Burdens, Doublefold - Chapter 8
His father groaned softly, an arm twitched, but beyond that John looked like he could barely move.
"Dad?" Dean dropped, rolled him onto his back. "Dad, look at me.”
John managed another grunt of pain and cracked open his eyes, beyond drained, the familiar wear-and-tear lines on his face more deeply etched. "Dean," he said, attempting a smile. He shuddered and his eyes dropped shut again.
No matter how much he coaxed him, Dean couldn't bring his father around. With no small amount of effort, Dean hoisted John up off the ground, just enough to get some leverage. Dean’s gut was still aching but fuck that. He got a good grip under John’s armpits and dragged him, as carefully as he could, back to the Impala.
Dean left his father leaning against the side of the car as he opened the rear door. Straining hard, he hauled John up, into the back seat, folded his legs at a careful angle, and shut him in.
More out of breath than he liked to admit, Dean limped to the driver's seat and slid behind the wheel. He headed back to the Roadhouse, because where the hell else was he going to go? He had to get John somewhere safe, somewhere he could regroup.
When they pulled into the parking lot, he slowed the Impala down to a crawl, cut the lights, and followed the track of the moon. It wasn’t like he thought he could keep his father's return a secret for long, but he couldn’t deal with the Harvelles at this particular moment. If he could simply buy a little time, maybe the ladies’ moods would soften, lessening the chance they’d kick Dean straight out into the snow and then shoot John in the head like a horse with a broken leg.
Preemptively, he snuck around to the rear door of the Roadhouse, opened it, and poked his head in. The back rooms appeared to be empty. Ellen and Jo’s bedrooms were both closed up tight as per usual; they liked their privacy. Ash’s door was wide open, but the absolute quiet indicated he, too, was elsewhere.
Dean opened the door to his own borrowed room, pushed back the drapes to let some small amount of light in, and went back out to get his dad.
After what felt like an hour of lugging John’s unresponsive body step by agonizing step, he stopped to wheeze against the outer wall of the Roadhouse and muttered, “You could ease off the peanuts a little, Dad.” Which Dean would never have said aloud had John been conscious. Small pleasures.
With a grunt and an eye-roll, he got moving again, manhandling his father down the hallway and into his room. He took the last few steps as quickly as possible, kicking the door shut with his heel. Dean lugged John’s torso half onto the cot, too fatigued to be tender at this point, lifted John’s legs off the ground and flopped the entirety of his body onto its side.
Keeerist, he was sweating. Dean scraped a sleeve across his brow and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. John’s eyes stayed shut. Dean put the back of his hand on his father’s forehead and frowned. Great. He’d been too distracted trying to get John indoors to be sure, but now he was certain that his father felt way too hot to the touch.
Water. Water would be good. Dean tiptoed back out of the room, grabbed an old pitcher from a closet and filled it with water from the bathroom at the end of the hall. He grabbed two clean hand-towels from under the sink as an afterthought and when he stepped back out into the hall, sure as shootin’, there was Ellen standing at the door to his room, stock-still.
Dean set his jaw and walked forward, side-stepping Ellen, avoiding her eyes. If she had something to say, she could damned well say it but Dean wasn’t going to invite the conversation. He placed the pitcher on the crate next to his bed and after shoving aside piles of books and papers, made space for a chair at the footboard.
He lifted up his father’s right leg, slipped off the boot and did the same with the left. Gently, he rolled up the cuff as high as it would go and draped a cool, damp washcloth around John’s calf, repeating the procedure with the other leg. He knew it wasn’t standard fever protocol, but when he was a kid, they’d had a German babysitter not long after Mom had…gone…and Mrs. Schmidt had done this when Dean’d contracted some stupid virus kids always got. It had felt good, and Dad more than deserved some comfort here.
At least Yellow Eyes-Azazel-had taken decent care of John’s body, probably out of some twisted sense of vanity or pride.
He could feel Ellen watching him, but she didn’t say a word.
__________
Dean had fallen asleep sitting upright, but jerked awake when he heard his father say, “I’m so sorry, Dean. God I’m so sorry.”
