Burdens, Doublefold - Chapter 7

[blood_and_pie]

"You really don't remember?" Brady asked.

He didn't even know what day it was. He thought maybe they'd been staying in the abandoned old house for a week, but he just couldn't be sure. Brady had spent at least three days teaching Sam how to use his new powers, and it hadn't gone well; electricity was a bitch to master. He was fairly certain they'd had a functioning light or two in the house at some point, but it was as dark in there now as it was out here in the unclaimed land behind it.

Sam shook his head. "I remember waking up in pain and you were there." He felt the rain start to soak the hems of his jeans. They were walking through a large field and an earlier storm had left the high grass heavy with water.

"It's probably for the best. That little jackass shot you three times. Missed your heart, though,“ the demon growled. "I shouldn't have left you alone."

"Scott?" Sam remembered as he saw a quick flash, like a photo-negative, of a kid holding a gun that looked too big for his hand. "Is he okay?"

Brady stopped walking and stared at Sam. "He shot you...and you want to know if he's okay?" He groaned and looked skyward. "No, he's not okay. In fact, I made sure he wasn't okay, and you want to know why?"

Sam looked down at his feet and then turned to face Brady. The demon's eyes were flashing, glimmering black catching the moon's light.

"It's my job to keep you safe!" Brady snapped.

No. It isn't. Sam thought, and remembered another voice, his brother's voice, telling him the same thing over and over for as long as he could remember.

"I'm not gonna give one of Azazel's failed experiments another chance to take you down."

"What happens when they find the body?"

Brady's lip twitched, and the demon’s long tongue flicked out, quick and sharp. "I took care of it." He dragged in a deep breath and said, more quietly, "At least from now on, you'll heal quickly. We'll head to Wisconsin next. There's a woman who can make her skin impenetrable at will…should come in handy."

"There was somebody else in the room with you, another demon." Sam remembered another set of black eyes watching him like a zoo animal.

"An ally. One of the few we have."

"That woman," Sam said, “she was possessed. I saw the demon inside of her, and I saw her. She was trapped in her own body."

Brady nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. That's how it usually works."

"But not with you?"

"I'm no different. This is a human's body. Did you really think I was the same Brady that you knew freshman year? After everything I did when I came back new and improved..." He laughed loudly. "Oh come on! You can't possibly be that stupid. What happened to that big brain of yours, Sam?"

Sam watched Brady-the-Fiend grin a toothy smile at him while the host body's mouth stayed closed. "So, why are you the only one in there now?"

"Well the human body can only take so much. You kill it...” he waved his hands in a half-circle, “…and the soul tends to follow."

Sam stepped closer and lowered his voice. "How did he die?"

Brady shook his head. "Remember Lily? Poor sweet Lily." He smirked. "That night, how many times did you practice stopping and starting my heart?"

"No." Sam’s mouth went suddenly dry. "I didn't-”

"Remember when you left me 'dead' for ten whole minutes, just to see if you could start me up again?" Brady was still grinning.

Sam fought back the sick and panicked guilt threatening to overwhelm him, fingers twitching at his sides. "But…you were talking to me, the whole time."

Brady snorted. "It's just a meat-puppet. Doesn't matter if it's occupied or not."

"I killed h-him?" Sam's legs threatened to give out, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. "I didn't even know, I-”

The demon's peals of laughter rang out far too loudly. Finally, Brady's amusement died down and he put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Nah. I'm just messing with you. I killed that spineless pansy the minute I set up shop." He winked at Sam, and added, "I don't like to share." He moved his hand from Sam's shoulder to pat him on the cheek, but instead found himself hurtling backwards. He soared into a giant oak, connecting with a heavy thump and hung as though speared to it.

Sam stepped to the base of the tree. Brady squirmed ineffectively against the unseen force pinning him there, the cords in his neck taut with the effort, but that didn’t last long. Sam simply tilted his head, and slammed Brady down to earth with a mere thought. It sounded like several bones cracked.

Brady smiled up at Sam with blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. "Is that all you got?" he chortled wetly.

"No," Sam said, crouching down next to the demon. He grabbed Brady by the hair, yanking his head back until his mouth was forced open. He pressed his palm hard over Brady's lips and thousands of volts of electricity pulsed down the bastard’s throat.

The demon's screams were muffled but thick with pain. Sam didn't stop until Brady’s skin started to char and curl. When he finally let go, Brady flopped face-first onto the wet ground, sizzling. He pushed himself up and glared at Sam, eyes unsurprisingly black. "That hurt, you asshole."

