Season Two

Episode Eleven: Selling My Soul

By Irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Two

Erika Gudrun’s Home
8.52 a.m.
15hrs 8mins…

The ominous rumbling of a helicopter hovering overhead and the crackle of multiple police radios, not to mention the tear gas rapidly filling Erika Gudrun’s kitchen with acrid smoke, was more than enough to convince Dean that his and Sam’s time was most definitely up.

Peering cautiously out through the broken kitchen window, he gulped in a lungful of fresh air and frowned at the sea of flashing blue and red lights and the virtual army of blue uniforms now blocking Erika’s street from end to end.

“Jeez, must be a slow morning in Copville,” he coughed out, noting the glint of a rifle and a brief glimpse of a black-clad figure on the roof of the building opposite. “Either that or the local coffee shop ran out of donuts. I think we got the whole of New Jersey’s Finest out here.”

He turned and glanced back at Sam, rubbing at his watery eyes as his kid brother kicked the tear gas canister out into the hall, slamming the kitchen door shut behind it.

“That’s not going to help a whole lot,” Dean muttered.

“It’ll give us a couple extra minutes,” Sam insisted, snatching up a towel and stuffing it the length of the gap at the bottom of the door. He turned back to Erika, wide eyed and desperate. “Are they here for us or for you?” he demanded, clenching his jaw as he re-established his grip on the .45 in his hand.

Erika looked up at him, batting her eyelashes innocently, and Sam frowned as he wiped tears from his eyes, noting that Erika’s were as dry as they had been before the tear gas. “I don’t know what you mean –” she began, but bit off the rest of her sentence as Sam abruptly bent down toward her until his face was mere inches from her own.

“They never caught up to you after the restaurant did they? Maybe it’s you they’re after?”

Erika continued to gaze at him appraisingly, completely unruffled and unhurried, just as a not-too-distant tinkle of glass and an ominous hissing sounded from somewhere down the hall.

“Sam, we gotta go!” Dean choked, moving away from the window and back towards his brother. “Sam!”

Sam looked over at him, covering his mouth as another fit of coughing wracked his body. “And go where?” he croaked hopelessly. “I thought you said the cops had us surrounded.”

“I can get you out of here,” Erika put in suddenly, sitting as far forward in the chair as her bonds would allow.

Sam blinked at her through teary eyes, struggling to catch his breath. Dean had stumbled over to him, one hand fisted in his jacket at the shoulder, trying to pull him away.

“Sam, come on! Let’s just leave her!”

Sam stood his ground, blinking rapidly as Dean broke down into a fit of hacking coughs. “How?” he managed to choke out. “How can you get us out of here?” He blinked through the tears, the image of the girl in the chair swimming slightly.

More breaking glass and militaristic shouting in the distance, and Dean was literally trying to drag him back to the door.

“I have another way out,” Erika told him, sitting up straighter in the chair. “I’ll show you if you promise to let me go once we’re clear.”

Sam hesitated, glancing over at Dean as the shouting voices of the approaching cops came ever nearer.

“I can help you.” Erika looked Sam straight in the eye, gaze never faltering, chin pushed out ever-so-slightly. “Let me help you.”

Sam wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand, coughing anew as he held out one hand toward Dean. He didn’t need to say anything for his brother to understand what he wanted.

“Sam –”

“We’re out of options, Dean.”

Dean took a shallow breath before handing his knife to his brother.

Erika didn’t even flinch as Sam brought the blade down toward her wrist, slicing through the ropes binding her to the chair before making quick work of those restraining her other arm.

She sprang instantly to her feet, grabbing the chair on which she’d been sitting and tossing it aside before yanking back the rug spread across the wooden floor to reveal a square door set into the floorboards.

“Trapdoor?” Dean burst out between coughing fits. “You were sitting on that all the time and didn’t tell us?”

Erika shrugged. “Always have an escape plan,” she advised him, wrenching open the door to reveal a rickety-looking ladder that disappeared into a dark hole beneath. “It’s a philosophy that’s kept me alive for –” she seemed to perform a mental calculation before merely shrugging again. “– A lot of years.”