“Dad?” He shifted the chair closer. “How’re you feeling?” A bleary glance at his watch revealed he’d been asleep almost two hours.
“Like I got hit by a semi.” John pushed himself back against the pillow, lifting slightly. “Are you okay? Last thing I remember, I-” his eyes lost focus, drifting to stare at some vague spot on the bed, “-he, that yellow-eyed bastard, was slicing you up. You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. Ellen and Jo patched me up real good.”
John blinked, his gaze snapping up to his son. “Harvelle? Ellen and Joanna?”
“Yup.”
“They helped you get me back?”
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He wasn’t the least bit ready for company; certainly, neither was his dad. “Yeah?” he called back.
The door opened a crack and a second later, Jo pushed through with a tray of food. It smelled better than anything had the right to, some sort of stew or soup, and Dean’s stomach growled audibly in spite of itself.
“I heard that,” she grinned, putting the tray down on the ersatz bedside table. “Thought you two could use a midnight snack.”
Dean‘s mouth watered almost ferociously. “You’re amazing.”
“I know. It might be Mom’s soup, but I am the one who poured it into the bowls, so…”
“They’re nice bowls,” Dean said, and he wasn’t fibbing either.
“Joanna-” John broke in, quietly.
Jo’s eyes flicked over to him, and Dean noticed for the first time she’d been avoiding looking at his father.
“Glad you’re okay,” she said, and turned back towards the door without further chit-chat. It couldn’t have been clearer that she had things to say to John Winchester, but refrained. Thank God. “I’ll let you two get caught up. Holler if you need anything.”
Dean followed her out and wanted to give her hand a squeeze, a hug, some gesture of appreciation but he wasn’t sure what she’d tolerate. He defaulted to a murmured thanks and simply shut the door behind her.
Returning to the bedside, he picked up a bowl of soup and sat down again. He was so damned hungry, he nearly drooled like a starved hound. “You should eat, Dad. Ellen is one helluva cook.”
“She is.” John sat up straighter but it took so much effort, his face lost all color. He didn’t reach for a bowl or a spoon; he just suffered there, watching Dean eat. Finally, he spoke. And it was exactly what Dean had been fearing.
“Son, what’d you do?”
Dean shrugged, slowing his chew. “I got you away from Azazel.”
John let out a huff, half growl, half bitter laugh. “Yeah. I get that. How?”
“We, uh, found a spell. Tricky son of a bitch, but we pulled it off. Kind of like a reverse exorcism, you know? Pulls the human away from the demon.”
“Bullshit.”
“Dad-”
“There’s only one way this could’ve gone down.” John shut his eyes for a long moment and when he opened them again, the gaze that he leveled at his eldest son was heavy with sorrow. “What did it cost you?”
Dean blew over the soup, watching the steam billow up and obscure his father’s face for a second. “Nothing I wasn’t willing to pay.”
“Dean,” he said under his breath.
“Tell me what Azazel wants with Sam.”
John stared at him and blinked. His eyes were still red-tinged, bloodshot and bruised with unrelenting fatigue. He swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Dean snapped, throwing disbelief right back at his father. “You can’t keep this from me, I need to know-”
“So do I!” John snarled, suddenly livid. “You think I don’t know you’re lying to me? Demons don’t deal fair. Whatever you agreed to, it wasn’t worth it.” His breath hitched and the fury lost its footing. “You should’ve left me where I was.”
“Yeah, so sue me.” Dean thumped the bowl back on the tray, too pissed off to eat. “I couldn’t deal, all right? I lost Sam already, I can’t-” he coughed, raking a hand down his face. “I can’t do this alone.”
“You lost Sam? I thought he was at school.” He looked up at Dean. “You lied to me.” His face shifted through indignation and anger before crumpling into grief, aging him a miserable ten years.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“You can’t find him?”
Dean shook his head. “He doesn’t want to be found. He won’t answer the phone, he won’t tell me where he is.” Dean swallowed back frustration, rubbing his eyes. “He’s different, Dad. Last time I talked to him it was just…it felt wrong.”
