Season Two

Episode Twenty-two: Dance With The Devil

By Kittsbud & Tree

Part Three

Sam

Sam wasn’t sure what was worse – the agonizing pain in his hand, or the deep-seated ache in his heart. The demon had finally gotten bored with its taunts and left him to go play elsewhere, but all the "free" time had given him was a chance to worry more.

Knowing and expecting Haris was one thing, but Eli had posed a new mystery with his comments about another "master."

The demon had insinuated his boss was more powerful than the yellow-eyed freak had ever been – and he was pissed at Haris to boot. Just who or what in hell could be high enough up the hierarchy to not be scared of Haris? And why did it involve all the psychic kids?

Maybe whoever is controlling Eli is trying to stop Haris’ grand plan for us all. So why doesn’t Eli just wipe us out instead of all this cat and mouse crap?

Sam winced at the thought, then winced again as he tried to move his left arm slightly. Movement right now really wasn’t an option if he didn’t want his hand and forearm to explode, and yet he felt the need for the pain on some level. It was keeping him awake. Hell, maybe it was keeping him alive.

Even though he couldn’t see his crushed appendage, Sam had a pretty good idea the damage was bad. The rope he was bound with was tight around the already swelling flesh and he guessed if he could see the hand it would be blackened and bruised.

How many more are left alive even? Is it just me now?

Where’s Dean...?

Sam looked across to Matt, hoping the kid showed some signs of life, but there was nothing. If he was breathing, it was too shallow to see his chest moving anymore. And then there was the blood. The garish red liquid had stained the young psychic’s jeans a new shade of crimson – only the stark white of his broken femurs protruding from the denim breaking the mass of scarlet.

Other bodies still hung in the clearing, and although most were too far away to discern any features, they all appeared in a similar condition. David Mitchum was still among them, lifeless – dead.

Am I the only one left alive?

It didn’t seem fair. How could it be? “Matt? David?” He called out; already knowing his breath was wasted, save for the comfort the sound of his own voice gave him.

I can’t just stand around and wait to be next. What would Dean do?

Despite the bolts of lightning it sent coursing down his arm, Sam began to pull at his bonds anew, testing their strength, daring them to hold him.

The rough rope bit into his smashed wrist and he felt the small pieces of bone there grating on one another until he thought he might pass out.

Can’t give into the pain…can’t…

Sam yanked again, this time with just his good hand, but the thick twine simply taunted him. It was loose enough around the tree just to tease, but never to truly allow escape.

Even with that small motion, though, his throbbing hand felt like it was being crushed all over again. Breaking a bone was one thing, but this was so much more. Sam had seen hunters with far less damage never truly regain full use of their hands. Was that what he’d succumb to? Being some kind of cripple?

Sam yanked at the rope again, using his midsection as leverage this time. He was angry now, angry with the demon, angry for being tricked in the first place so easily.

“Why, Sammy, you’ll hurt your hand that way…” Eli reappeared as if on cue, smiling smugly. “You really shouldn’t cause any more damage, you know? I mean, I’d hate for you to lose it. Maybe you could have a hook like that Jacob Cairns friend of yours? Of course, I bet it would mean fun times trying to wipe your ass…”

Sam glowered, puckering his lips into a snarl, but he managed not to snap back, refusing to be baited further.

The demon’s smile turned into a chuckle and Eli moved closer. He waved a hand back at the other hanging bodies dismissively. “I bet you’re wondering why I saved you till last. Simple really, because you’re his favorite. Not to mention, it’s fun watching your futile attempts at escape. Don’t you realize there is nowhere on this puny planet you can hide from my master, especially here?”

“If you’re going to kill me, can we just get on with it?” Sam feigned boredom, exhaling and looking away into the tree line as if the demon’s taunts were mind-numbingly tedious. “I’m kinda getting sick of your foul smelling breath in my face, dude.”

Eli unexpectedly spat on the ground at Sam’s feet, his sulfurous spittle causing a small spiral of smoke as it ate into the loam. “You’ll die when I’m ready,” he growled through gritted teeth. “I’d get thrown out of the demon club if I didn’t torture you a little first, now wouldn’t I?”