Sam smiled tightly and said, "Don't fuck with me. Don't lie to me again. Ever. Are we clear?"

Brady snarled and coughed up a mouthful of ash. He stood up and shook himself like a wet dog, shedding singed hair and flakes of burnt skin. "Crystal."



The Roadhouse was slow to stir on Christmas morning; it wasn’t like Santa Claus or St. Nick or Krampus visited the place, leaving behind presents for good little children or spiriting away the naughty ones. Had the latter been true, Dean wagered he and Jo would’ve been long gone by now.

Long, blonde hairs were catching in his stubble and he shifted his chin to settle on the top of Jo’s head, freeing his arm from under her as it coursed with pins and needles. The cast-iron bedframe creaked and Jo spooned up to him, tucked in tight, such a tiny damned thing whose delicacy was simply a ruse. Jo was nothing like fragile; she proved that last night. Dean had bruises in the shape of her fingerprints as testimony.

She felt him shift, murmured softly and her fingers twined through the amulet’s cord. He never took the thing off, ever, though he nearly chipped a tooth with it sometime around midnight.

“Howdy,” Dean whispered, blowing breath across her face. Morning breath. Jo winced herself awake.

“Christ, what died in your mouth?”

“You did,” he chuckled and felt her cheek pull in a smirk, pressed against his bare chest.

They lay together, just listening to each other breathe. Dean couldn’t fathom the time; the light cracking in through Jo’s curtains was crisp and colorless, too bright to be dawn but the stillness about it, and the quiet throughout the building, told him it was still way too early.

Wind tremored the glass panes and shuddered his bones. He pulled Jo closer for warmth, staring at the pictures she had tacked to her bedroom wall, photos of Ellen and Ash, a gang of men with a shot deer hoisted between them, and a man who looked a lot like Jo. Dean guessed it was Bill Harvelle. He had given his daughter her bright blonde hair and strong nose, but Bill’s eyes were light-colored, trusting and earnest.

She’d said he had been killed on a hunt, when she was little; she never really got to know him. As far as she probably knew, he was a hero. He certainly looked the part. Dean drifted his fingers across Jo’s shoulder, and thought about his own father. And about what he was going to do just as soon as he could find the nearest, desolate crossroads. He caught himself scowling.

So did Jo. “Penny for your thoughts?” She had shifted slightly, chin perched on his collarbone, mindful of the healing belly wound and staring at him in that disconcerting way of cats. Like she wanted to steal his soul when he yawned.

“That your dad?” Dean jerked his chin toward the picture.

Jo nodded. “He never liked having his picture taken, Mom says. So this is one of the few photos we have of him.”

John was the same way. Dean owned one lone, decaying Polaroid of a rare family fishing trip; he’d caught a rainbow trout and Sammy, all of seven years old, had insisted on taking a picture to immortalize the occasion. Nearly cut off everyone’s heads. It stayed in the back of Dean’s wallet, folded into neat little quarters, beside the one he kept of him and Sam, taken the summer before the asshole left for Stanford.

“We’ll find him. We’ll get him back.” Jo promised. How the hell did she do that, read him like a dime-store novel? Maybe Jo was psychic after all, and Sam would come sniffing around the Roadhouse…one less problem to solve. If only.

“Think so?” Dean said, even though he knew damned well, he would. He would get John back; all he needed was an hour of additional research, some hoodoo cross-referencing. Maybe Ash, the fountain of obscure knowledge, knew something about something.

“Yeah, I do.” Jo untangled herself and slipped out from under the quilt, padding bare-ass naked to the robe that hung from a small hook on the back of her bedroom door.

Dean liked the view. He liked it a lot. “Me too.”

Jo cinched the robe tight and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. “You got any ideas? Where we should look?”

Dean shrugged. He should’ve told her “no,” should’ve lied outright, but untruths failed him as he watched her pull her hair from the collar and tip-toe hurriedly into her boots.

“Okay,” Jo said, fists on her hips. “What’ve you got baking in that oven of yours?”

“Me?”

“You. Dean.”

“I don’t even…” He spread his fingers wide, feigning innocence.

Jo stalked to the bedside and caught his face in her small hands, razing him with her gaze and daring him to lie again. “Just. Don’t.”

Dean’s mouth moved to speak but he thought better of it. Especially when her lips pressed to his and their noses bumped and he was reminded, again, how amazing she tasted, even first thing in morning.

Jo broke away and turned to leave, probably heading for the bathroom because Lord knew he had to hit the can, too. Jo’s timing, however, couldn’t have been better in disproving Dean’s psychic theory. When she opened the door, there was Ellen, passing by, wearing her own big fuzzy bathrobe.