“It’s not his fault,” John said, almost inaudibly. “None of this is. It’s all…so much bigger than I thought. So much worse.”
“Alright. You gotta tell me what you know.” Dean stalked back to his chair, pushed it aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “You have to tell me everything, okay?”
John nodded, exhaled hard. “Azazel’s got plans for Sam. Big plans. Has since the night…the night your mother died. He came for Sam that night. He did something to him.”
“What’d he do?” Dean was terrified to ask, but he had to.
“I don’t know. A spell, maybe? Whatever it was, the point was to get Sam to see things his way.”
“What? His way?” Dean was used to feeling anger when he thought of the yellow-eyed son of a bitch that had ruined his family, but seldom thought to ask why?
“He wants an army. He wants to bring Hell to Earth.” John sunk back onto his pillow. “He’s convinced Sam is going to be his general. Lead that army. He needs Sam to ‘open the door.’ Whatever that means.”
“But Sam wouldn’t…” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to sort out the noise in his mind. All the facts he had on what Sam had been up to, and all of the theories-each one more horrible than the next-pointed to the same damned thing. Despite all of it, when he looked back up at his father, all he could say was, “He’s not one of them.”
John locked eyes with Dean. “I hope you’re right, son. I’m counting on it.”
Brady was talking at him again.
"I think this is a valuable lesson really." The demon plopped down next to Sam and leaned against the wall of the empty barn. "What have we learned from this? We've learned that while arguably unpleasant, lightning can't actually kill you. Which is a good thing!"
Not a good thing, Sam thought to himself. Nothing good.
"Plus," Brady chuckled, "I mean you walked right into their light show; that's a challenge if I ever saw one. And...you survived." He raised an eyebrow at Sam. "You don't get how big a deal that is, do you?"
If they wanted me dead I'd be dead, but they don't. They don't. Sam closed his eyes against the sun and reached for his jacket pocket.
"Sam. Say something." Brady looked towards him nervously. "You haven't said a word in three days. I get that you're upset, okay? But what's done is done; it doesn't change anything. Right?"
Sam pulled his hand back out of his pocket and stared at Brady. "I lost it."
Brady smiled, the demon leered. "Happens to the best of us."
Sam stood up, and Brady followed suit. "I don't even know when...I know I had it before I got shot."
The demon looked confused. "Wait, what did you have?"
Sam stuck his hands in his jacket pockets again and turned them inside out. "The box. The box for the ring I got Jess."
"Oh."
"It was in my pocket."
"Your beige jacket? The one you were wearing when Scott shot you?"
Sam nodded.
"The bullets tore it up pretty good. It was ruined." Brady tilted his head, contemplation playing over his face. "I'm pretty sure it burned with the rest of that house where we brought you to heal."
"Burned," Sam repeated. "Jess burned too. Mom burned. Everything burns."
Brady swallowed, the demon's overwide mouth twitched. "Do you want me to go look for it?" he asked. "I can go get it. Or...do you want the ring? You buried it with Jess right, if you want I-"
"If you go within ten miles of her grave I'll flay the skin from your bones and feed it to you."
Brady held up his hands and chuckled. "Yeah, as fun as that sounds, I'll pass." He sighed and looked at Sam fondly, with fear. "I just want to help."
"Then tell me who’s next."
Dad only had to lean against Dean for a few steps when they walked out into the main room of the Roadhouse for dinner. Jo had offered to bring the food to them, but John insisted they join the others, grumping, “My legs work. I’m just tired, not wounded.”
The Harvelles and Ash had been laughing about something or other, but when John walked through the door to the private dining room, all three fell silent. Dean, following his father, snagged Jo’s attention. “You talking about me?”
Jo stifled a smirk and the mood in the room picked back up. “Of course. I was just telling Ash how your love of food is too friggin’ ginormous for someone who’s such a crappy cook.”
“Once. I burned the eggs one time. That doesn’t mean I can’t cook!” Dean plunked down next to her, throwing an arm over the back of her chair. Plates, glasses, silverware and a basket of rolls had already found their way to the table.