“Gee, you must really be out of practice then, 'cause, dude, I’ve seen way better torture from a bunch of Minnesota hicks with too much time on their hands.”

Eli shrugged off the insult. “Don’t worry, I really have only just gotten started. Didn’t your daddy ever make you read the Bible, Sammy? We demons are all about tormenting souls and inflicting pain. And when I get bored, well, I have friends who will do the job for me out there in the wilderness…”

Eli stepped back just enough for Sam to see into the darkness. From somewhere close by, a wolf’s cry pierced the enveloping gloom, followed by the flash of several red orbs, like someone or something caught in a camera’s flare.

The howl came again, and this time a fanged and very hungry creature came with it. The animal sprang from the edge of the trees, no longer afraid to break from the darkness, so deep-seated was its hunger.

The blood from Eli’s first victim had begun to dry like some thick paste, but the thing was still drawn to its color and odor. It sniffed at the corpse warily at first, only sinking its incisors into the still warm flesh once it was sure it was safe to do so.

Once tasted, the coagulating blood was like an elixir and the creature began to tear into the body with fresh vigor.

As Sam watched, more of the thing’s brethren dared to venture from their dark haven until the area around the small tree had become a rabid feeding frenzy. He swallowed, trying to keep down the bile that was slowly creeping up his gullet, but this time he couldn’t stifle a bout of retching.

Being a hunter was a dangerous job – a job that had led him to many gory spectacles, but never anything like this.

Arms were shredded and torn from their sockets. Fingers were chewed away and then tossed aside for more succulent offerings. Tissue and muscle were gorged upon until the creatures’ fur became stained the color of death.

And through all this, Sam realized that soon he might be next to be fed upon.

The dry heaving made his mouth feel drier than a desert, and he licked his lips desperately, closing his eyes in the hope that it would stop any further urges to be sick.

“Why would you make them do that?” Sam’s voice quivered and every muscle in his body shook with rage. “What could you possibly gain by letting wolves feed on your victims that way?”

“They’re gorgeous when they feed that way, aren’t they?” Eli watched with pride as a second hanging body was set upon. “But they’re not wolves, Sammy. Let’s just say they’re my master’s hounds, here to collect a soul or two while we wait for the main event…”

The leader of the pack stopped its uncontrolled attack on the corpse, turning as if it had heard Eli’s words. Its head cocked in some kind of mutual understanding with the demon before it sprung into action, bounding towards a new quarry.

A new soul to reap for its master.

And that soul was Sam’s.

Dean & John

“You sonofabitch, where’s my brother?” Dean demanded, straining against John’s arm that strongly gripped a handful of his son’s flannel shirt. The young hunter drew out his .45, heedless of the panicked stares of the other travelers as they quickened their pace past the threesome.

“Oh Dean, so quick to jump to conclusions, shoot first, ask questions later. Put that thing away. You’re scaring all the poor little humans. Besides, you know it won’t do any good on something like me,” Haris sneered.

“Maybe this won’t, but Dad has…”

“Where’s Sam?” John interrupted, silencing Dean’s near slip of the tongue although his own hand toyed nervously with the amulet bullet within his pocket.

“What? No time to chat about politics or the weather? You know, that’s the problem with you Winchesters, well at least you and Dean, you never take the time to stop and smell the roses. Its all hunt the demon, kill the demon. You guys need to get a life.”

Dean lunged over the top of the car, managing to grab a fistful of the demon’s sweatshirt as he thrust the muzzle of his pistol between the sickening yellow eyes.

“You bastard, you can do whatever you want to me, but I swear to God, when I get to hell, I’m coming directly after your ass. Now what have you done with Sam?” he demanded.

John immediately darted to his side, one hand going to Dean’s right arm, half in an effort to get his son to lower the weapon, half to steady Dean’s quaking hand. He could see that it was nothing more than sheer will and determination being fueled by anger and fear that was keeping Dean on his feet, and then only barely.

Haris looked down into the green eyes that were glaring at him, duller than he recalled, but no less defiant. He also didn’t miss the unsteady waver of the weapon, mere inches from his face, or the slight faltering as the young hunter stood in front of him.

“Big talk there, Dean. Looks like you might not be able to back it up.”