She paused, eyes jumping from daughter, to Dean, and back again. Jo slipped past, chirping a “Merry Christmas, Mamma!”

Dean crept the covers higher up on his chest, mumbling something considerably less festive.

__________

By design or accident, Dean didn’t run into the proprietor of the Roadhouse again that morning. But just in case, he decided to start breakfast for any who wanted it. Surely, Ellen couldn’t be mad at him after scrambled eggs, toast and bacon, right?

Dean looked up from his skillet as Jo entered the kitchen, dressed. He’d figured out the big, old industrial stove and was working on the one menu he could make with confidence, short of a bowl of cereal. Truly, he was starving after last night’s gymnastics.

“Where’s your ma?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.

“Probably carving your name on a shell and loading up the shotgun,” she said, nudging his elbow.

“Oh, that’s just great.”

“Kidding. She’s more of a knife person.”

Jo’s good-natured ribbing was infectious…at least he hoped it was ribbing. Dean tossed a fistful of shredded cheese into the skillet and grinned. “Hope she’s fast ‘cause I can run like a jackrabbit when the mood hits me.”

“Best of luck, there, bucko. You can’t outrun birdshot.” Jo reached across him for the salt and pepper. “So. What’s your plan for getting your father back?”

Dean rocked back on his heel. “You do not give up, do you?”

“Nope, not a little.”

“Jo, this is not-”

“I would do it for my mom if I were in your shoes so don’t even try it.”

Well, she had him there. Dean patiently set the spatula aside and looked hard at Jo. “I really have no way of knowing where Dad is. Ol’ Yellow Eyes isn’t your garden-variety monster; he doesn’t operate on any level we know. He’s not…trackable. He doesn’t exactly leave a slime trail.”

“But?”

“But…I still have a couple of goodies worth somethin’.”

“The Colt?

“For one.” Dean felt the tickle of sweat along the back of his neck and scrubbed it away. “Thing is, we need it; it’s the one pea-shooter we own that can kill just about anything. But Old Yeller ain’t the only deal in town.”

She stomped a boot, her brows pulling. “I don’t get it.”

“Where’s the nearest crossroads?”

Jo got clear on his plan real quick. “No. Dean, you are not using your soul as a bargaining chip to swap for your pa-”

“You said it yourself; if it was Ellen, you’d deal in a heartbeat.”

“But this is your eternal soul we’re talking about, here!”

“Look, from all the research I’ve done, I’ll get ten years. Ten years. That’s a helluva chunk of time; I may not even live that long. And if I do? That’s plenty of wiggle room to find a loophole.”

Jo’s cheeks flushed with color. “You can’t be serious!”

“As a heart attack,” Dean swore, hand to his chest. “And since you’ve weaseled it out of me, I need some help.”

“What? No. No way.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Dean. No!”

“I’ll ask Ash; he’ll say yes-”

“Shit. All right.” She didn’t look happy. Her glare drilled daggers into his soul-that precious, ill-defined, invaluable ingredient of humanity-and Jo heaved a mighty sigh. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got most of the summoning figured out, pieced together from my dad’s journal, but it’s missing a few key components. I’ve gotta make sure I have this right because odds are, I’ll only get one shot at it.”

“This is so against my better judgment, just going on record with that.”

“I know, I know.”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can dig up,” Jo huffed. “Eggs.”

Dean blinked. “Eggs?”

“You’re burning them.” Jo turned on her heel, leaving Dean alone with the mess that used to be his breakfast.



"We have to be careful from now on," Sam said, determined. "No more accidents." Guthrie, Oklahoma would be a new start for them. He still felt guilty about Scott. Brady had said they'd had no choice, but there was always a choice. Always. Moreover, he couldn't shake the feeling, vague as the memory was, that there had been another body slumped against the wall before he blacked out. "No more deaths."

"Right," Brady said, rolling his eyes only slightly. "Wouldn't want that."

"This isn't a joke," Sam insisted. "I'm serious. I don't want anybody else dying because of me, even if-”

"Even if Azazel tells them to kill you, Sam?" Brady snapped. "Is that what you were going to say?" He rolled his head in a half circle, his neck making popping noises, and took a breath before saying, "They're collateral damage. You're beating yourself up over their deaths, but they were all damned anyway. You set them free. Without Azazel's mark, he has no claim on them."

"You're talking like they all died," Sam said quietly. "Is there something you want to tell me, Brady?"

