn, feels a weight in his chest strangely lift and he sighs, pulling the car off the side of the road. "Fine," he says softly and the lighter atmosphere that was just beginning to blossom darkens once again. "I've...been having these nightmares," he begins, grabbing for the words before they evaporate. He swallows the urge to say 'nevermind'. "Dean, do you remember why Max Miller and Ansem Weems killed those people?" Dean pauses. "Uh...well, for Max it was because his family abused him, right? And Weber was some kind of friggin' control freak or something. What does that have to do with you?" "No, I mean--yeah, that's why, sure, but... They also said they'd been having dreams. Dreams where a yellow eyed man told them to do horrible things. They both resisted at first but..." He grimaces at the floor. "I've started having those dreams, Dean..." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean stiffen. "The yellow eyed demon's been talking to you in your sleep?" "Yeah..." "What the hell, Sam? And you thought it was totally okay to just let that little detail slide by?" Dean yells. At his brother's expression, he groans and rubs the back of his neck. "What did it say? What did it tell you to do?" "It...told me to come find it." "Find it? Did it say where?" "No..." Dean sits back against his seat, staring straight ahead. "Did it say anything else," he asks. Sam shivers at the memory and part of him wants to lie, to tell Dean no, that's all the demon said. But before the urge gets too strong, Sam blurts it out. "It told me to kill--" he stops, his heart thrumming in his chest. "--you." In his head, yellow eyed Dean laughs at him. Distantly, muffled as if by dozens of miles, Sam hears the sound of a gun shot, but he knows it isn't real. It's the dream bullet he put inside nightmare Dean. Beside him, Dean's mouth is pursed and he's nodding his head slowly. His eyes are far away and Sam can see a thousand thought racing through his brother's head all at once. He doesn't look surprised, but Sam isn't entirely sure that's a good thing. "So," Dean says. "That's what's been bugging you?" Sam tilts his head at his brother's light, mocking tone. "Uh, yeah. It was more or less disturbing." Dean snorts. "Pansy." All of a sudden he throws open the passenger side door and hops out of the car. "Excuse me?" Sam scrambles out after him. "Dean, I don't know if you heard me but a homicidal demon is trying to mind control me into shooting you in the face. I'm somewhat concerned and that makes me pansy?" For some strange, twisted reason, Dean is laughing. He motions for Sam to get out of the way. "Move, man, I'm gonna drive for a while." "Dean! Are we not gonna talk about this?" "Why should we?" Sam throws his hands into the air, gaping at his brother. He knows Dean is a little to casual about life and death situations sometimes but this is an all new low, even for him. He opens his mouth and starts to argue some more but Dean silences him. He stops laughing but the crooked smile doesn't leave his face as he grabs Sam's shoulder, shaking him a little. "Fine. Lemme ask you something, then. Are you planning on wasting me sometime soon?" "Wha--no, of course not!" He leans in real close and whispers, "Then why are you driving yourself crazy over this? Max and Weber planned to kill their victims, they wanted to do it. You're not planning to ventilate me anytime soon so who the hell cares what some hell spawn says while you're sleeping?" Sam suddenly isn't sure if the urge to grab Dean's neck and start squeezing is him or the demon. "I do, Dean. I care. You know, just a little." "You know what'll help that?" Sam sighs. "What." Dean steers him out of the way and jumps into the driver's seat. He reaches for the radio and cranks the volume all the way up until Beastie Boys 'Sabotage' is blasting so loud Baby's frame rattles with every beat. Dean grins at Sam, who is still shaking his head in disbelief, and pats the passenger seat. "Hop in, Sammy-boy. We've still got a long way to go until Hermosa." "You're ridiculous." Sam slides in beside him and slams the door shut. Dean hits the gas and they go peeling back onto the highway. As he sings loudly and off-tune to the blaring music, Sam turns toward the window, leaning his head against the cool glass. He's been doing this ever since he found out about Sam's destiny: trying to act like it doesn't scare him shitless. Sam knows he does it for his sake, always the fearless big brother who can protect him from everything. And maybe he can. God knows Dean has saved his ass more times than he can count, from every manner of creepy-crawly under the sun. So just for a while, just for a little while... Maybe Sam can go back to being that little kid who looked up at Dean and saw someone invincible. Hermosa, Arizona is a small town of just under two hundred people sitting in the middle of desertous, rocky terrain. There's only one road in and out, and only one motel. The boys arrive just before three a.m. and the growl of the Impala's engine is the only sound to be heard seemingly for miles around. The motel is a squat, brownish building with one floor and five rooms, none of which are occupied. The vacancy sign creaks in the hot wind, illuminated by a sheer bluish spotlight. Dean parks the car out front and they step out, swinging their bags over their shoulders. "So anything look familiar yet, Oda Mae?" "Not yet," Sam says, glancing around. "I think we're looking for a church." "You 'think'?" "I can't be sure but the insignia on the bowl I saw was definitely church property at the very least." They push through the front door of the motel and are greeted by the stench of mildew and the buzz of an ancient tabletop fan. The front desk is unoccupied but there's a light on in the back room. Dean glances at Sam, shrugs, and hits the bell on the counter. There's a scuffling sound and a startled peep. The two boys wait as the sound of bare feet tap across the floor in the office and the lock clicks. The door cracks open and a woman sticks her head out, messy blonde hair falling around her pretty face. Sam's body stiffens at the sight of her. "Oh! You're not--so sorry! Just a second, fellas." The door shuts again and Dean grins. "Well, well, she was kinda--" Dean looks over at Sam and stops mid-sentence. "Sam?" His brother has gone kind of pale and is staring at the door with wide, startled eyes. "What's the matter with you," Dean whispers. Sam swallows and grabs his shoulder, turning Dean away from the office. "That woman. I saw her in my vision," he says. "What? She's one of the crazy wackadoos that commits suicide?" Sam nods urgently, feeling the smallest twinge of relief that--at the very least--they're not too late to stop it. If this woman is still alive, then so are the others. "Dammit. Why are all the hot ones crazy?" "Dean," Sam grumbles. As the office door opens again, they turn back to face the woman with innocent smiles. Her hair has been pulled back and a teal bathrobe is tied tightly around her. "So sorry about that," she laughs lightly, coming up to the desk. "And please excuse the mildew smell. We had rain a couple days ago and it leaked through the roof. I'm still in the process of repairing it." "It's no problem," Dean says, that grin of his somehow finding its way back to his face. "So, were you expecting someone?" Sam asks, trying to sound casual. "Uh, yeah. My daughter, actually. She's with her grandmother," she says. "Will that be two singles or...a double?" "Two singles," they say at the same time. "We're brothers," Dean adds quickly. The woman gives an--admittedly--cute little laugh. "Oh, I see. Sorry, I gotta ask..." "No worries." Dean leans on the counter, watching her write on the sign in sheet. "Names?" "I'm Dean Wilcox and this is my little brother Sammy." "Just Sam, please." He cuts a sidelong look at Dean, who ignores him completely. Her smile is charming and it makes her bright blue eyes glitter. "Well it's very nice to meet you," she says sincerely. "We haven't had guests in almost two weeks. I suppose that's to be expected in a town of this size." "Sorry, I didn't catch your name," Dean says with a smile of his own. "Oh--sorry, half asleep. It's Addison." "Well, Addison, I'm sure this place would get tons more guests if they only knew it had such a charming owner." Sam rolls his eyes, half pushing Dean away from the poor girl. "So you've got a daughter?" "Yep," Addison's expression warms just slightly as she pulls a framed photo from the shelves beneath the desk. "Her name's Trisha. She'll be turning five in three days." Sam accepts the picture and Dean moves in to see it as well. "Wow, she's cute." Dean smiles genuinely at the picture of the freckled little blonde girl. She has her mother's big, blue eyes and a dimpled chin. Sam's stomach twists but he manages to maintain his composure as he hands the photo back. "Sorry, Addison, I don't mean to be rude but, uh, I'm suddenly not feeling so well. Would you mind showing us to our room?" Addison's face melts with concern and she nods, hurrying around the side of the desk. "Yes, of course. Follow me." As they follow two steps behind her, Dean leans in and whispers in Sam's ear, "What's the matter? Is it the little girl?" "Yes. She was in my vision too..." "Jesus..." "Dean..." Sam grips his duffel bag until his knuckles turn white. "Something terrible is about to happen to these people. I don't know how or why but something is going to make Addison kill her own child." "Here we are," Addison says, unlocking the door marked with a black 1. The room is small and dimly lit but the furnishings are decent