“No kidding,” Dean said, grabbing the discarded chair and wedging it under the door handle. “And there I was thinking you just used one helluva good moisturizer…”

“That’s not going to hold a SWAT team for very long,” Erika observed placidly, gesturing at the chair as she pointedly ignored his comment.

“Then you’d better get a move on with this escape plan of yours,” Dean returned, inclining his head toward the hole in the floor. “Ladies first.”

Erika cocked an eyebrow. “Afraid of the dark, huh?” she asked as she lowered herself onto the ladder.

Dean scowled at her. “Lady, the dark’s afraid of me,” he told her emphatically. “Now can we please get the hell out of here?”

Another loud crash resounded from the hall behind them, followed by the heavy thud of booted feet, and Dean virtually trod on Sam’s hands in his haste to follow his kid brother through the trapdoor.

“Dude!” Sam snapped, as Dean tugged the trapdoor down over their heads just as the sound of splintering wood indicated the cops had kicked their way into the room where they’d just been standing.

Sam jumped down onto the concrete at the bottom of the ladder, taking in the dank brick basement in one sweeping glance as Dean descended the rest of the way before landing next to him with a thud.

They both looked back up the way they’d just come, eyes finally beginning to clear, although their lungs still burned all the way to their tongues.

“We have to go,” Sam said suddenly, voice still scratchy. “They’re gonna have that trapdoor open any second –”

“No,” Erika said calmly, turning away from them and heading toward the dim distant corner of the small basement room. “They won’t find it.”

Dean blinked through the gloom at her. “But its right there in front of them!” he protested. “How are they not gonna find it?”

Erika turned back to them suddenly, fair features momentarily bathed in the room’s only source of illumination as pale fingers of light felt their way in through a grille set high into the wall. She smiled enigmatically. “They can’t find what they can’t see,” she told them. “And they only see what I want them to see.”

Dean glanced over at Sam, who shrugged uncertainly, before the rusty squeal of metal on metal drew their attention back to Erika, who was levering something out of the concrete floor with a metal pole.

Sam approached first, Dean on his heels. “What are you –?”

A loud clunk and a further screech of metal stopped Sam’s question cold, as Erika shoved a rusty manhole cover across the floor as if it weighed next to nothing.

“Basement under the basement?” Dean hazarded, glancing at the circular hole in the floor a little uncertainly.

Erika looked up at him and grinned brightly. “Sewer access,” she told him, lowering herself into the hole without a second thought. “Hope you boys didn’t wear your best shoes!”

Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You gotta be kidding me!” he burst out. “No way I’m going down in no freakin’ sewer –”

“I thought you weren’t afraid of the dark?” Erika’s voice drifted up from below them, echoing oddly.

Dean bit his lip as Sam shrugged again and made to follow Erika, hesitating as he suddenly flashed back to a coffin and a skull and – and darkness. He shuddered. Not buried, he told himself. It’s just a sewer. Not buried…

He took a deep breath before following his brother down through the manhole. “Sweetheart, you’re looking at one helluva dry cleaning bill if we get outta this in one piece…”

* * * *

The trip through the sewer tunnels was mercifully brief, as Dean spent most of the journey bitching about the sewers not looking anything like this on Angel, while Sam spent the entire time trying not to bang his head on the low ceilings.

“Are we there yet?” Dean demanded, just as Erika stopped at the bottom of a slime-covered ladder and looked up thoughtfully.

“This should be about where you boys parked your car. Two blocks away, right?”

Dean’s mouth opened wordlessly in surprise, while Sam managed, “How’d you know that?”

Erika shrugged. “Call it a gift,” she said, beginning to clamber up the ladder. “Good thing you boys are kinda paranoid. I never would have believed you were cable guys if you’d pulled up outside my house in that thing. Plus, right now you’d be parked smack in the middle of a police cordon.”

Sam tossed a look over his shoulder at Dean, who frowned uncomfortably.

“Okay, this chick is officially starting to creep me out,” he muttered, following Sam to the foot of the ladder.