Brady scoffed, and disappeared into the apartment of one Andrew Gallagher.

Sam shook his head and made for the fire escape. He climbed up to the third floor with practiced ease and slid open the kitchen window without ever laying hands on it, thanks to the mojo he stole from the kid in Saginaw. He clambered inside the apartment and followed the sound of Brady chanting. When he turned the corner into the living room, he saw not one, but two men on the floor, their shirts speckled with blood.

"Double-shot for you today, Sammy." Brady handed him the chalice.

"Don't call me that." Sam grimaced and downed the blood as quickly as he could. He didn't want to stay any longer than he had to.

Brady whooped with a grin, clapping. “That’s how it’s done! Wham, bam, thank ya, ma’am.” He spun on his heel and turned towards the door. “Let’s go.”

But Sam didn’t get two steps before the blood hit his brain like a freight train. His knees buckled and he sunk to the floor. Too much. Too fast.

"Sam?" Brady paused, frowning.

Sam’s power, it grew and grew. It slithered through his mind and folded around a brand new skill, slotting it into place amongst all the others. The power felt like a sentient thing, moving on its own volition and surety; it knew where to put these gifts and Sam had no say in the matter. Gasping, he slapped a hand flat to the floor to keep himself from keeling over.

"You okay?"

As suddenly as it had flared, the rush faded and slid back down from euphoria into little more than a rapid heart-beat and a pleasant numbness of thought. "Yeah," Sam said, blinking hard, pushing himself back up to his feet. "I'm…I’m good."

Brady narrowed his eyes, skeptical, but that hardly lasted a New York minute.

Outside, there was an abrupt crash of thunder, so close the floor of the apartment shook with it. The sky-what they could see of it through the curtains covering the windows-lit up as lightning crackled through the clouds.

"Sam?" said a startled voice in front of him. It was one of the bloodied psychics, crumpled on the floor. "You're…he said you were coming. He warned us."

Sam looked down at the man's pale blue eyes. "Who?" His lips curled in anger. "Azazel?"

"The man with the yellow eyes," he said and slid himself closer to his fallen companion, hesitantly shifting his gaze away from Sam. "Andy? Andy!" His voice grew loud with panic and he tried to shake the other into consciousness.

Brady snapped his fingers to get Sam’s attention. "Hey, let's get out of here," he said tensely.

"Andy! Wake up!" The man turned to Sam, yelling, "What did you do to my brother?"

"Your brother?"

"My twin! He didn't even know until I told him, he didn't even-”

The other man jerked awake and blinked, staring up at Sam. His eyes widened and his feet pushed against the floor as he tried to move away. He got as far as the corner, two whole feet. "It's you."

Sam canted his head, eyes drawn into wary slits. "Did the yellow-eyed man warn you about me, too?"

"He didn't have to. We knew you were coming for us. You're coming for all of us. Picking us off like flies," said the one called Andy.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. Max had been unfortunate, and Scott...

"What? Wait, you mean you don't know?" Andy gawked. "Ansem, how can he not know?"

Ansem's blue eyes flicked towards Brady and back to Sam. "They're all dead, you freak. Do you not remember killing all those people?"

Sam's heart started pounding so loudly he could barely hear his own voice as he stuttered, "N-no, they...Max...he shot himself, and Liam...I let him go-”

"Liam?" Ansem snapped. "The dream-walker? The one you left to die trapped in his own mind?"

"I let him go!" Sam repeated, shaking his head in denial.

"What about Scott?" Andy cut in. "We warned him about you. We told him to be ready, and then he turns up days later burnt to a crisp! Electrocution my ass. You're a goddamn-" his voice cut off, replaced by a wheezing noise, and he clutched desperately at his throat.

Brady walked up next to Sam, hand outstretched, and slowly tightened his grip.

"I didn't..." Sam trailed off. His vision was filling with spots and bright flickering things he couldn't quite see.

"Let my brother go!" Ansem bellowed, throwing himself at Brady. He didn't make it more than half a foot before an unseen force slammed him against the wall, and hung him, suspended, right above his choking brother.

"Brady," Sam warned, "let them go. Now."

The demon sneered, lowering his arm.

Ansem fell to the ground, barely missing Andy who was gasping and red-faced but breathing again.

"I didn't kill anyone," Sam insisted. "I'm just doing what I have to do. So I can stop Azazel."

"You're a monster," Ansem said tightly, his eyes seething.

"You're still alive, aren't you?" Brady asked. He walked closer to Ansem, who flinched, and added, "Do you want to stay that way?"

"Brady!" Sam snapped. "Be quiet."