Haris lifted his hand, making as though he was about to toss the young man aside as he had done so many times in the past. Dean flinched in anticipation and John moved around, pushing Dean back towards the car and placing himself between his eldest son and Haris.

The demon laughed snidely, his hand dropping to his side, the threat of action abandoned. Haris had gathered a fair amount of knowledge and more than just a little amusement, in that play. Curious...

“Alright, alright. Are we done playing ‘who’s got the bigger dick’ here?” Haris quipped. “I’m surprised at both of you. I would have thought that the mere mention of dear little Sammy would have had you both groveling at my feet, begging for him, offering up your own pathetic selves in trade.”

Haris raised white-blond eyebrows, his head cocked sideways as his shoulders shrugged. “Oh well, guess maybe I can’t blame you. It’s gotta get tiresome, always chasing after the kid, trying to protect him, keep him safe from me!”

“Where do you have Sam?” John demanded, grabbing a fistful of the demon’s sweatshirt and lifting the large body a fraction off the ground.

“Well, now that’s more like it,” the demon replied cockily. “There’s the John Winchester I’ve come to know and despise.”

“WHERE IS SAM?” John shouted this time.

He unleashed all his anger and frustration and propelled the demon-possessed man backwards into the hard metal trailer of the big rig that was parked beside them. Dean drew up behind his father, his .45 replaced by the silver flask containing holy water.

“You better talk you sonofabitch. I don’t think my dad is gonna ask again,” he snarled, uncapping the flask and waving it threateningly. “And I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Okay, settle down the both of you. The truth is I don’t have Sam,” the demon stated plainly.

“Yeah, right!” Dean snorted back.

“If you don’t believe me, you might as well drag your ass into that shiny black car of yours and go find a good body bag for your brother then. Even if you do believe me, you might still need that body bag if you don’t shut up and listen to what I have to tell you and manage to save your brother before it's too late,” Haris rebutted.

John released his grip on the demon’s clothing, taking a step back and placing a calming hand on Dean’s raised arm.

“We’re listening. If you don’t have my son, then who does and why the hell are you helping us?” he asked suspiciously.

Haris ran his hands down his rumpled shirt indignantly, scowling as he tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Well, let’s just say that there is one of my ‘brethren’ that has come off his medication and gone a little crazy. He’s out there now, rounding up all of my special little boys and girls, one after another, and doing some pretty unspeakable things to them, crazy bastard that he is.”

“Now why would he be going after your psychic kids? What did you do to piss him off?” Dean asked warily.

“I didn’t do anything to him,” Haris readily answered. “He’s a rogue; power hungry and looking to carve out his own special little kingdom in Hell. Not to mention, he wants me out of the way.”

“And why should we give a damn about what he does to you?” John asked.

“Because, Johnny, for all that you perceive me to be the most evil thing in your life, there are much worse, much greater evils in the universe than your pathetic mind can even imagine. You should consider that. The thing that has Sam right now is infinitely worse than me.”

“So, you’re telling us all this why exactly?” Dean interjected. “What do you get out of it? And why don’t you just bust ass in there yourself and take out this badass? I thought you were like the all-knowing, all-powerful Oz down there south of the border.”

Haris laughed loudly, running a hand through thick blond hair.

“Ah, you know how it is. The wolves are always nipping at your heels. The higher you climb, the more people are always looking to drag you down. There are certain politics involved here that preclude me from going after this rogue on my own. Besides, I have my ulterior motives.”

“And what would those be?” John posed.

“You want Sam alive and so do I. He’s no good to me dead. So, it’s simple. I help you find Sam and the rest of my kids, and you rescue them, effectively keeping my name out of it,” Haris replied.

“Yeah, ’cause we really care about what your buddies down in Hell think about your good name,” Dean snarked.

“You know, Dean, I really thought you gave a damn about your brother,” Haris began angrily. “But maybe you don’t. Maybe I was wrong and I should just let that demon peel the flesh from Sammy’s carcass. Then maybe just for fun, he can crush each and every bone in your brother’s body just before every organ turns to Jello and oozes out his nose. How’s that sounding to you big brother? ’Cause your sarcastic mouth doesn’t intimidate me at all and it sure won’t work against the likes of the demon that has your brother.”