and, unlike the lobby, it doesn't smell like mildew. She turns to Sam, who is still somewhat greenish, and smiles sympathetically. "I'm right next door if you need anything at all. I can get you some ginger ale and crackers if you think it'll help." "No, no, a night's rest and I'll be good as new. Thanks, though." She nods and steps back into the hallway. "Well, goodnight. I hope you feel better, Sam." Sam and Dean both say "goodnight" as she shuts the door. They listen to the sound of her bare feet walking down the hall and don't start talking until they hear the office door shut. As soon as they're sure she's gone, they toss their bags and Dean flops onto the bed. Sam is too wired to sit, thinking of Addison and her young daughter Trisha. "Hey, Sam?" "Yeah?" Sam paces to the window, looking out across the dark town as if expecting to see some great mob of suicidals marching up the street. But no such luck. "Addison doesn't really seem like the type to kill herself," Dean says thoughtfully. "And she definitely seems to love that little girl..." "Yeah, well this is a demon we're talking about here, Dean. Maybe it's going to...hypnotize them. Mind control them." Sam unlocks the window and pulls it open, screeching on its hinges. He sticks his head out, searching for a cross or a steeple or anything church-like. They didn't notice anything driving into town though... "There is another option here, you know." Sam glances over his shoulder. "What?" Dean stands up from the bed, his hands in his pockets. "Your visions. They're always related to the yellow eyed demon. How do we know it doesn't show you whatever it wants you to see, Sam?" He turns away from the window. "What are you saying, Dean? You think the demon shows me premonitions of people dying because...why? It wants me to save them? I guess it does that out of the goodness of its heart?" He laughs humorlessly. "Hey, don't get defensive. I'm just saying maybe...it wants you here. It did tell you to come find it, didn't it? Could be some kind of trap." Sam drops his gaze to the floor, another sick feeling churning in his gut. "I hadn't thought of that," he admits. "Course you didn't. It's 'cause you're reckless." Dean smiles. Sam raises his eyebrows. "Me?" "Oh hell yeah. You're so consumed with saving people and defying your destiny that you don't even consider you might be putting your own foot in the bear's trap trying to get someone else out of it." Sam rubs the back of his neck. "It's...a possibility I guess, sure but...we don't exactly have a choice here. We can't abandon these people just because we're afraid we're playing into the demon's hands." "I know, Sam, just...do me a favor. Don't go off by yourself on this one." Sam smiles at the floor and nods. "Sure," he says softly. "Alright then." Dean claps his hands, pulling the laptop of Sam's bag and tosses it over. "Do what you do best, nerd." By sunrise, they've had no luck in identifying any local or nearby churches. The branch Sam identified from the logo on the bowl has been shut down for almost five years and, though the building is still standing, it's now abandoned. Meanwhile, Dean keeps an eye out the window to be sure nothing apocalyptic happens while Sam is on google. All night Hermosa is completely quiet. The sun rises slowly over the rocky horizon and the people wake even slower, meandering out onto front porches for a smoke, and taking dogs out to the bathroom. Dean sits by the open window sipping his fifth cup of coffee, yawning and rubbings his eyes every handful of seconds. "Any luck?" Sam sighs and shuts the lid of the computer, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Nope." "Not a very religious town." "Seems like it." "Bunch a' heathens," Dean chuckles. Sam snorts at the irony and peels himself off the bed, cracking his spine and stretching his stiff limbs. "I'm pretty sure my vision took place at night," he says. "And if it didn't happen last night then that means we're probably safe for a few hours to get some work done." Dean nods and pulls the window shut. "What do you say we take a peek at that old church? It's as good a starting point as any." Sam nods. "Sounds good." They head out, finding Addison at the front desk. Only this time she isn't alone. Little Trisha is the spitting image of her mother. Smiling and bright eyed in a little blue romper. She sees the boys coming and edges behind the desk, peering at them shyly from the safety of her mother's side. Sam's heart hurts thinking of her crying and begging to live in a dirty basement... "Hey there," Dean says. "Morning." Addison smiles at them and pets her daughter's hair. "Morning guys. Trisha, what do you say?" "Good morning," Trisha peeps. "Say, Sam, how are you feeling?" Addison asks. "Any better?" It's a physical effort to tear his eyes away from the little girl. "Uh, yeah, much better. Thanks." "Good, I'm glad." Addison kneels down by her daughter. "Hey, why don't you go play with your dolls for a while before we go?" Trisha disappears into the office a moment later, leaving the door open when her mother asks her to. "So, what are you boys doing in Hermosa anyway? I mean it's not exactly a tourist trap." "Oh we're just passing through," Sam lies easily. "We're, uh, actually on a road trip. Sightseeing the smallest towns in America." "Oh gosh. Well Hermosa is definitely a contender." She laughs and Sam jolts a little, remembering her voice in his vision. "Don't be scared, sweety. We're going to a better place now. The prophet is going to take us to heaven. Shhh, baby. Here, swallow this. It will taste bad going down but that won't last long, I promise." What would bring her to that? "You know actually, Addison," Dean chimes in all of a sudden. "We do kind of have a reason to be here..." She smiles thinly. "Which is?" His confidence expression doesn't crack an inch when he says, "I think you know." For a second, Addison doesn't budge either. She stares at him with such perfect nonchalance that Sam is sure Dean's bluff is about to get them busted. However, just a moment before he jumps in to cover his brother's ass, Addison chuckles and shakes her head. "It's the prophet, isn't it? I knew that would get out someday." Sam freezes, Addison's voice echoing in his head like ghostly mantra. "The prophet is going to take us to heaven." He can feel Dean glance at him out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. "Exactly," Dean says coolly. "I gotta admit. We're curious as hell." She laughs. "That's understandable I guess. But tell me, how'd you find out about him?" Dean shrugs. "We have our ways." "Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about him?" Sam interjects. "I mean, let's face it there's not a lot of real info out there about this guy..." Everything they say, they're pulling straight out of their asses but thankfully, Addison doesn't seem to notice. "Um, sure I guess. I mean I'll tell you what I know but I'll be honest, it isn't much." The "prophet's" name is Christian Ware. He's a twenty-three year old local, born and raised here in sunny Hermosa. In 1983, when Chris was only six months old, his house mysteriously caught fire. He lost his mother to the flames and only a year later, his father died from an overdose. It was something of a local tragedy, see everyone in Hermosa knows each other...so the whole ordeal was kept pretty hush hush out of respect. No newspapers were notified and those that found out were respectfully asked to keep it out of print. Thomas and Marguerite Ware were put to rest quietly in the local cemetery, located behind the old church, and their son Chris was put into the care of his god parents. Only a handful of years later, it was like the tragedy never occurred. No record of it anywhere but in the memories of those old enough to remember. That is, until a year ago when Chris's godparents died in a fire in their home. It's said the entire house was completely engulfed in flames. The inferno was so hot and intense that firefighters couldn't get close enough to put it out. For hours, the town stood by in horror and watched their neighbor's home burn to the ground. It was assumed all three of them had perished because there was absolutely no way in hell anyone could have survived a fire like that. Except someone did make it out. Right in the middle of the worst of the fire, Chris Ware walked out the front door without a burn on him. It was a miracle. A bonafide miracle from God. But the surprises didn't end there. Only weeks after his family's death, Chris began to exhibit strange abilities. He would sit in the local hospital and would be able to tell anyone when they were going to die, right down to the minute. At first people thought he was crazy, suffering from some kind of post traumatic stress from losing his family... But then people began to die. Right on the dot that Chris said they would. This kept on for months until finally someone gathered the courage to ask the question that everyone was thinking: "How do you know when people are going to die, Chris?" And according to Addison, he looked that person straight in the eye and said, "The Yellow Eyed Angel tells me."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"Great. This is friggin' great," Dean says as he and Sam all but run toward the abandoned church. Apparently, it's not quite as abandoned as the town website would have people believe. Ever since Chris Ware started exhibiting his "godly abilities", people have been using it as kind of a meeting place to hear the word of the Yellow Eyed Angel. "A cult, Sammy. We're dealing with a friggin' demon worshiping cult."