Brady's jaw slammed shut and he glared at Sam. The demon inside had no mouth, but his eyes burned with a cold fury.

"You're a monster," Ansem said again, but much of the aggression was gone in lieu of outright terror. "He was right about you. He was right about everything."

"No." Sam’s head twitched. The confusion and despair inside of him twisted together until he couldn't tell one from the other. Rage, familiar and unstoppable, coursed through him in time with his heartbeat, consuming everything in its path.

"He said when you came for us, you'd have his eyes...and you do. He said you were like him, but worse. You're going to kill us all. You-”

"Stop talking," Sam said. "Just be quiet."

Ansem turned to Andy, mouth wide in silent horror. He was screaming without making any noise at all.

The sparks on the periphery of Sam's vision melted away into a faintly red blur and something in the back of his brain let go.

Andy clutched at Ansem's shoulders. He was crying, and his sobs grew heavy and loud.

"Don't." Sam took a step towards them, unsteady on his feet. "Don't do that."

Brady caught Sam by the arm and kept him upright.

"Don't cry, Andy…just stop," Sam mumbled and let Brady turn him towards the door. "Both of you. Just. Stop."

Brady and Sam walked out of the living room, through the short hall to the kitchen.

Andy and Ansem sagged to the floor, dead.



Jo carted in an armload of cheap champagne in preparation for New Year’s festivities at the Roadhouse. If she could finagle it, she’d make everyone wear stupid party hats, too. And take pictures, for fun and blackmail.

Especially of those two. She smiled to herself, watching Dean and Ash trying to out-shark each other at the pool table. From all appearances, Dean was riding rough-shod over Ash, which didn’t surprise her one bit. Despite the angles and mathematics of the sport, Ash was a shitty pool player. Blackjack was his territory. He counted cards.

She stacked the bottles in a cooler, made a quick pass over the patrons at the bar to be sure they were happy and their glasses were full, then meandered over to the game. Sidling up behind Dean, she smoothly palmed his ass right when he was finessing a shot. Worked like a charm; the ball jawed, refusing to drop into the pocket.

Ash threw devil’s horns, as if it was his mighty skill that made Dean blow the shot. Judging from Dean’s shit-eatin’ grin, though, he didn’t mind one bit.

Copping a feel wasn’t the only reason Jo interrupted the game. It took a few days and too many long-distance phone calls to sources in the Deep South, but she finally had a reliable ritual to lure a crossroads demon. Didn’t mean she’d changed her mind and thought the idea was a good one, but they’d crunched the numbers and it was the best plan they could manage. The more time they wasted, the more likely it was that John Winchester was dead. She’d be a hypocrite if she tried to keep Dean from saving his father, whether the scheme worked or not.

“I’ve got news,” she said against Dean’s ear, just to feel him shiver.

He turned and arched a brow, to which Jo nodded: serious business. Dean handed Ash his cue stick and followed her to an empty table.

“The recipe.” Jo slid him a scrap of paper.

Dean picked it up and gave it a cursory read. “Does the cat have to be black?”

“Does a wendigo shit in the woods? Yes, it has to be black. And here’s the part most people don’t even know about: after you bury the components, mark the dirt with a five-spot-” Jo slipped a pen from behind her ear and drew an ‘x’ and five dots in a particular order on the back of the paper “-and then walk away. Don’t look back. If the demon feels you’re worth dealing with, he’ll show up.”

Dean took the note again and fiddled it between his fingers. For a moment, he looked so desperate, Jo wouldn’t have denied him anything. His eyes were dry, though, and his voice resolute. “This…this has to work. I’ve got nothin’ else.”

“I know. It sucks.” Jo tapped the pen to her lip. As much as she didn’t want Dean to pull this ridiculously dangerous stunt, she knew what he had to do. He had to try. “I wish there was some other way.”

He shrugged, staring at his hands. “It is what it is.”

“Look, I was thinking, we could draw Devil’s Traps everywhere. Around the crossroads, in the dirt. We might luck into some leverage, get him stuck so he’d have to deal with you.”

Sitting up straight, Dean tucked the paper into his shirt pocket. “What’s this ‘we’ business? You’re not drawing anything for anybody, ‘cept maybe a beer for Billy Bob over there.”

“Oh come on, Dean, I’m not a novice! There’s no sin against having back-up. Nothing in the lore says you have to be alone when you talk to the asshole.”

A fresh and frightening voice spoke up sharply, approaching fast, just as Ash was waving to the table in mild panic.

“Joanna Beth. You and I need to have a word.”