A shaft of bright sunlight speared down at them from above their heads as another scrape of metal suggested Erika hadn’t had much trouble shifting this manhole cover either.

Sam glanced back once before hauling himself up onto the ladder, climbing quickly until he suddenly found himself standing in the very alleyway where Dean had parked the Impala earlier.

“That’s yours, right?” Erika asked, jerking her thumb toward the jet black Chevy.

“That she is,” Dean confirmed, unable to keep a little spark of pride out of his voice as he pulled himself out of the sewer. He moved over to stand behind Sam, frowning as he caught sight of the grungy gunk clinging to his boots and the cuffs of his coveralls as he wiped slime off his hands and onto his thighs. He turned his disgusted gaze in Erika’s direction, not entirely surprised to note that her shoes and her jeans didn’t appear to have a single smear of dirt on them anywhere. “That’s some trick,” he told her. “Bet you’re real fun at parties.”

A none-too-distant police siren caused all three of them to glance nervously up the alley as a couple of cop cars sped past the entrance, lights flashing.

“We have to go,” Sam reminded them suddenly. “Right now.”

“Wait,” Dean reached out to grab hold of Erika’s arm. “A deal’s a deal. You said you’d give us information…” He trailed off, unable to quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

Erika gazed at him appraisingly, not resisting the insistent tug on her arm, just looking at him as if she had all the time in the world and there weren’t a hundred cops swarming all over the area looking for them.

For a second, Dean almost looked away, vaguely disconcerted by the feeling that the girl could look right into his head and see his almost overwhelming desire to just stuff her into the Impala and make a run for it.

But a deal was a deal.

And Dean somehow got the impression Erika already knew they’d hold up their end of the bargain.

“Luciano Ferinacci,” Erika said at length. “He has a –” she smiled mirthlessly, “– a little house just north of the city, out towards Branch Brook Park. That’s where he keeps his – uh – collection. That’s where you’ll find the Seal of Solomon.”

Dean blinked at her. “Then the thing actually exists?”

Erika nodded. “I already told you. It’s the pride of his collection.”

Sam just stared at her, still vaguely stunned that the Seal even existed, much less that it was here, in New Jersey, right where his vision had told him he would die. He shook his head slightly. “That guy’s house is gonna be locked up tighter than Fort Knox,” he observed. “How the hell are we meant to get inside and get the thing?”

Erika turned disinterested eyes in his direction. “That’s your problem,” she told him flatly. “I told you where to find it; the rest’s up to you.”

She attempted to tug her arm out of Dean’s grasp, but he didn’t release her right away, still considering the fact that she had some kind of supernatural mojo going on that he couldn’t quite pin down, while the iciness of her blue eyes only served to remind him that she was also more than likely a multiple murderer.

“Dean,” Sam’s quiet voice broke in on his brother’s contemplation. “Let her go.” He fixed Dean with a meaningful gaze. “A deal’s a deal.”

Dean returned his look for a long moment before reluctantly releasing the young woman’s arm. “Yeah well,” he muttered, eyes sliding to the uneven pavement beneath his feet. “Some deals are meant to be broken.” He looked back up again to find Sam’s eyes fixed on him and Erika glancing thoughtfully between the two of them.

“You should go,” she said suddenly, both brothers abruptly turning their attention to her, as if only just remembering she was there. “You don’t have much time, Sam.”

Sam met her searching gaze, wanting to ask how she knew; wanting to ask who she was, what she was. But all that he could manage was a grateful nod of thanks as he caught hold of Dean’s arm and began pulling him toward the waiting Impala.

“Good luck, Sam,” he heard her say as he turned away from her.

When he looked back over his shoulder, she was gone.

Sleep EZ Motel, Newark NJ
10.14 a.m.
13hrs 46mins…

“So what the hell was that?”

Dean dumped the weapons bag on his bed with a shake of his head, confusion warring with anger for control of his face.

Sam strode across the room to his own bed, grabbing the laptop and opening it with an economy of movement that betrayed the ticking clock threatening to split his brain in two. “I don’t know, Dean,” he sighed, resting his forehead against his palm for a second.