"Yeah and the worst part is, no one knows their "angel" is actually a demon. These are all good, decent people, Dean. Chris and the yellow eyed demon are deceiving them. They're trying to get the townspeople to kill themselves in some kind of 'holy sacrifice'."
"Oh it's a sacrifice alright, but definitely not the holy kind."
The church is a bland, white building surrounded by a short wrought-iron fence. The lawn is slightly overgrown and one of the windows are boarded but there are clear signs of occupation. Namely the painting of a single yellow eye artistically rendered beside the front door.
Sam and Dean hop the fence and jog up the steps to the door, rattling the handle. "Locked," Dean says, peering around. He reaches inside his coat for his lock pick but Sam stops him.
"Don't. There are too many people around right now."
"Maybe there's a back way--"
"Excuse me." Sam and Dean twist around at the voice. A middle aged guy in a white polo is standing on the other side of the fence, watching them curiously. "Can I help you boys?"
"Uh." They exchange quick glances before plastering on the fake smiles. "Yeah, actually. We're kinda new in town and were wondering why the church was locked up."
"Yeah, we heard it was still more or less in use these days by a guy named Chris. We were hoping to talk to him."
"Oh," the man's face sours. "Well I'm sorry boys, the church stays locked up at all times unless Chris is having one of his...'sermons'."
The corner of Dean's mouth twitches up at the man's tone. "Something tells me you're not exactly a fan of this Chris guy, uhh."
The guy sighs quietly and shrugs with one shoulder. "George," he tells them. "I don't mean him any disrespect, he was a nice boy once..."
"Once?" Sam asks.
"Well he's...had a rough time of it lately is all."
"You mean with his family dying?"
George frowns suddenly. "Yes," he says sharply. "They were nice people and they didn't deserve what happened to them...but all this," he tosses his hand at the church. "It's blasphemy. And frankly, I think it's cruel that these people are letting Chris believe he's some kind of messenger from God. Just because they're afraid of him." He's shaking his head in disgust. "And all this nonsense about a Yellow Eyed Angel."
"So you don't believe he can actually predict people's deaths?" Sam asks.
"Of course he can't. That kind of thing is impossible."
"People are saying it's a miracle," Dean says, playing devil's advocate. "That he walked outta that house fire without a burn on him."
George scoffs loudly, his face wrinkling like he just smelled a bad odor. "Don't get me wrong, boys, I am a religious man. In fact I was the priest at this very church for twenty years before they shut it down. I want to see miracles just as badly as everyone else...but what happened that day...that was no miracle. It was evil. And as far as I'm concerned," he says quietly, glancing over his shoulder as a pair of grannies go walking by. "Chris started that fire himself."
Sam pretends to be surprised. "Why would he do that?"
Father George's light grey eyes lock on Sam's, then flick to Dean's. There's a pinch in his brow and he suddenly looks rigid and nervous. "You boys believe in the Bible?"
They don't even hesitate. "Yes."
"Then let me give you some advice." He nods his head at the church. "Stay outta there. It's not a House of the Lord anymore." "So good old Father George seems to think the Devil's involved in all this," Dean comments as he and Sam are crossing the empty road toward the southern end of town, sand blowing around their ankles in the dry wind. Chris's next sermon is that night--exactly at midnight, go figure--and they've decided to come locked and loaded in the very likely circumstance that the yellow eyed demon doesn't take their interruption sitting down.
"Well I don't know about the Devil but it's a demon at the very least," Sam agrees. They reach the Impala and Sam reclines against the side of the car, keeping watch while his brother pops the trunk and lifts open the secret compartment underneath. Sam hands him his backpack and Dean shovels in everything they'll need: holy water, bundles of exorcism rites, two liter-drums of salt, the shotguns...
Dean slams the trunk and swings the bag over his shoulder. Sam falls into step beside him as they head into the motel. The office is dark so Addison and Trisha must be out. "I think we should lock this place down," Dean whispers. "Just in case the demon catches wind of us."
"Good idea." Sam catches the drum of salt Dean tosses him and says, "I'll take the office, the lobby, and the main hall. You get the rooms."
"You know, Addison's not gonna be real thrilled when she comes home and finds lines of salt all over the floors," Dean says as he walks toward the rooms.
"She'll live," Sam counters, instantly regretting his word choice. I hope. That night, Addison and Trisha return home just before eight o'clock. The boys hear the front door open and shut from their room and jump up, excuses ready in their mouths. When they find her, she's standing in the middle of the lobby, gaping at the salt by the door, by the windows, circles of it throughout the hall, and by the doors to the each room. She looks up when they come out and motions like "what the hell guys?"
"Addison," Sam says, forcing a smile. "Sorry about the, uh, the mess but we just figured you'd been so kind and helpful that we would try to help out with the, uh, the leak."
Her brow is still furrowed slightly but she cracks a thin smile. "You guys do know it was the ceiling that leaked, right? Not the floor...?"
Dean chuckles and nods. "Uh, yeah, we figured. Salts helps with mildewy smells."
"Woah, really?" She stares around, shifting from foot to foot. "Okay, well...thank you. I guess..."
"And don't worry, we'll clean up the mess," Sam adds.
Addison grins. "Yeah you will," she says with a laugh. "Come on, Trish, let's go have some supper before church."
Church? A spike of pain stabs through Sam's brain and he winces, touching his forehead. "Ch-uh, church? Addison, you're going to see Chris Ware tonight?"
"Yeah," she says and he can see the way she looking at his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. He smiles and mutters, 'headache' and she relaxes. "Look, I know you boys probably don't really believe in what he does but I'm telling you, Chris is the real deal." Her eyes are big and bright and full of trust. The same way they were in Sam's vision. "He's going to help all of us repent our sins. He's working through God to give us a second chance."