Mom. This was becoming a dangerous habit.

Jo exhaled and pressed her eyes shut.

“NOW, young lady.”

Dean half-stood, his expression suddenly turning sincere, which he did not wear comfortably. “Ellen, she’s not coming with me.”

“Damn straight she’s not. Ever.” The words shot at him like poisoned darts and he winced at her obvious affront. Ellen grabbed Jo by the arm and pulled her away, something oddly fragile caught in her eyes.

Dean finished standing and stiffened his shoulders. “Ellen-”

She ignored him like he didn’t even exist, her fist cuffed around Jo’s wrist, nails digging into the tender skin.

This wasn’t sitting well with Jo. It was high time the world granted her the right to make some of her own decisions; she didn’t need uninvited direction from every damned person in her life. Ellen got maybe ten, fifteen feet before Jo dug her heels in and refused to go any farther.

“Okay, is this about what you saw the other day? Me and Dean? Because I’m a big girl now and I promise I won’t get myself-”

“Yes, but not over…over that,” Ellen hissed. “I’m not thrilled you two are bumpin’ uglies but that is the least of my concerns.”

Jo tried to tug free; Ellen was unyielding. Most of the regulars knew to keep their noses to themselves when the Harvelles were having a ‘discussion’, so despite the drama, no one seemed to be watching. Except Dean. “Then what are the concerns, Momma? Is this about hunting? Again?”

“I do not want you going after John Winchester with that boy.”

“Neither does he, if it’s any consolation.”

“Good. Then this discussion is over.”

“Not hardly, Momma. Don’t I get a say? Damn it, I’m not made of sugar! I won’t melt just ‘cause I’m out of your sight. Don’t you think it’s worth it, for Dean to get his father back? Besides, he wouldn’t put me in danger-”

“That’s exactly what your daddy thought!” Ellen’s eyes got liquid and she clamped her mouth shut, stopping any further words from spilling out. She released Jo’s wrist and turned away.

“Whoa, wait. What?” Now it was Jo’s turn to grab her mother.

Ellen’s shoulders sagged and when she faced her daughter again, her lips were trembling, if only slightly. It wasn’t something Ellen did often, and Jo’s skin tingled right at the base of her neck when she saw it. “Your daddy had a partner on his last hunt,” Ellen said tightly.

“I thought Dad worked alone?”

“He did. And this guy usually did too, but Bill thought he could trust him. Big mistake.”

Jo’s gaze darted to Dean, who was staring at the two women with a conspicuous lack of guile. “That guy was John Winchester, wasn’t it?” she asked, praying her mother could deny the charge.

She couldn’t. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m just afraid…like father, like son.”

The tingle that had started at her nape coursed down Jo’s spine, right to the tips of her fingers, which made them itch to grab something sharp and metal, and shove it into something soft and Winchester. Ellen’s lips worked in a silent objection as Jo strode purposefully back to Dean.

He stood up and took a breath at Jo’s approach. “So?” he said, forgetting to exhale.

Jo felt heat hit her face and she glared up at him. It was all she could do to keep from putting a fist into his nose. “Did you know?”

“Know…?” Dean looked thoroughly confused for a moment, then he didn’t anymore. He raked a hand through his hair, hissing air between his teeth.

“You did. Fucker.” She shoved his chest and stormed away. Ash took a sizable step back to allow Jo plenty of room to pass. He also made certain to keep his pool cue well out of her reach.



Sam woke up in the middle of the night, in a car. Not home. Not the Impala. Not Dean. Not a nightmare. Brady had borrowed an SUV of some sort-overly big, but with enough legroom, even for somebody Sam's size. He heard the demon talking to him over the muted sound of the thunderstorm outside, but didn't move. He didn't even open his eyes, not ready to face the yellow pupils he'd see reflected back at him in the glass of the passenger window.

"I wasn't lying. Not really," Brady was saying. "I mean I didn't know the ritual would kill them. Not at first."

The ritual. Sam's mouth watered at the memory of the blood and he waited for the inevitable wave of nausea and self-hate that always followed the instinctive reaction. It never came.

"Turns out…" Brady let out a nervous laugh and started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, "…they can't survive without Azazel's blood." The demon's voice sounded rushed, like his words were tripping over themselves on the way out. "I guess that's why he feeds it to them so young, because then they can't live without it. They can't-"

"Why are you telling me all this?" Sam asked.

"You told me to tell you everything I knew about Azazel's chosen."