John intervened, holding one hand out to Haris while another extended out toward his eldest. He knew that Dean’s sarcasm grew out of nervous bravado, but at the moment the demon before them was their only apparent connection to finding Sam.

“Tell us what you want us to do,” John offered quietly.

Haris calmed, yellow eyes swirling less frantically as he looked from Dean back over to the older hunter.

“The rogue has been gathering my special kids and taking them to a place in eastern Wyoming. I know he’s already killed several of them, but Sam and a few others were still alive the last I knew, so you’d better hurry.”

“And if we catch this demon? What do we do with him?” John asked.

“What do I care? Kill it, preferably! Isn’t that what you hunters do? But John, if you and Dean are successful, there is a little ‘catch’ as it were.”

“I knew it!” Dean groaned, eyes rolling.

“What? What do you want?” John demanded.

The demon smiled, eyes closing slightly, savoring the moment almost as if he were inhaling a fragrant rose.

“I want Sam!”

“No! No way. Never!” Dean shouted, straining to lunge at the demon even though John had immediately positioned himself between his son and his lifelong nemesis.

“Think about it. I don’t want Sammy dead. You don’t want him dead. I just want him and his powers, working with me. It’s a far better fate than what awaits him if the rogue has his way. I promise that his life with me will be quite pleasant and well rewarded. I can make Sam very happy.”

“You’ll never get my brother you bastard. None of you demonic sonsofbitches are gonna have Sam. I’ll kill every last one of you first!” Dean screamed at the top of his lungs.

But despite his protest and his continued attempts to reach Haris, John could tell that his physical struggle was quickly waning. The demon noticed something too, his eyes narrowing as he watched the young hunter suddenly begin to sag back against his father’s restraint.

“Hmmm, doesn’t look to me like you’re in much shape to be killing a gnat right now there, Dean, much less me or any of my brethren. Sure hope Johnny here can manage that rogue on his own. I’m not feeling super confident in your ability to ‘kick-ass’ right about now,” Haris taunted.

“Screw you!” Dean hissed back through clenched teeth. “You just mark my words, my brother won’t ever be yours.”

Haris dismissed the weakening young man with a wave of his hand, turning back to face John.

“So, do we have a deal or not, John?”

“Yeah, we have a deal,” the elder Winchester replied.

“Dad! No!” Dean implored his father, but his words fell on deaf ears.

“Alright then,” Haris continued. “Sam is being held near Devil’s Tower National Monument. I shouldn’t think you’ll have any problem finding the place, just look for the circling vultures.”

“And if and when we manage to get Sam back?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll find you,” Haris promised. Pausing for a moment, the demon then glanced at the now silent men. “Well, it’s certainly been a pleasure. You boys take care. And ah, Dean, I sure hope you eat your Wheaties or something. Hate to think you weren’t at the top of your game when poor little Sammy needed you the most.”

Dean glared at the demon as he pulled the dark hood back up to cover the mass of blond hair. He smiled sinisterly at both hunters before turning and casually strolling off toward one of the parked semis.

They carefully watched Haris leave, wary that he might double back and attack them when their guard was down. But when several minutes passed and the demon failed to reappear, both father and son relaxed slightly.

It was Dean that broke the silence first, his verbal explosion more than making up for the physical strength his body was currently lacking.

“Dad, what the hell are you thinking, promising that bastard that we’ll give up Sammy to him? How can you even think to do that? Sam would be better off dead!” Dean angrily challenged.

“Dean, do you think I would really do that after all this? Do you think that demons are the only ones that know how to lie?” John began. “I just needed to buy us some time and to find out where Sam was being held.”

“Then what? Let’s just assume that we do manage to get Sam back and kill the rogue. What happens when Haris comes to collect?”

“Oh, we’ll have something for him alright. I plan on putting that amulet bullet right between that sonofabitch’s yellow eyes,” John stalwartly answered, his face suddenly hard.

He softened slightly when he saw the look that crossed Dean’s face. It was a look that he had seen on his eldest's but once before, and that night in the cabin was a night that John Winchester would rather forget. Still, that night, and this afternoon, the look on Dean’s face both times was one of fear, desperation and dying.