Sam opens his mouth to argue, to tell her to stay here tonight with her daughter, but Dean jumps in before he has a the opportunity.
"You'll get no arguments outta me," he says with a charming grin and Addison's expression brightens. "Say, what time is his sermon?"
"Midnight," she says. "Why, were you looking to go?"
"If we can. I know it's probably not exactly a public event..."
"It's not," Addison agrees, biting her lip. "But...I'm sure Chris would love to have a couple new members in his flock. I could bring you the two of you. As guests."
"That'd be great. We'd love to go."
Addison smiles and scoops Trisha into her arms. "Alright then. We'll see you guys at midnight." With that, she disappears behind the office door and Dean lets the smile drop from his face.
"Repent their sins, huh...?" Dean sighs and scrubs a hand across his eyes. "This is seriously messed up."
"Dean..."
Dean whips around at Sam's choked voice. His little brother is swaying unsteadily on his feet, suddenly doubled over and clutching his head. "Son of a bitch..." Dean wraps his arm around Sam's waist and hauls him toward their room, more and more of his brother's weight leaning on him until they get inside. Sam starts to sink to the floor, Dean struggling to keep him on his feet. "Come on, Sammy, just to the bed, come on...almost there..."
Sam collapses on the mattress, holding his head and moaning. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring vacantly at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling much too quickly.
Dean hovers over him uselessly, watching his baby brother twist and writhe on the motel bed, veins popping out of his head which is misted in a thin sheen of sweat. Gently, he sits down beside him, careful not to jolt Sam too much, and folds his arms over his stomach, waiting...
Already the vision is easing up. Sam's face relaxes and after a few owlish blinks, his eyes refocus and flick over to Dean's face. His big bro forces a smile and pats his shoulder.
"What was it this time," Dean asks as he pushes himself up onto his elbows.
Sam squeezes his eyes closed and rubs at them. "Ahh...it was, uh..." He wipes the sweat away with a shaking hand. "It was you...again."
"Mm," Dean nods. "Well," he stands and stretches his back. "You get some rest before the big show tonight. Oh, and let me know if you're planning to shoot me, okay?"
"That's not funny, Dean."
"Eh, it's a little funny."
"You're a maniac." Sam sits up and rubs his head, downing a swig from the water bottle in his backpack.
"Says the guy who dreams about shooting his brother."
"Dean. Seriously." Ten minutes later there's a light knock on the door. Dean had been watching some pay per view cooking show and munching on a bag of pretzels while Sam stole a little sleep in between hellish nightmares. But even the gentle sound of the knock is enough to stir him, so Dean shoots off the bed and hurries to the door, pausing only long enough to check his gun before pulling it open.
Addison is on the other side.
Dean's brow furrows at the paleness of her face and her wide, deer-in-headlights gaze. "Addison," he says. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Her reply is just a little too immediate for his liking.
"...you sure?" he asks. Only then does he notice she's holding something.
Oh shit.
"Yeah, I'm--I'm sure." Addison holds out their backpacks. Dean must have dropped them in the lobby when Sam had his vision. Shit! What is he, a friggin amateur? And an idiot one at that? "I just came to give these back to you. You must have forgotten them after we talked."
Dean accepts the bags with a sinking feeling in his gut... Jesus, if she saw what was inside these bags she'd think they're insane. Or dangerous, or both. And by the look on her face... Dean sets the bags down inside the room and turns back to Addison. "Look, Addison, I know we don't know each other very well but if there's something wrong, you can tell us."
For a split second, Addison's eyes soften. She rubs her arm anxiously and opens her mouth as if she's going to speak...but then she clamps her mouth shut and just shakes her head. "No, no, everything's fine," she says without looking him in the eye. "See you boys tonight."
Dean watches her walk down the hall and disappear into the office before he shuts the door, swearing quietly under his breath.
"Dean...?" Sam rouses from his nap, squinting through the dim lighting of the motel room and the flickering of the television screen. "Wha's goin' on?"
"Might be trouble," Dean says. "When you had your vision, I left our bags in the lobby...and I think Addison might've seen our stuff."
It might be that he just woke up but Sam doesn't react as badly as Dean would have. He just sighs, rubs a hand across his brow, and stands up. "Are you sure she saw it?"
"No, I'm not sure. She definitely looked freaked to hell though, man."
"Well, it could have been something else," Sam says. "I mean, this town is about to commit mass suicide. Who knows what she's freaked about?"
"Sam. I appreciate you trying to make me feel like less of a complete moron here but come on! I'm pretty sure the yellow eyed demon isn't sendin' out friggin' satantic candygrams, dude. There's no way she knows what's about to happen."
"Yeah well I'm pretty sure that if she did see what was in our bags, we'd be swarming with cops by now. And she definitely wouldn't hand deliver the duffel bag full of shotguns right into the hands of guys she thinks are dangerous." Sam smirks at his big brother's utter lack of an argument. It's not often Dean doesn't have some smart ass rebuttal so when those rare moments come, he has to take advantage and just enjoy the moment. "I think we're okay, dude. Let's just focus on the game plan for tonight."
Dean nods, chuckling. "You know, Sammy, you're not as dumb as you look."
"Three years at Stanford," Sam reminds him. "At least it was good for something." At 11:50, Dean, Sam, Addison, and little Trisha leave the motel together. It's a short walk to the church but an eerie one. It seems as though the entire population of Hermosa has spilled out of their homes and are all walking, completely silently, down the streets. In the pitch darkness they look like ghosts, washed out by the moon and the street lamps. Mute specters walking to their graves.
Addison holds Trisha's little hand and seeing them together like this hurts Sam's head as well as his heart. He and Dean are just as quiet as the others. They've each got flasks of holy water tucked into their jackets, knives in their boots, guns in their waistbands, and books of exorcism in their back pockets. They're armed to the teeth and yet they still feel like they're walking into the enemy's hands...
When they round the bend, they find the church doors standing open. People are already pouring inside and Trish looks up quizzically at her mother but knows well enough not to ask. Her trepidation is almost palpable.
"You smell that?" Sam whispers, grimacing at the odor in the air.
"Yeah. Smells like ass."
"More like sulfur and ozone."
"That's what I said. Ass."
Sam touches the flask of holy water in his coat and ignores the instincts screaming in his head to turn around and walk away. Still, he can't feel too bad about having the urge to run. He's never smelled sulfur so strong, and especially out in the open air like this.
The demon is close. Sam can...feel his presence again. Feel those acid yellow eyes on him through the darkness. The voice from Sam's dream mocks him.
"Come find me, Sammy... Come and play. Or all these people and everyone you've ever loved or even remotely cared about will die a slow, suffering, messy death. Starting with Dean."
The church would be pitch black inside if not for the rows of candles sitting atop the ancient pews. Cob webs and dust coat every surface that isn't within arm's distance of the central aisle, which at the cracked, faded altar. Behind which is a wooden door, half off its hinges, and a steep wooden staircase leading down into the darkness.
No one speaks a word as they descend into the basement, herded like cows by the people behind them.
Dean remembers going to church once when he was little. It was Easter day and Mom insisted they go, just one time, to give little Dean the experience. That day could not have been more different from this. Even back then, as wide eyed and impressionable as he was, he didn't understand the whole concept of religion or God. To him, it was just another excuse for Mom to squeeze him into a suit and uncomfortable shoes and drag him on a long car ride in the back seat of the Impala when all he wanted was to eat his candy and play with his brand new little brother.