Now Sam vaguely remembered giving the order before he nodded off to sleep; had Brady been blabbering all this time? He turned towards the demon before opening his eyes, and couldn’t help but notice the way Brady flinched when he did. "Where are we headed?"

"East," Brady said. "You told me to go east."

Sam turned back towards the window and pointedly ignored the yellow dots in the glass. He watched the lightning strike a few miles away. "How long have we been driving?"

"Fifteen hours."

Guthrie, Oklahoma; Arkansas; Tennessee; North Carolina... Thunder rumbled again and Sam closed his eyes, wishing it would stop. "We're in North Carolina?"

"Just crossed the border an hour ago."

Sam glared at the latest strike of lightning. "Did the thunderstorm follow us through all four states?"

"Yes."

"Pull over."

The SUV lurched to the side as Brady rushed to comply. He stopped the car on the side of the highway.

Sam opened the door and threw himself out into the rain. He could hear the driver's side door open and close.

"Wait! Sam, where are you going?" Brady yelled. His shoes made a loud squelching noise as they hit the muddy grass.

"It won't stop," Sam said, and kept walking towards the lightning. "I keep telling it to stop, and it won't. Maybe I need to get closer."

Brady's footsteps silenced for a minute and he stuttered, "Wait, what do you-you mean the lightning?" He laughed and said, "That's not…I mean you can't control that! None of Azazel's kids can control the weather.”

Sam held up his hand, flexed his fingers, and sparks of electricity danced between them like living, glowing spiderwebs. "Scott begs to differ."

"That's electricity. It isn't-" Brady hurried to catch up with Sam, "-it's not the same. Sam!" The demon put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Wait!"

Sam turned on Brady and watched him take a step back. "I said 'stop' to Andy and Ansem, and they did."

"That's not the same thing."

"Hop on one foot."

Brady frowned and he did, indeed, jump up and down, wavering as the wet earth sunk beneath his foot. "Is this really necessary?"

"They obeyed. You obey. Why won't the storm?" Sam turned away from him. "You can stop hopping now."

The demon stayed where he was and yelled, "Because it isn't yours to command, Sam. It never will be!"

That stopped Sam in his tracks. "Why not?" he asked, watching his breath curl up into the air.

Brady walked closer, approaching carefully. "Down-below, it's ours. It'll be yours soon enough, and Earth-" he moved next to Sam and smiled weakly, "-Earth is our playground, but up there-” he pointed at the sky, "-it’s theirs."

Sam felt an odd crushing sensation in his chest and wondered what it meant. "The storm followed us…followed me through four states."

The demon nodded. "The storm's a warning."

"A warning?"

"They're afraid." Brady forced his meatsuit to grin. The demon inside was shaking, black eyes darting left and right like he was afraid of being overheard. "They're afraid of what you're becoming, and they're too chicken-shit to come down here themselves and do something about it."

Lightning struck down again, close, only a hundred feet away and Sam suddenly sprinted towards it.

"NO! Sam, stop!" Brady screamed.



The Roadhouse wasn’t at a crossroads, but it didn’t take Dean long to find one. He had an almost sixth sense about these things, places where the Veil was thinnest and freaky otherworldly events could happen. Occupational hazard.

It didn’t have trembling, dry yarrow sprouting from the gutters or an ominous view of a decaying cemetery. It was the middle of the middle of fucking nowhere, mind-numbing stretches of road shooting off in the four cardinal directions. To the west, ugly clouds were beginning to coalesce, fat and dirty and loaded. Even though it was solidly winter, Dean wouldn’t have put it past Mother Nature to shit out a tornado right about now.

He pulled the Impala off onto a shoulder and left the engine running, the headlights cutting beams through the dusk. He’d already made preparations, which included taking a mallet from the trunk of the car (mallets were excellent when blunt force trauma was the only way to get the job done, could crush a skull like a malted milk ball), and weighed its heft in his hand. He walked to the bull’s-eye of the four roads, planted his feet, and laid waste to the already-crumbling asphalt. In this land of eternal winds and brutal storms, roads didn’t stand much of a chance, let alone against a Winchester with a cudgel and a grudge.

His belly complained, the barely-healed muscle twinging with every swing, every thud. The rocky material cracked into chunks, and Dean dropped to his knees, pulling away debris until raw earth was exposed. He set aside the mallet, winded. Frozen air ached in his chest; guess he should’ve been grateful the snow had, at least, blown clear of the road.