“Dad, I don’t think… I mean, I’m gonna try, but I don’t know…” Dean stammered, unable to force himself to tell his father that he didn’t think he was going to make it to see that culminating event.

John moved over to where Dean was leaning against the Impala. He noticed the heavy layer of perspiration covering Dean’s forehead; a stark contrast to the occasional shiver that cascaded across his son’s entire body. It reminded him of when one of his boys had the flu, and it would have been much easier to have lived in that illusion had the situation and the consequences not been so utterly dire.

“Dean, I’m not going to lose Sam to the one thing I’ve been trying to save him from. I promise you that! I’m not going to let you… everything you’ve sacrificed, be for nothing.”

He waited briefly; wanting, needing to see some glimmer of hope in his eldest son. The most painful part of watching Dean submit to this fate was now watching him succumb to knowing that his time was running out and that just maybe it had all been for nothing.

“You’re gonna make it, dude. You’re gonna be right by my side when we get your brother back and you’re gonna see that bastard go down and rest easy in knowing that Sammy’s gonna be safe from him forever,” he steadfastly promised.

Dean looked up and smiled halfheartedly. “Yeah, Dad. I know.”

John gently squeezed his son on the shoulder, offering his own weak smile before moving toward the driver’s side of the black Chevy.

“Time’s wasting. How 'bout I drive? Haven’t driven the ol’ girl in a long time. Kinda miss her sometimes, bet she misses me too,” he offered.

Dean feigned a wounded look, but slowly rose and loped toward the passenger’s side of the Impala.

“I dunno, can you get her engine rev’ing? I mean, she’s not used to an old man inside her,” Dean teased, his eyebrows raised suggestively.

“Old man, my ass. Get in the car and put on some Metallica so I don’t have to listen to you snore all the way to Wyoming.”

Bobby

Bobby Singer looked at the crumpled paper in his left hand, trying to make out his own unintelligible scrawl whilst keeping the Jeep he’d procured with a fake MasterCard in a straight line.

The directions John had given him to Mann’s backwoods home were vague to say the least, and on top of that the grizzled hunter was tired. The flight to New Orleans had been a rough one – not because of traffic or turbulence, but because all Bobby could think about was the Winchesters.

The family was his lifelong friends. Hell, they were his family to some extent, and now they faced being torn apart and lost forever.

Bobby couldn’t, wouldn’t let that happen.

The hunter tugged at the grimy peak of his baseball cap, shielding the light from his grit-filled eyes. The road ahead was nothing more than some overgrown grass track with mammoth potholes for good measure. It was the sixth such lane he’d traversed in his hunt for the white haired old shaman, and would probably be yet another wild goose chase, just like the rest.

It had taken too long to get out here, and now it was taking too long to find the ancient old fart that had been part of the cause, not the cure.

Bobby dropped the notepaper to his lap and grabbed at the steering wheel as the Jeep’s front wheel hit a rut, tossing it sideways towards a slime-filled ditch. The Louisiana swamps weren’t the place to travel unless you had a clue about the terrain. Luckily, this wasn’t Bobby’s first hunt on a bayou.

The Jeep straightened with the hunter’s guidance, engine roaring as Bobby poured on the revs.

Dammit, John, why the hell did you trust this old coot? Why the hell couldn’t ya just take the boys and run when ya had the chance?

Bobby cursed more under his breath, hating every spirit, every demon, every damn creature both in Heaven and Hell that had let this happen. He wasn’t a God-fearing man, but if he had been, he’d have cursed the big fella too.

Of all the stupid…idjit…

Something glistened ahead and Bobby slowed, realizing he was seeing the glint of sun reflecting on glass – albeit pretty damn filthy glass. Some of the locals had suggested the hunter try out here for the elusive Shadrack Mann, and it looked like his short burst of legwork had paid dividends.

Shutting off the 4x4’s engine, the hunter tucked a revolver behind his torn gilet and walked warily up to the overgrown shack. It was hard to tell if the encroaching swampland had been allowed to hide the home on purpose, or if this was simple neglect due to Mann’s age.

Keeping a hand on the butt of his gun, Bobby trudged closer, pushing his way through marsh grass and in some places a thick muddy quagmire that appeared to the threaten the porch of the wooden structure.