Still, it hadn't been that bad. The church was bright and decorated with colorful cut-out bunnies and eggs. The priest's sermon hadn't lasted a terribly long time and was mostly happy, talking about Jesus's miraculous resurrection. Afterward, the chorus sung a bunch of songs and the Sunday school teacher ran an Easter egg hunt in the yard. Mom and Dad let Dean carry Sam with him for a while as they watched from a distance and he didn't cry or fuss even once. He just stared up at his brother's face with those wide blue eyes, already turning brown around the edges.
Other than grabbing the occasional holy talisman or vial of holy water to battle monsters, ghosts, and demons, that's really the only memory Dean has of a church. Even staying with Pastor Jim was more like spending the week at an uncle's house than living in a church...
But now there's this. Walking just ahead of Sam, crammed behind Addison and Trisha, forced ahead down the claustrophobic staircase, Dean feels smothered. Trapped.
How the hell are they going to get out of here if things so sideways?
The basement is somehow lighter than the floor above, though the space is so packed he can't tell where the illumination is coming from. The floor is straight dirt, the walls bare, grey blocks. The people are crammed in like sardines, standing shoulder to shoulder, elbows to ribs, heads craning to see the raised platform against the back wall and the man standing on it.
"I've gotta say," Dean whispers to Sam once they've come to a stop, purposefully pushing themselves against the wall nearest the stairs. "That's not what I pictured the magical 'prophet' to look like." The man on the stage is, obviously, no older than Sam. His youth however is somewhat masked by a short haircut, just slightly longer than a military buzz, and a stubble on his chin. "But he's really playing up the whole 'man of God' thing, isn't he," he adds as an after thought.
Like Sam, Christian Ware is a tall, thin young man. He stands with his chin raised, a satisfied smile on his face and his hands behind his back. His outfit is entirely black. Black slacks, black loafers, a black suit jacket. All that's missing is the white clergy collar and he might actually pass for a preacher.
"Yeah," Sam whispers back. "No wonder these people have been tricked. He certainly carries himself like a holy man."
"Too bad he's crazy as a soup sandwich."
As the last of the flock quietly makes their way down the steps into the crowded basement, stuffy with body heat and silent as a tomb, Chris blinks as if coming out of a dream and smiles warmly at his audience.
"Good evening," he begins. His voice is gentle and kind. "I see we have some new faces among us tonight." The hundred others in the basement immediately turn their heads, eyes zeroing in on the brothers. Well that didn't take long.
Dean smiles uncomfortable and gives a little wave. "Hi, there..."
"I understand you're guests of Addison's."
How did he...? "Uh, yeah. That's right. We're staying in her motel for a few days."
"I see." Chris's smile never falters, neither does the sweetness of his voice, yet it's like the air in the room gets thicker. Squeezing Dean's throat. "May I ask what's brought you all the way out here?"
"Uhh..." Dean squeezes his eyes shut as the room begins to blur in front of his eyes. Why is it so damn hot? The smell of ozone is overwhelming.
"We actually came to talk to you," Sam interjects suddenly.
Chris raises his eyebrows. "Nothing serious I hope. Perhaps it can wait until after my sermon." His grin is syrupy sweet but Sam's face is hard as stone. On the platform where Chris is presiding over his flock, there's a squat wooden table. Sam's stomach churns at the sight of incrested bowls filled with white pills.
"I'd really prefer if we talked now."
The people around them shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Some look anxious, others green and ill, most however scowl at Sam and Dean with contempt.
"Ah," Chris says, nodding. "I wasn't sure at first but I think I am now. You must be Sammy Winchester."
"Just Sam, if you don't mind." His voice is hard and cold. Dean rubs his eyes. The room is so blurred it looks like smeared ink. What the hell is happening? "How do you know who I am?"
"The Angel told me to expect you." There's a sudden outbreak of murmurs in the crowd. A few cross themselves, muttering prayers. "He said you were like me. Blessed."
Sam snorts a humorless laugh. "You call this blessed?"
"Yes, I do." Like Moses at the Red Sea, the crowd suddenly parts without Chris having moved a muscle or given them any kind of indication he wished to step down. But as they move apart, he slips his hands into his pockets and walks down the two steps to the dirt floor. It's a physical effort on Dean's part not to touch his gun. "You see, Sammy, before I met the Yellow Eyed Angel, I was nothing. An orphan living with strangers. I didn't understand how God could do this to me...until the angel explained."
"It's not an angel," Sam says. "You know it's not an angel."
Chris goes on as if Sam never spoke. "Now, with his help, I am blessed. Perhaps not in the most...traditional of senses...but blessed nonetheless." He smiles, coming to a stop just a foot in front of the brothers. "Tell me, Sam. What can you do?"
"What?"
"Your powers. What powers do you have?"
"Sam," Dean says lowly. Somewhere below the stench of ozone, he can pick up just the lightest hint of sulfur...
"Premonitions," Sam replies. He stands eye to eye with Chris. They're exactly the same height, almost the exact same build. Hell, Chris looks more like Sam's brother than Dean does.
"Really? What kind of premonitions?" The crowd is still murmuring amongst themselves, glancing around in confusion.
"I see people die before it happens."
Chris whistles, making a face. "Ugh, that's kinda dark, isn't it? Still," he says. "It's not as dark as what I can do." He grins, bouncing almost excitedly on the balls of his feet. "Go ahead, Sam, guess. Guess what I can do."
"Sam," Dean says again. The sulfuric odor is getting stronger and the basement is getting unbearably hot. His vision has cleared but now the air itself is strangling him. And by the looks on the faces of Chris's flock, he'd say they feel it too.
Still Sam doesn't back down. "You can make people kill themselves."
A slow grin spreads across Chris's face. "Bingo."
"You didn't foresee anyone's death. You set a date and a time, then slipped in when no one was around and used your powers to make them commit suicide."
Chris is chuckling, the people around him have gone white with terror.
"But I imagine a power like that wouldn't get you much in the way of a religious following...or any kind of following except for the police. So you lied. And told everyone that the yellow eyed demon that visited you in your dreams and told you to kill was actually an angel. You told everyone that you were blessed and could lead them to salvation. And now..." Sam glances around at the shaking townspeople, trapped in this basement, too cram-packed to run away. "You're letting me stand here and run my mouth and ruin your rep. Why?"
"You're pretty sharp, Sammy," Chris says as the people around him start to push and shove and panic. "I'm impressed. But there is one thing you failed to realize."
"What's that," Sam asks stiffly.
"When they closed this church down, it was desanctified. Meaning this is no longer hallowed ground." The sulfur smell is so strong a handful of people in the crowd faint. Others vomit, but most are simply stricken with terror. White faced and trembling under the oppressive swell of demonic energy. "And one more thing, boys," Chris says. "I'm not Chris."
Sam jerks back in shock when Chris's eyes flash yellow, but it's too little too late.