Dean caught Dad looking from him to Jo with an odd little half-smile before he eased down into the remaining open seat, next to Ash, across from Ellen.
Almost immediately, Ellen stood up. “I’m gonna bring out the rest of the stuff. Joanna Beth, come help me with the roast, will you?”
“Okay, Mamma.” She gave Dean a slightly apologetic smile. “Be right back.”
The men watched the women walk through the door to the kitchen. When it swung closed again, Ash turned back to the rest of the table, looked from John to Dean and nodded to himself. “Aw’right, who needs a beer?”
John raised one finger, silently. Dean raised two. Ash gave a salute and walked out to the bar. Through the doorway, they watched as Ash, with the sort of skill normally reserved for gymnasts, put one hand on the bartop, stepped up on the crossbeam of the nearest stool, and propelled himself up and over the counter.
“I’ll give that an ‘eight’,” Dean said, eyebrows raised.
“Next time I’ll stick my landing.” Ash ducked down and when he popped back up a few seconds later, he was holding three bottles. “Special occasion calls for a special beer.” He walked back to the dining room and offered his guests a drink, each.
“Special occasion?” John asked, taking one.
Dean grabbed the other and eyed it warily. “Genesee Cream Ale…what the hell is this?”
“Best damn beer you’ve ever tasted, my friend,” Ash assured him. “Drink it slow. Savor it. I’ve only got seven more left and they don’t distribute locally.” He popped open a bottle and held it under his nose, closing his eyes.
The kitchen door opened and Jo walked back in, carrying a lamb roast on a massive serving platter. She set it down in the center of the table with a thump and turned back towards the kitchen. “Mom, you got the potatoes?”
“I do, baby, thanks,” Ellen said, walking out balancing a big bowl of baby potatoes in one hand and dish of green beans in the other.
Dean didn’t miss his dad’s eyes following Ellen all the way back to the table and he wondered, again, just how much water had passed under their collective bridge. Bill and John had been friends once, that much he knew. Then Bill had died…gotten himself killed. And Dad had been there. Understandably, he housed guilt over that; it was written in the sad cant of John’s brows when he looked at Ellen Harvelle, and even a little when he watched Jo. But none of that could’ve been Dad’s fault, right?
Ellen put the vegetables down on the table, pulled a large carving knife seemingly out of thin air, and cut into the roast. “Help yourselves,” she said. “I’m gonna grab some iced tea from the kitchen.”
“Sit down Momma. I’ll get it.” Jo insisted.
Dean watched Jo watching Ellen; they were having an uncomfortable kind of silent conversation, in addition to the spoken one.
“That’s okay, Joanna-”
Jo stood up and gave her mother a look. “I got it.”
Ellen sat down stiffly and forced a smile at her daughter. “Thanks. Honey.”
Ash finished scooping potatoes onto his plate and handed the bowl to Dean, who was tempted to take the whole damned lot of them when the smell of butter and rosemary hit his nostrils. His appetite was back up to full throttle.
The vegetables made their way around the table in complete silence and ended up near Jo’s plate just as she came back in with two pitchers of iced tea.
She sat back down and raised her eyebrows at Dean.
Dean smiled his most charming smile. “These potatoes smell delicious, Ellen.”
“They’re from last season’s crop,” Ellen said, cutting into her slab of roast. Her eyes didn’t leave the plate once.
They ate in silence for minutes that felt like hours until Ash leaned back in his chair and drank from his beer. He looked at John, set the bottle back on the table emptied, and asked, “So what’s it like having a demon ride your skin?”
Ellen dropped her fork on her plate, and Dean nearly choked on his green beans.
Dad cleared his throat and took a careful sip of beer. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” He folded his hands together, fingers pressed so tightly the tips went white. “I was trapped in my own head. I saw everything that son of a bitch was doing…”
Dean felt Dad’s eyes on him and stared down at his roast lamb. He knew it wasn’t Dad’s fault. He didn’t need an apology, least of all a public one.
“…but I couldn’t do a thing to stop him.”
“You did though,” Dean said. “You stopped him.”
“Not fast enough. You got hurt.”