The house looked abandoned – dead – just like Dean would be soon, maybe Sam too.

Bobby rubbed at his beard and then edged forward, tentatively placing his weight on the decking to see if its rotting mass would hold him.

The blackened, decaying timbers groaned, but held fast, and the hunter skirted carefully to the open screen door. Flies buzzed around the opening, like something within was enticing them, drawing them to feed, to reproduce.

From his position, Bobby couldn’t get a view of the cabin’s interior, but even at this distance he could smell the rank odor that was driving the flies and other wild creatures into a feeding frenzy.

Something was dead here.

Palms sweating, Bobby pulled the revolver from its hiding place and slowly moved inside, years of experience allowing him to ignore the stench of necrotic flesh that was assaulting him.

The Winchesters needed his help and no stinking piece of meat was going to deny them that help.

Taking careful steps, Bobby headed for the dire smell first. It was some home drawing him like an ominous portent, and he knew that if what he feared was correct, his trip may have been for nothing.

The cabin wasn’t large, and it didn’t take the hunter long to find what he was searching for. The remains of what he assumed was Shadrack Mann lay on a grubby old cot that wasn’t very high off the floor.

Flies buzzed around the almost mummified remains, maggots feeding on what very little fresh flesh still clung to the bones. Long masses of white hair sprouted from the shrunken skull, making it even more apparent that this was the corpse of the shaman.

“Aw dammit to hell!” Bobby leaned over the frail husk of the old man, searching for signs of a cause of death. From the state of his home and his age, it was probably old age, but then, he was connected to the Winchesters, so foul play couldn’t be ruled out. “Why’d you have to go up and die right when your family needed ya? Ya ornery old cuss…”

Despite a thorough search, Bobby found nothing on the body. It was like nature was taunting him, daring him to defy it and save the lives of his friends. Pulling off his cap and wiping sweat from his brow he looked around the room. Mann may have been dead for some time, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a clue left here somewhere.

If he had to tear the rotting shack to pieces to find it, then Bobby was up for the task.

Slapping the cap back down on his head, he stuffed his revolver back into his waistband and moved into the next room. The place looked more like a salvage yard than his own house once had.

'Cept this place didn’t get blown all to hell by a bunch of yahoos, he internally griped.

Books were strewn across an old wooden table, their pages yellowed with age and neglect. An old ink pen was tossed next to sheets of empty white paper as if Mann had used it to frequently scrawl on.

Bobby zeroed in on the pages, picking up the top sheet to see if any indentations had been left in it from when the old coot had written last, but there was nothing. Has somebody been here before me?

Bobby didn’t know why the thought came to him, but it clung like a leech. If Shadrack had knowledge of the guardians – hell, of the amulet – then it made sense that maybe Haris’ boys had gotten here first.

Maybe that’s why there were no marks on the body?

Bobby huffed and began rifling through the books and manuscripts on the table. Some of the documents were from the very dawn of US history, some were from other parts of the world, but there was nothing here that made sense.

Nothing that could save Dean.

Bobby stepped back from the mess and took a calming breath. If Mann truly was as smart and wise as his reputation suggested, he wouldn’t just leave important information lying around. He’d hide it.

The question was, in a ramshackle structure like this, was there really any safe place? It was hardly Fort Knox.

If I was the ol’ coot, where would I hide somethin’ so darn valuable?

Bobby looked to the ceiling, but his concentration was broken by a creak from the only room he’d yet to search. The noise had sounded like weight being placed on the decaying wooden decking, and it sent the hunter into full alert mode.

Retrieving his gun yet again, he sidled up to the doorframe, listening for further sounds. He was no good to the Winchesters dead, and he might have demonic company.

He waited, keeping his breathing low even though his heart was hammering against his ribcage. Maybe it was some dang critter after a meal? He justified. But some inner voice told him otherwise.

Bobby swallowed and peeked into the gloom, taking a tentative step forward, gun outstretched. Before he’d fully entered the darkness, an arm swung at him, catching him on the jaw with just enough force to send him tumbling forward, the revolver jarring from his grasp and clattering to the floor out of reach.