The demon sends them both flying back and when Sam hits the wall, everything goes black.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The yellow eyed demon raises his hand and the Winchester boys are sent flying. Dean crashes into the staircase, the impact cracking one of the steps in half. His vision goes black and for a second, he can't move. His arms and legs are dead weight and sucking in breath is an agony hotter than hell fire. He tastes blood in his mouth, lots of it. The demon possessing Chris's body stands over them and chuckles, watching as Dean spits blood onto the floor, and yet more fills his mouth immediately. It takes him a startlingly long time to realize his jaw clamped down on his cheek when he was sent flying. He has to spit again to avoid gagging. "Sammy," he gasps, pulling himself up. His limbs are stiff and trembling with shock. His back is worryingly numb. "Sammy..." The hundred-odd people in the room have begun passing out. Or dropping dead. Who knows what the demon is capable of. Dozens of them are laying on the floor, the others choking on the smell and the ungodly heat. It feels like the inside of a damn incinerator. The air bends with heat waves. Dean finds his brother laying on his side a few feet away, just inches from the yellow eyed demon who grins down at him. "I gotta say, Sam, I'm a little disappointed it was that easy," the demon says. "But hey, I'll cut you some slack, it has been a long day for you." Sam is motionless at his feet, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. Dean's heart stops as the demon kneels down beside his baby brother and brushes his hair aside, inspecting the injury. "You don't touch him!" Dean yells, ignoring the stab of pain that punches through him. "You get your filthy hands off him!" He struggles to get up, but his limbs betray him. The demon ignores him entirely, whistling. "Yeah, that one's gonna leave a mark, kiddo." He runs his thumb across the injury, smearing the blood onto his finger. Dean's stomach twists and his body flashes red with rage and disgust as the demon slips the finger into his mouth, smirking at the taste of Sam's blood... With a grunt of pain, he struggles to sit up, his back seizing as the shock wears off. There are tingles in his arms and legs, black spots in his vision. He falls back down. The demon gently taps Sam's cheeks, rousing him from unconsciousness. Sammy groans, his eyes squeezing tightly shut, a clumsy hand reaching up to touch his bleeding forehead. Dean reaches into his jacket, every movement a painful struggle. "Wakey, wakey, Sunshine," the demon says. Sam is slow to wake up but once he does, he jolts at finding Chris's face and those ungodly yellow eyes hovering over him. "Ah, there you are, good. I don't know why but this is always so much easier when they're awake..." In a flash, Chris's hand is on Sam's head. For half a second nothing happens. Then the yellow of the demon's eyes grows brighter and hotter. His stolen body starts to darken as if in shadow, and Sam's back arcs off the floor as he lets out a choked yell. The demon mutters something under his breath. A chant. "Hey asshole!" The demon glances sideways just as Dean uncorks the flask. He tosses his arm, splashing holy water right across old yellow eyes's face. Steam erupts into the air as the demon recoils away, screaming, clutching his head. Dean throws more water on him as he struggles to get to his knees. With one final toss, he empties the flask and the demon staggers away, shrieking in agony. "Sam," he grinds out, crawling to his brother's side. "Sam, come on, get up. We gotta get outta here." Sam looks dazed, laying on the floor with blood running freely down his face, but he nods obediently and pushes himself up. "What the hell just happened," he asks, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Don't know, don't care right now. We gotta haul ass before the demon recovers. Where's the salt?" Sam pulls it out of his coat and hands it over. The brothers clumsily stagger to their feet, choking on sulfur and smoke, tripping over collapsed townspeople as they book it for the stairs. "Everyone get outta here," Sam yells to the handful of remaining conscious people. "If you can, get to Addison's motel! We've got it locked down!" There's no hesitation. The number of people still awake enough to move scramble after the boys, coughing and sucking down fresh air as they break free of the smothering odor and heat. Dean yells for them to hurry then slams the basement door shut, shaking out a line of salt on the threshold. "There," he pants, standing back. "That oughta hold him for a while." "It won't keep him forever," Sam says, leaning on his knees. "We've gotta get these people to safety." "Right." Dean limps over to his little brother. They walk together, keeping each other upright on the far trudge to the motel. There are only sixteen others who escaped. Sixteen out of almost two hundred. And the worst part is...Addison and little Trisha are not among them. "As long as you're on one side of the salt and the demon's on the other, you'll be safe," Dean tells the shaken refugees as they stand inside the lobby of the motel. "And whatever you do, don't break any of these lines." Some nod along, but most just look so shaken they're borderline catatonic. Dean signs quietly and tries to relax, tries to take some comfort in the safety of the salt lines around him. "Alright," he says softly. "Everyone just...try to keep calm. I know this is a lot to take in but trust us, okay? Now I'm gonna go check on my brother. If anyone sees or hears anything unusual, yell out. Do not let anyone else in without telling me first." The others huddle together on the floor against the front desk, pale and trembling. Dean heads into Addison's office where Sam is busily ransacking the place for salt and filling gallon jugs with water. He looks up when Dean shuts the door behind him. "These blessed yet?" Dean asks, nodding to the pitcher of water on the table. "Uh, no, haven't gotten around to it." Sam straightens up, leaning heavily on the countertop. "Alright, I'll take care of it." Dean removes the bundle of exorcisms from his pocket and unwraps the rosary tying them together. "Exorcizo te, creatura aquae. In nomine dei patris omnipotentis et in virtute spiritus sancti." He drops the rosary into the water and watches it sink to the bottom of the pitcher, dunking his flask inside to fill it. Sam joins him a moment later, dried blood still streaked across his face, and sets a plastic grocery bag beside the holy water. "Went through every room in the motel. This is everything I could find," he says. There are six shakers as well as half a box of salt in the bag. "It'll have to do," Dean says, yearning for the stash in Baby's trunk. Unfortunately going outside at this point would be a death sentence. Chances are the demon's broken through the salt line at the church already and is circling this place like a pissed off Hellhound. "Are you sure you're alright," Sam whispers. "You could barely walk for a while there. And that shoulder is definitely broken." "I'll live," Dean says. His right arm hugged across his midsection, the pain from the shattered bone has gone down to a bearable throb now, helped along by a couple pain pills one of the others gave him. Fortunately, the meds have helped his back too. He isn't sure if anything back there broke but it certainly felt like it for a while... "Speaking of which." Sam gives him a weary look as Dean tilts his brother's head to the side, inspecting his forehead. When they first arrived, they stuck some cotton and tape over it but it's soaked through already. Dean peels back the makeshift bandage and grimaces. Sammy's forehead is practically busted open, broken like a split lip. "We should get that stitched up," he says. "It's bleedin' too much." Sam frowns down at him. His face seems paler than it was before. "You really think we have that kind of time? The demon might be on the move already, Dean. This is the best lead we've had on it in...forever. Or it might have switched bodies and is coming after us. Either way we can't really afford to be sitting around. We gotta start thinking of a plan." Dean ignores him, grabbing the first aid kit off the office wall and snapping it open on the table. It's pretty basic stuff: band-aids, cotton balls, neosporin, and alcohol (not even the good kind). "Come on, Addison," he sighs. "You're a girl. You've gotta have a sewing kit around here somewhere." Sam rolls his eyes at the remark but immediately regrets the gesture. He blinks as the room starts to spin, yanking out one of the chairs at the table and practically falling into it. "You okay?" Dean asks, looking up from the drawers beside the couch. "Little dizzy," he admits, closing his eyes only to find it doesn't help at all. Dean shoves the drawer shut--still no sewing stuff--and frowns at his brother. Sam is visibly swaying in his seat. "You have a headache?" he asks. "Ringing in your ears? Light sensitivity? Feel like you're gonna lose your lunch?" "I don't have a concussion, Dean." "You sure? 