The box was nothing fancy, didn’t need to be. It was small and tarnished and might’ve been an old sewing kit at some point. The contents, however, were presently more valuable than gold: a tiny picture of himself, cut from a fake animal-control officer ID; a few rare coins just in case the demon was a greedy fucker; the leg-bone of a black cat he’d begged from a taxidermist in Arcadia (big business, taxidermy, in this neck of the woods); a small, corked bottle of graveyard dirt and a hank of dried weed: yarrow.

He slipped the box into the hole he’d dug and covered it with gravel.

Nothing happened.

He even tamped it down good with the heel of his boot. The wind whistled but he remained alone.

“Hey,” he yelled into the dark, turning, scanning what little he could see of the landscape from the Impala’s glow. The wind might’ve picked up a tad, maybe. “Come on, you son of a bitch. Easy pickings, here.”

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Dean spun, his hand automatically reaching for the gun tucked at the small of his back. The car sputtered and died, along with her headlights. A nigh-full moon cast just enough brightness to see.

"Dean Winchester. Your family's making quite the name for itself." The demon smiled at him almost wistfully.

To call her drop-dead gorgeous was an understatement…and a fallacy, as most things involved with the dead and dying were far from this appealing. With her curves, hair as dark as sin and a skimpy black dress that ignored winter’s bite, she was inarguably a looker. Regardless, Dean wanted to smash her in the face with a fist.

Sensing this, the demon's eyes turned crimson and her smile turned wicked.

She wet her lips and took a few steps forward, but stopped suddenly. Her shoulders twitched as her feet stuck in place and a curse formed on her lips.

Now it was Dean’s turn to grin.

Barely visible in the earth under her six-inch stilettos was a thin tracing of linework. Dean’s handwriting was little more than chicken scratch, but when he drew a Devil’s Trap? He had all the precision of a surgeon. She snapped a glare at him, pushing at the invisible barrier.

"I don’t think so, sister,” he said, trying to keep his temper under wraps. He had to play it smart. Crossroads demons could grant just about any wish, but they were demons, and they'd screw you over just as quickly as their black-eyed brethren. “What do you know of my family?”

She bared her teeth at him, so very white against the red lipstick. "Your father's been quite entertaining. He tried to break free from Azazel's hold over and over..." She clucked her tongue. “But he's just not that easy to shrug off."

Azazel. So that was the son of a bitch who was infesting his father. "I want to make a deal."

"Do you now?" she eased back, crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him. "What makes you think you have anything I want?"

"I want that yellow-eyed shitbag to let my father go. Bring Dad back here, and-" Dean's mouth twitched, "-and in ten years, you get my soul."

The demon cackled.

Dean watched her laugh and canted his head, aping a cockiness he didn’t come close to feeling. "What's so damned funny?"

"You're asking me to betray the King of Hell. You actually think your soul is that special?"

"Well, yeah. You make deals for souls and I’ve got a red-hot one-"

"For a profit!" she spat at him angrily. "You're not worth risking my own neck. Certainly not for ten years, are you joking?"

"Fine then. Eight years. You give me eight more years, and all you have to do is free my dad and bring him back to me."

"You make it sound so easy. No deal."

"Seven years."

"Five."

Five years ago, they'd been a family. Sam and Dad had been bickering almost non-stop, but at least they'd been together. Five years from now seemed like a long time. He could change things in five years. He and Dad could find Sam. Get him away from Brady, whom Dean was going to kill a thousand times over once he got his hands on him. They could save Sam, and then Dad would have Sam and Sam would have Dad. They’d fought before, but after everything that had happened…

Five years was long enough.

"You bring my dad back with nobody riding him, and he stays alive."

"Humans die."

"Eventually, yeah, but I mean I don't want you dicking us over by bringing him back here just to have some other demon come and kill him."

The demon chewed on this, eyes narrowed in shrewd consideration. "If he dies by anything other than natural means, the deal is void. Fair enough?”

Dean nodded. "Five years."

“Fine. It’s a deal.” The words slid off her tongue like poisoned honey. Dean felt his gut ache, and it wasn’t the wound. “Now either let me out of this mouse trap or get your pretty ass over here. You owe me a kiss to seal our agreement."

The few steps he took to reach the demon felt miles long. He stared into her hell-colored eyes and took a deep breath. He'd made his decision.

"Oooh,” she chuckled, as Dean grabbed her by the wrist, scuffed the border of the Devil’s Trap with his heel and pulled her close.

Kissing the demon was nothing like kissing Jo. He tasted ashes and sulfur and felt something prickling his skin.

When the demon pulled back, she smiled. "Say hi to Daddy for me."

The air felt like it gasped around them, and she was gone. On the ground, where she'd stood less than a second before, was John Winchester.

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