“Possession’s called possession for a reason,” Ash mused, nodding. “Most people say you can’t do anything but wait it out. If you got through at all, even for a second…that’s a pretty big deal.”
Dean went from wanting to strangle Ash to considering the guy for sainthood. How the hell did he do that? Say entirely the wrong thing one second, only to come out with Dalai Lama-esque wisdom the next? Must be a gift.
“Did you learn anything?” Jo asked quietly.
Dean stared at her and saw Dad doing the same.
“I mean, it was in your head; did you see anything? What it wanted or…why it took you?”
“I have my theories.” John shook his head. “But I don’t think I saw anything that son of a bitch didn’t want me to see.”
Dad had always operated on a ‘need to know’ basis, even with Dean and Sam. But Dean knew his father’s tells: the precise, wary way he touched things, the subtle warning in his gaze. You don’t spend your entire life with someone and not know when they’re holding back information. Azazel revealed things to John Winchester, Dean was convinced. There were topics yet to be discussed, but Dad certainly wasn’t going to do that in a room full of…well, not strangers. Not anymore.
“It either wants the Colt, or it wants Sam, or both, right?” Jo asked. Dean bumped her leg under the table, cautioning her to ease up.
John stared at her like she’d grown a second head while Dean tried to think of something to say to get the conversation back in safer waters. “Uh…”
“Me thinks you hit the nail on the ol’ noggin, JoJo.” Ash tapped his temple with one finger. “I wonder if El Demonico knows what Tall Man’s been doin’?
“Dean,” John said, his voice low and tight. “What are they talking about?”
Dean balanced the end of his fork on his plate and spun it between his fingers. “We need to uh…fill you in on some stuff.”
“You think?”
They were South. New Mexico. It was warmer here and Sam hadn't put on a jacket since he'd lost the beige one. He had another in his duffel along with six shirts and three pairs of jeans.
It had taken him nearly a month of traveling with Brady to realize that the demon had taken to doing the laundry while Sam slept. He nearly asked him about it on three separate occasions, but decided against it, determined to believe that the apparent lack of a spike in laundromat-related deaths meant Brady was really just doing the laundry and not anything malicious. Until he came out of the shower, dug through his bag, and found a clean shirt he didn't recognize.
"This isn't my shirt," Sam frowned, holding the black t-shirt out in front of him.
"It's your size," Brady said, and popped another pistachio into his mouth. He was sprawled out backwards on the motel bed, with his feet resting on the pillow.
"Get your shoes off of my pillow."
Brady rolled off the bed and glared at Sam. "We're not even gonna be here tonight."
"Doesn't matter. It's the principle of the thing."
"Oh." Brady raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Well yeah, we are pretty principled people, aren't we?"
"We're not people."
The demon grinned wide. "That is the smartest thing you've said in weeks." He tilted his head to the side. “What made you see the light?”
“My reflection.” Sam turned away from the demon and went back into the bathroom to grab his things. The mirror was still fogged up, but Sam could see the yellow glint of his eyes when he walked past it. They looked diffuse in the milky glass, like two anemic stars.
Sam packed his duffel while Brady went out to the parking lot to pick a car. They weren’t going far. Jason Gellan was only about ten miles away. He’d started driving towards them six hours ago, when Sam had slipped into his dreams and told him where he needed to be. Sam closed the motel room door behind him and got into the Jeep Brady had jacked.
They drove to the long-abandoned gas station without saying a word. Sam spent the time practicing. His powers were blending in the most interesting ways all on their own. Complimentary gifts like dream-walking and mind control went hand in hand, but he’d discovered that if he intentionally tried to combine two that weren’t a natural fit, he got even better results. He’d figured out how to make a perfect sphere of solidified air easily enough, but filling it with electricity was tricky. It took him nearly eight minutes to get it right.
“We’re here,” Brady said, looking out the windshield at Jason.
The guy was standing in front of the empty skeleton of an anonymous building, signage long since gone, glancing about in obvious confusion. Brady got out of the Jeep and started walking towards him, kicking up clouds of dirt.