'Cause I seem to recall you bashed your head pretty good." "So did you. And even if I did, there's nothing much we can do about it right now." His irritable tone is enough--at least in Dean's mind--to prove that the concussion is very real. "Alright settle down, Tiger." Dean grabs the bag of salt shakers and heads for the door. "You just take a breather. I'm gonna go check the lines." Sam grunts lowly and leans his head into his hand. Oh yeah, he's totally fine. Just as he opens the door, a woman in the lobby screams. Dean bursts into the lobby, Sam right on his tail. The others are standing huddled together like frightened. "What happened," Dean yells. A woman points to the front door. Dean's head swivels, following her finger, and his stomach drops. "Dean! Sam! Oh thank God you're alright! Please let us in," Addison cries, glancing in terror over her shoulder. Her face is streaked with blood and she's gripping her daughter against her chest, holding her so close it looks like she might smother. "Dean..." Sam whispers. "I know." He grabs the flask of holy water from his coat and moves closer. "Don't let her in," someone yells desperately. "She could be the demon!" "Relax," Sam says soothingly. "We'll test her before we let her come any closer." "How'd you get out," Dean asks stiffly, eyeing her up. "I--I don't know," she says, glancing back again. "I was unconscious for a while, I think... By the time Trish woke me up, Chris was gone." "Trish woke you?" Addison's terrified expression hardens to dread at his tone. "She's not--she's the demon, okay? I would know!" "Everyone thinks that," Dean assures her. He uncorks the flask as Sam draws up behind him. "I'm gonna unlock the door, Addison. Don't come any closer until I say so." She visibly swallows at the sight of Sam drawing out his shotgun. "It's loaded with rock salt," Dean tells her. "It'll hurt but it's not fatal to humans. This stuff'll send any demon running though." She grips Trisha closer. "You are not shooting my daughter." "No, of course not." He shakes the flask. "Holy water. Harmless to people." Addison nods anxiously, taking a step back as Dean unlocks the door. Sam cocks the gun, moving in front of the crowd to defend them. The door squeaks open, brushing over the salt line but not breaking it. "Alright, Trish," he says softly. "You first, okay?" The little girl is silent, her baby blue eyes staring at the flask. Dean splashes the water on her and it soaks through her romper but she doesn't react in anyway. Sam smiles in relief as she's ushered through. Her neighbors greet her with open arms. They hold her tight and smooth her hair and whisper comforting words to the shell-shocked child. "Okay, your turn, Addy." She nods urgently. Dean throws the water. In the same instant, he sees something out of the corner of his eye. Yellow eyes glowing in the darkenss. "Shi--" Before the water even reaches Addison, she's gone. Blasted to the side by a telekentic punch. "Mommy!" Trish screams, scrambling after her only to be grabbed up Sam who hands her off to the closest person. He turns back just in time to see Dean running outside. "Dean!" Sam yells. He closes the distance between them in a second, grabbing his brother and yanking him back across the line. "I'm going after Addison," Dean barks. "You stay here. Protect these people." "They don't need protection. The demon isn't after them." "Which is why you gotta stay here, Sam!" "Like hell I am--ahh..." Sam staggers, clutching his head, sucking air through his clenched teeth as Dean yanks away from him. "Dean! Dammit!" Sam starts to go after him but his vision flashes white and he crumples to the floor, another stab of pain shooting through his head. Blood is leaking from his injury, more suddenly pouring out of his nose. The pain is white-hot, like a glowing brand shoved straight into his brain through his eye sockets. Like a lobotomy with a blow torch. This is no vision. He remembers Chris's hand on his head back in the church. He tries to push himself back up but his arms give out. The floor is cold against his cheek but his insides are on fire. Hell itself has opened its doorways inside his veins and he can feel every bite of the flames. Dean reaches Addison, laying prone with her hair flayed around her head, one of her arms twisted in the wrong direction. With his own broken shoulder, he can't pick her up. Looking up down the barrel of his shotgun, he searches the darkness for Chris, for glowing eyes, anything. He knows he saw it earlier, so where did the son of a bitch go? He's only a short run from the motel but it seems like a mile as he loops his good arm around Addison's waist. Dean hauls her to her feet, her head dangling against her chest, moaning in half-consciousness. Only when they both manage to straighten up and start hobbling toward the motel, Dean whipping his head back and forth in paranoia, does he see the crumpled shape in the distance. Chris is there, laying on his belly. Unconscious. That's when he hears Sam scream. And the trap unfolds in front of his eyes like it was written on paper. "Oh Jesus..." Dean lays Addison back down, she was never in any danger, and sprints to the motel. The doors slam in his face, locking tight as he rattles the handle. Through the glass, he sees his brother convulsing on the floor. Blood runs down his face from his forehead, his nose, even his eyes. His face is red, veins popping out, eyes rolled back in his head. People are screaming, clutching each other, some run down the hall to get away. "SAM!" Dean pounds on the glass. He rolls up his sleeve and punches it as hard as he can. It only cracks, spiderwebbing with fissures. He hits it again, harder. How could he have been such a friggin moron! The signs were all there! It tasted Sam's blood, it touched his head, chanted... The son of a bitch preformed some kind of satanic ritual on Sam.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"Hang on, Sammy, I'm coming!" Dean punches the glass window, pain shooting up his hand. Sam's entire body seizes, blood running down his face from every orifice. His eyes have completely rolled back into his head, only the whites showing. One more punch and the glass finally breaks. He pushes in all the jagged corners and grabs the doorknob from the inside, flipping the lock. "Sammy..." Dean shoves the door open, sliding in the salt, and drops to his knees. His little brother is still convulsing. The groans that come out of his throat are choked, his breaths wheezing. The smell of sulfur in the air around him is so strong Dean almost gags. Is he being possessed somehow? Some kind of...delayed, long-distance, ritualistic possession? If that kind of thing even exists. If so... He grabs the exorcisms from his coat. Sam's hands are clawing the floor, sweat pouring off his brow. His groans have turned to growls. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..." he pauses, glancing up at Sam. There's no reaction to the words. "...omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii--" As suddenly as it began, Sam's convulsions stop. No warning, no explanation, they just... Stop. Dean swallows, white knuckling the book. "Sammy," he croaks. "Sammy? You with me?" The odor of sulfur begins to dissipate. "Hey." Dean touches his brother's shoulder tentaively, giving him a little shake. "Come on man, talk to me." Sam's eyes flick open, staring unfocused at the ceiling. And they're not black. They're yellow. Dean hits the wall hard, falling to the floor even harder. Yellow eyed Sam stands up, a thin smile on his mouth and rotates his shoulder until it cracks. "You know, for being so-very famous, you're not very good at this. Are you, Dean?" Seeing those cold yellow eyes on Sam's face... Dean scowls at the floor, groaning as he pushes himself up. The book of exorcisms is just inches too far. "Go ahead," he says, voice rough from the wind being knocked out of him. "Tell me what grand mistake I made. I know you're dying to." Yellow eyes chuckles and it's Sam's laugh. Dean grimaces, still struggling to sit up. "The only mistake you made, Dean, was being family to Sam Winchester. He's a little bit cursed, you know." He smiles. "Oh, and you should have waited for the ritual to be complete before you tried to exorcise me." With a flash of his hand, Dean goes sailing back again, smashing into the glass door. Broken shards dig into his shirt, tearing his skin as Sam's hand moves up higher and higher, dragging him toward the ceiling. "What the hell are you after," Dean yells. "Why are you so obsessed with Sam?" "Obsessed? That's a harsh word. I prefer...protective." Dean is looking down on him now, his back pressed so firmly against the ceiling that every vertebra of his spine is completely pressed flat. "I've been watching him...ever since he was born." Dean holds back a yowl of pain. His stomach feels like it's tearing itself apart. "I made him what he is today. I made him special, I shaped his entire life by killing Mary and Jessica...I sent him traveling with you, even if he never knew it. So in a way, Sam is...sort of like a son to me." Yellow eyes smiles wider. "A very bad, disobedient son. Then again I guess he was that way with John too." "Go screw yourself." Dean bites the insides of his cheeks as the pain in his chest and stomach turns to red hot. Blood is soaking his shirt and he doesn't know where it's coming from. "He won't assume his destiny, Dean. Not with you around to prod him back onto the path of being a hunter." "Then what's the point, huh?" The ceiling feels hot against his back. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, seeing Sammy down there like that, remembering Mom...and Dad. "You say you sent him with me for a reason? What was the damn point of it all! Ahhh..." He grinds his teeth against the heat. He smells smoke. "It was never the plan to end up here," Yellow eyes says with a shrug. "But Sam has disobeyed me for too long. You've served your purpose, Dean, and for that I'm thankful. Truly. But your usefulness has come to an end and now you're in my way. Sam won't work with me, and as long as you're alive, he'll fight my possession of his body and frankly that just sounds tiring." Dean chokes out a stifled scream as the first of the flames erupt around him. "AH!" Yellow eyes throws himself to the floor, steam rising off his skin. The fire dies and Dean drops straight to the floor. For an instant, the world goes black. His clothes are singed, his skin tingling and numb, hot against the cold floor. His entire body throbs like the world's worst toothache. His ribs definitely cracked when he hit the ground. Dragging his eyes up, Dean squints against his blurred vision. His laugh turns into more of a hacking cough but still. "Perfect timing, Addison..." She's utterly frozen, arm still outstretched, Sam's bucket of holy water in his her hands. Her eyes are comically wide, an "oh shit what did I just do" expression plastered all over that pretty little face. "You...bitch..." Yellow eyes pants, staggering back up to his feet. "Salt," Dean yells. Addison stumbles backwards into the first circle of salt. Yellow eyes growls but decides to ignore her. It's not worth his time. He turns back to Dean. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas omnis incursio infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio! Omnis con...potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii." The demon screams. Dean keeps talking right over him, the book back in his hands thanks to Addy's rescue-turned-disctration. "Omnis legio! Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica! Ergo, Draco maledicte et omnis......legio diabolica, adiuramus te! Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii." The lights flicker, electric buzzing. Light bulbs burst, a wind kicks up inside the motel, papers flying around, the ground beginning to rumble. "Omnis legio! Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!" Yellow eyes falls to his knees, convulsing again. The scream that rips out of his throat is more monstrous than Sam's voice alone. A plume of black smoke erupts from his open mouth, shooting straight into the ceiling. "Ergo, Draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te!" Dean finishes, but the demon is already gone. Sam sways on his knees before collapsing face first onto the tile floor. "Dean..." Addison is trembling like a leaf. She steps nervously over the salt, giving Sam a wide berth as she skirts toward Dean. "Are you okay," she asks without taking her eyes off his brother. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine..." He winces, touching his ribs. "Help me up, would ya?" She takes his hand and lifts him gently to his feet. Dean stumbles a bit but crosses the space between him and Sam. He reaches into his coat, fishing out the flask of holy water, and pulls the cork. "Sorry, Sammy, gotta be sure." He turns it over and dumps the contents onto the back of Sam's head. There's no steam, but Sam startles awake, sputtering in confusion. He starts to sit up but stops, groaning and holding his head. "Ohh...what the hell happened...?" "Take it easy, sport. How do you feel?" Sam moans pathetically. "Right." Dean turns to Addison, who is still staring at Sam as if he's the devil himself. "Would you mind calling the paramedics? A few of these people are in shock at the very least." Addison hesitates but offers a nod, skirting around Sam again as she runs for the phones, stopping only long enough to scoop her daughter into her arms and plant a kiss on her forehead. Dean winces as he kneels down beside Sam, helping him flop onto his back. "Seriously, how do you feel now?" Sam shrugs lamely. His eyes are bloodshot and half lidded, his skin still several shades too pale. "About as good as you look." He makes the patented Dewy-Eyed Sam Face. "Dean, I am so sorry--" "You were possessed, Sam, it wasn't you. There was nothing you could have done." "I almost killed you." It's not argument. More like a realization, said softly, mostly to himself. "You weren't you, okay? Now come on, we've got a some miles to cross." Sam blinks. "Wha--Dean! You need to go to the hospita--you are in no condition to drive!" "What are you talking about, I feel fine." "You've got...broken ribs, a broken shoulder, some kind of...bleeding wound, severe burns--" "Yeah and you've got a concussion, I'm picking the lesser of two evils right now in regards to designated driver." At Sam's unimpressed face, Dean sighs dramatically. "We are going to a hospital, okay? But not this one. Any minute now this place's gonna be swarming with cops and I wanna get the hell outta dodge before they start asking questions." "Right," Sam rubs his head. "You're right. Come on, lemme help you." He stands shakily, steadying himself on the wall before hoisting Dean up as well, supporting him as they head for the car. "Hey, wait!" Addison is still carrying Trisha and her eyes dart nervously to Sam. "You're not leaving, are you?" "'fraid so," Dean says, smiling thinly. "You're hurt--you're...both hurt. You should go to the hospital." "We will. Just not one in this town. We don't exactly like being questioned by cops." "But why? You saved us." "As I'm pretty sure you can imagine, the authorities aren't always real keen on hearing our side on the story. Especially when it consists of demons, monsters, ghosts, and the like." Dean smiles thinly. "Thanks, though. You really saved our asses back there." "Yeah, how did you know to do that?" Sam asks. Suddenly, Addison's face flushes. "Um...I...might have looked inside your bags when you left them in the lobby--but, but I thought it was just...I don't know a hobby? All that talk about the church and Chris and...I thought you guys were like, ghost hunters or something. For the internet or...whatever. Then when I saw what that thing was able to do...I snuck in the back door of the motel and went into the office for my gun but found that pitcher with a rosary in it and just...well..." Dean breathes a laugh. "Good instinct," he says, shaking his head. "Cause a gun only woulda pissed him off." "And hurt like a son of a bitch," Sam adds. With that, Sam opens the driver side door of the Impala and Dean climbs in, cringing as he buckles himself down. Sam, Addison, and Trish grab their stuff from the room as Baby's engine growls to life. With everything packed and ready to go, Sam slides in and they pull out onto the highway, Dean adjusting his rear view mirror to see Addy and her daughter standing safely in the parking lot, watching them go. They pass a whole row of ambulances and cop cars on the way and Dean grins at Sammy out of the corner of his eyes. His brother only rolls his eyes. "So how long do you think Yellow Eyes'll stay in Hell?" "I don't think he's there at all," Dean admits, startling Sam. "What?" "He left your body before I finished the exorcism. He wasn't pinned down by a Devil's Trap or anything so he probably just ran away to avoid getting sent downstairs." "Dammit." "Yeah well I don't really care," Dean says. "We're both alive, those people are alive, as many as we could save anyway...and nothing too horrible happened." "You almost burned alive, Dean." "Almost being the operative word there." Sam sighs and turns toward the window. "I'm never sleeping again." "Well in that case." Dean reaches for the radio, cranking it up as high as it will go, Def Leppard's "Armaggedon It" blasting. "To Hell with your destiny, Sam," he yells over the deafening guitar and drums. "All those people would be dead if not for you. I don't think that's something you can say about anyone really evil." "What," Sam yells, covering his ears against the music. "I can't hear you!" "Nothing! Just shut up and enjoy the music!"