“Sonofa…” Bobby rolled, using the dull light in the room to his advantage. If it was hard for him to see the attacker, it was hard for the bad guy to see him if he clung to the shadows. Not a demon then, he surmised. 'Cause those boys don’t go around tossing right hooks when they can pin ya up a wall…

Another punch flew from the gloom, but this time Bobby was ready and dodged the flying fist, returning a quick jab of his own that impacted hard with someone’s jaw.

The hunter heard his foe gruffly huff, but he didn’t go down.

“Quite a punch you have there, old man.” The voice sounded quietly calm and not at all angry. Even still, Bobby could imagine the man to be rubbing blood from the edge of his bottom lip.

Bobby might not be as young as he used to be, but he was still pretty much the meanest pugilist in the state. “You might wanna watch who you’re callin’ old there, son.” He lunged again, this time narrowly missing his target as a fast return kick to his legs caught him off guard.

Bobby felt his knees buckle under him reflexively from the blow, and he hit the hard timbered floor with a grunt. Not to be outdone, the elder hunter kicked out his own legs to lash out at his opponent, bringing him down until the pair were a mass of tangled, thrashing limbs like some jungle fight in a Tarzan movie.

Bobby lashed out again, not even sure where his punch was headed, but the stranger seemed equally as well-trained and ducked away from the blow, catching Bobby’s fist in his hand and holding it there in a show of strength.

“We could do this all day, but you know I’d win in the end.” Again the low, calm tones made Bobby flinch. Whoever this was, he could hold his emotions perfectly in check. “What say we call it a truce, old man, before I do some real damage.”

Bobby looked into the man’s eyes, trying to read if he was telling the truth. It would be easy for the hunter to give in only to be murdered. It would be the demonic thing to do. Except, he still didn’t think this person was possessed. “Hell, you were the one who started the damn fight…”

Bobby relaxed his hand and the stranger did the same, both men scrambling warily to their feet and glaring at one another in some bizarre eye-to-eye standoff.

Stepping into what little light illuminated the room through a broken shutter, Bobby scrutinized the stranger more closely. He appeared to be in his mid to late forties, around Dean’s height and stature, but with a much more mysterious air than the normally roguish hunter. He was handsome, but definitely had a rough hidden side that made Bobby edgy.

“What do you want here?”

The stranger smiled playfully and began to walk around the room, running a finger over the dust covered surfaces. “I was here first,” he offered wryly. “Shouldn’t it be you telling me?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Did you kill the old man?” His beard ticked nervously as he waited for an answer. Of course, there was no way to tell if the answer would be truthful, save for his own instincts.

“I’m not interested in killing, that’s not what I’m here for.” The man slipped a hand into his brown leather jacket and pulled out a metallic-looking object which he began to twirl nervously in his fingers. “I have other interests at stake here. Let’s just say I was looking for something very important to me…”

Bobby honed in on the stranger’s hand, watching the man’s “tell.” The coin he was whirling with thumb and forefinger was obviously a habit he’d had a long time – and the coin – well, that was even older. Dating things wasn’t Bobby’s speciality, but the thing looked ancient. “Yeah, well, maybe I was lookin’ for something important to me too. So what say we just do our own thing and then get the hell outta here?”

The man smiled again, just a little too sardonically. “And what if we’re both after the same thing that Mann was keeping?”

Bobby shrugged. “Then you’re shit outta luck, boy, because a friend’s life depends on what I’m after, and I ain’t about to have qualms about kicking your ass all over again to get what I need. Ya understand?” The elder hunter stared defiantly at the outsider even though he suspected the man could beat him if their earlier fight resumed.

Sometimes a little poker face and a whole lotta Singer luck had to be relied upon.

The stranger chuckled unexpectedly. “Mann may have information here about an ancient group – think of them as some early form of freemasons, if that helps. I simply want the information. I’m not out for money, objects of value…just information.” He continued to finger the strange piece of gold currency, finally flipping it up in front of Bobby and catching it. “How could information about such an ancient society help you save a life?”

Bobby rubbed at his beard again, aware that it was probably his own “tell.” Could he trust some stranger enough to tell them what he wanted? No, needed? And if he didn’t, was he risking losing what he’d come for? “You’re talking about the Guardians,” he eventually admitted. “They melted down a sword – a special sword and made it into talismans that could protect them from demons.”