Sam squeezed the little ball of air until it popped and the electrical current tickled back into his fingers. He opened the passenger-side door and went to stand next to Brady, who had the chalice out and was already midway through the ritual’s chant.
Jason, a slight man with dark curls and darker eyes, collapsed to the ground, more than a little dust puffing up into the air as he landed heavily on the dry earth.
Brady handed the chalice to Sam and he drank the precious drops, feeling his body get warm, feverish. He could feel the sun beating down on his skin and for just a second, he thought he could see its core, feel its destructive force devouring everything it touched. It burned, it burned, it burned.
When Sam let go of the empty chalice, his hands were literally aflame, but he wasn’t blistering. He lifted his fingers up in front of his face and watched the flames grow higher and larger. The fire spilled back down his forearms, engulfing his entire body until it ran down his legs and onto the dry earth itself. The fire hungrily took hold of the dry grass that infested the old gas station, consuming Jason within seconds, and in less than a minute the building itself was an inferno. Sam stood and watched it all and didn’t feel a thing.
When the fire made its way to the Jeep, the smell of melting plastic and gasoline mixed with the already heavy scent of burning wood and flesh. Brady looked from the car to Sam and said, “You’re gonna need some new clothes.”
“That’s everything?” John asked.
Dean nodded. Telling Dad everything he, Jo and Ash had pulled together about Sam’s extra-curricular activities had taken a lot out of him. At first he’d wished Jo and Ash would go away. They had, eventually, but not until about an hour ago. The only ones left now were John, Dean, Ellen and a nearly empty bottle of Jack. Ellen had moved back to the bar and was cleaning every square inch of it.
“Dad…” Dean rubbed his knuckles against his forehead trying to get at the sore spot just between his eyes, but it was just out of reach. “There has to be something we do to get through to him. We can’t just-just sit here.” He felt as if he should have been angrier, like his last words should have been shouted, but he was so damned tired.
“We’ll find him. And we’ll save him.” John said it like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Like Sam wanted to be saved. “How?” There was the anger.
“We’ll figure it out, son. First we have to find him.” Dad brought his glass up to his lips and finished off the last of his whiskey.
Dean rolled his empty tumbler between his fingers morosely. “He doesn’t want to be found.”
“I don’t care,” John said, his voice low and furious. “No child of mine is going to throw his life away because of that yellow-eyed son of a bitch.” He looked right at Dean and said. “It’s not his fault, and it’s not your fault. You got that?”
“Yeah.” Dean nodded, and hated the lump in his throat even more that the ache in his head.
From behind them, Ellen cleared her throat. “I’m gonna hit the sack. You two just remember to kill the lights when you’re done. Electricity doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Thanks, Ellen,” John said, offering her a drained smile.
She nodded at them and hung her cleaning rag over the faucet in the bar sink before disappearing into the kitchen.
John turned back to Dean. “We can find Sam. We’ll use a tracking spell if we have to.”
“We’ll find him, and then what? Tell him killing people is wrong?” Dean rubbed his hands over his eyes again, fighting against his body’s exhaustion. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You find him,” John said, standing up. “I’ll take care of the rest. We need to sleep first, though. Not gonna be able to help anybody if we’re dead on our feet.”
Dean stared up at his father, another protest on the tip of his tongue, but he kept his mouth shut, simply nodding. He even forced out a measly smile.
Dad put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and murmured, “Night, son,” before leaving the barroom.
As Elena's power aligned itself inside of him, Sam felt an instant change in his perception, just like all those weeks ago when he'd taken Hans' sight. Her gift was language; there was no word, no syllable in any tongue that was hidden from Sam. Not anymore. He let himself sink back in the armchair, and reveled in the bliss of the blood for a few seconds.
Brady picked up Elena and laid her on the couch. As an afterthought, he stuck a pillow under her head.
Sam blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"You said to make sure she was comfortable."
Satisfied, Sam rested his eyes again.
"Are we spending the night?"
"No," Sam said. He looked down into the empty chalice, and turned it by the stem, slowly rolling it between his fingers, reciting Brady's Enochian chant in his mind as an afterthought. He stopped toying with the cup and put it down on the coffee table.