The man nodded. “I’m aware of the legend. Aware only too well…”

Bobby raised a brow at the stranger’s easy acceptance of the myth. Reading something was one thing, but to actually not balk and laugh at the suggestion demons were real wasn’t exactly an everyday thing in today’s society. “Catch is, if the guardian ever loses the amulet he dies,” Bobby continued. “And my friend, he err…kinda melted the sucker down into a bullet to kill a demon that’s haunted his family these past twenty years…”

“And you’re here for answers?” The stranger flipped the coin back into his pocket and stopped his pacing. “Why here?” His eyes narrowed. “Did Mann give your friend this amulet?”

Bobby hesitated. Had he already said too much? Right now, did it even matter? He apprehensively glanced at his watch. Was it “Game Over” for Dean, or could he still be of use? “Yeah, the old coot gave my friend that thing. If I’d known I’d have kicked the old fart’s ass for this. But that’s in the past. I need to search the house. See if there’s anyway to reverse this damn curse or whatever it is.”

The stranger sighed and took a seat. It was hard to tell if he was genuinely bothered by the hunter’s tale, or simply frustrated that his own hunt was being slowed.

“Your friend made a wasted gesture,” he eventually replied. “The talismans made for the guardians may once have been a demon-killing sword, but on their own, without something more, they only offer protection. They can’t kill a higher level demon.” He took out the coin again and stared at its worn surface. “Your friend is as good as dead. His life wasted for some toy that won’t work…”

Bobby squirmed. Was he being fed false information? Just because this person wasn’t a demon didn’t mean he wasn’t working for one. Haris had had his cult followers before. “Just who the hell are you, and how do you know all this?” he barked, not caring if he angered the man anymore.

“Who am I?” The stranger shrugged. “Trust me, I often ask myself that question. I’m an enigma, a piece of a puzzle long forgotten. All you need to know is that I’m telling you the truth. Maybe you should tell your friend that too, before he suffers a far worse death than that caused by losing the amulet.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Why would I lie?” The man looked at an old cuckoo clock on the mantelpiece that amazingly still seemed to be ticking. Who or what had wound it was a mystery in itself. “I’d be calling your friend right about now, if I were you. Death by demon is gonna be far the worst of the two ways to go…”

Bobby’s own eyes flicked to the clock as the cuckoo popped from its home and began to “sing” that another new hour had passed. His expression turned from angry to pained and he fumbled in his trouser pockets for the battered cell phone he rarely used.

Hitting the speed dial, Bobby put the phone to his ear only to realize there was no signal. What had he expected out here in swampland?

“Aww shit!” The hunter made a dash for the porch, knowing that sometimes in low signal areas being outside made all the difference. He had to warn Dean, he had to let the hunter know that facing Haris was doomed to failure. If not Dean, then at least John.

Bobby hit the slime-covered portico so fast his boots skidded in the Louisiana “ooze” and he fell forward, the cell torn from his grasp as he hit the steps with a loud crack.

The hunter lay dazed for a second, a decrepit Dreamcatcher above him whirling in and out of focus as his brain tried to re-orientate itself with the real world. Bobby coughed and squinted, searching out the lost phone like a prairie dog latching onto a scent.

The harsh landing on the steps had left him dazed, but he still only had one goal, one mission.

Dammit, if that friggin’ cell is damaged…

Bobby’s rough fingers grasped the phone as if it were gold, flipping it over to check that the Motorola was still intact. The screen showed a weak signal and he heaved a deep sigh – not entirely relief – but hope.

Maybe the stranger was working for the other team, maybe he wasn’t, but John and Dean deserved to be put in the picture. They deserved to know there was a good chance they’d be facing Haris with nothing more than a “blank.”

“C’mon, dammit, connect!” The tiny cell finally picked up a dial tone and Bobby held his breath. “Pick up the damn phone…”

“This is John Winchester. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you…”

Bobby’s heart sank far deeper than a certain White Star liner and he closed his eyes in defeat.

If this was the start of the demonic war they’d all been expecting, then humanity was about to lose three of its key players, and there was nothing anyone could do to save them.

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The Winchester Chronicles