Brady reached for the chalice, but Sam batted his hand away with a thought. The demon laughed nervously. "Is there a problem? Do you need a refill?"
"Later." Sam lolled his head around to consider the demon, tapping a fingertip to his chin. "You know, all this time, I thought you meant the cup."
"I'm sorry, what the hell are you-"
Sam pointed at the chalice. "The spell. ‘Blood calls to blood.’ I thought that was the vessel." He locked eyes with Brady. "But that's not what you meant at all...is it?"
Brady broke the gaze and looked down at the unholy relic. "No."
"Homil efafafe." Sam flicked his fingers and pulled them in again. The metal cup flew into his hand obediently. “I'm the vessel. The true vessel."
The demon nodded, but stood where he was.
"For what? For whom?"
Brady's black eyes met Sam's and he answered, carefully, "For Hell. You're the heir."
Sam leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, prompting the demon to go on.
"Azazel's heir," Brady answered. "But he…he isn't going to give up the throne. Not now, not ever."
"I don't want the throne. I just want Azazel's head."
“He won’t give that up either.” The demon smiled stiffly. "When you kill him, Hell will be yours."
Sam nodded thoughtfully, and ran his finger along the edge of the chalice. He pictured it filling with blood over and over, but there were only a handful of psychics left, barely enough to fill the cup halfway. "So tell me, does the spell have to be spoken by a demon? Is there something special about a demon using the language of angels that makes it work?"
"No," Brady said, watching Sam's finger move along the rim of the cup.
"What would happen if I said the spell?"
The demon swallowed and answered, "Blood calls to blood. You wouldn't even need the spell. Just-" he stopped mid-sentence.
"Just. What?" Sam asked, his voice low. "This?" He held up the chalice.
Brady shook his head. "No. You could use a Dixie cup if you wanted, it doesn't matter. It's you, Sam. You're why the spell works."
Sam raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to put the chalice back on the table. "So...what do I need you for?"
Brady's face twitched, the demon's mouth dropped open in shock and he said, "I watch your back. I look out for you! I've saved your life, over and over."
"You have. You've been a good...friend." Sam stood up and walked over to Elena, watching her breathing get slower and weaker. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. Her eyes flew open and she let out one final breath. Sam stood back up and turned to face Brady. "So then why are you lying to me?"
"I'm not. What do you mean?"
"More importantly, how are you lying to me?" Sam asked as he moved closer to Brady.
"I'm not lying, Sam."
"You have to do what I tell you to do."
Brady lifted his chin. "Maybe. Or maybe you're not as strong as you think you are."
"You want to test me?"
The demon's eyes sparked with defiance but he didn’t answer.
"You know these powers are amazing, really," Sam said, lifting his hands and looking at his fingers. "I mean, on their own they're pretty impressive, but when you mix 'em all up..." he laughed suddenly, a sharp sound. "Last night, when I was sleeping, I took a look around. Poked my head in and out of people's minds, looking for Azazel's mark." He smirked. "I can see so damn far now. And you know what I saw?"
Brady swallowed. "What?"
"Ava Wilson."
"Ava Wilson?" Brady asked, shaking his head.
"You've never heard of her? Psychic, lives in Peoria, controls demons with her mind." Sam glared at Brady, his rage making it feel like his eyes were burning with cold fire. Maybe they were.
"Sam. Stop being so damn paranoid for a minute. I can't lie to you. You just said so yourself. Azazel never told me about anybody named Ava. If she can control demons, then that's probably why, don't you think?"
Sam's fingers twitched and fire started to spread between them, licking its way up his forearm. He smiled as the flames tickled his skin. "Let's say I believe you. Let's say that somehow Azazel failed to tell you about her. Don't you think that alone makes her pretty fucking important?"
"Then we'll go to her next! We can leave right now."
Sam nodded, turning to leave. "Bring the chalice. For old time's sake." He brushed his hand against the doorframe and the flames spilled off his arm, spreading out wide across the wallpaper.
Brady vanished just before the fire enveloped the whole room.
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