“I mean,” Dean continued as if Sam hadn’t even spoken, “sure, we’ve had hunts go sideways on us before, but that –” he gestured wildly toward the door and what lay beyond, “– well that was just weird. Even for us. I mean – that chick? Seriously, what the hell?” He stopped talking for a second when he realized Sam hadn’t said anything and was staring fixedly at the computer screen. “Earth to Sammy? Jeez, that better not be porn you’re lookin’ at dude, ’cause I’d hate to think I was playing second fiddle to free wireless…”

“Huh?” Sam looked up at him distractedly, as if only just remembering he was in the room.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “That Erika chick,” he repeated. “What the hell?”

Sam shrugged, a line forming between his brows as he returned to scanning the computer screen.

“Sam?” Dean prodded. “Dude, you see her with that tear gas? Not even crocodile tears, man! And when I cut her? That was just unreal.” He took a step closer to his brother when he still got no response. “We shoulda hung onto her a little longer –”

“No,” Sam said finally, still not taking his eyes off the laptop. “A deal’s a deal.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that, dude.”

Sam finally dragged his attention from the screen long enough to look up at his brother. “That’s different,” he said, immediately averting his gaze back to the laptop when he saw the anguished looked in Dean’s eyes.

“Damn straight,” Dean agreed, circling around until he was standing at Sam’s shoulder. “So what are you looking at, Sam?”

“Ferinacci’s house,” Sam replied, before thinking better of the description. “Or – mansion,” he amended, indicating the computer screen. “Its right where Erika said it was.”

Dean frowned. “You found Ferinacci’s house on the internet? Dude, what site are you lookin’ at, Mobster Homes of America.com?”

Sam shook his head. “The house was bought by one of his shell companies.”

“And you know this how…?”

“Because I did a little research on him when I read he owned the restaurant where those guys –”

“Bit the big calzone?”

“Something like that.”

“And why’d he spike on your Geekometer?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno,” he mused. “Something about the name…”

Dean frowned at him. “The name?”

Sam shrugged again. “I dunno…” His finger tapped out an impatient rhythm against the rim of the laptop and he blew out a slow breath. “I don’t think we can do this,” he said finally, shaking his head.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean encouraged. “So he’s a mob boss. We’ve faced off against scarier things –”

“Really?” Sam interrupted. “When? Dean, the guy’s a mobster! We can’t take care of him with salt, lighter fluid and a few choice phrases of Latin, man! You think we’re gonna just waltz on up to his front door, invite ourselves in and put our hands straight on the Seal of Solomon before waltzing back out again? You know the kind of security this place is gonna have?”

Dean straightened, trying to muster his usual cocky grin. “Ain’t a place been built we can’t break into!”

Sam considered him for a second, frown deepening. “I’m not so sure that’s something we should be bragging about, Dean,” he said solemnly.

“Sorry Mr. Law Society,” Dean returned. “But right now this is all we got. This is our last chance, our last hope. We gotta get in that mansion; we gotta get the Seal. There’s no other option. We gotta get it man, we gotta do this. This is it. It’s this or –” he broke off, all fake bravado gone as he shook his head uncertainly. When his voice returned it was stronger, confidence and determination oozing from every syllable. “It’s this.” He put a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, leaning down toward him and looking him right in the eye. “It’s this, man. This is it. We gotta do this. We’ve got to do this.”

Sam returned his brother’s steely gaze, desperately trying to convince himself that this wasn’t just for his benefit; that Dean really was this confident, really believed they could do this. He blinked up at his brother, at the rigid set of his jaw, the flinty sparkle in his eyes. Dean meant it. Sam could see it. Dean was going to do this. If it was the last thing he ever did. If it was the last thing either of them ever did.

“So.” Dean drew himself up to his full height, reaching for his Desert Eagle and checking the clip before shoving it into its usual place against the small of his back. “You coming or what?”

Somewhere Near Ferinacci’s Mansion
11.46a.m.
12hrs 14mins…

Dean slammed the stick shift over so hard the gears begged for mercy, making a metallic grinding scream that signaled the catering van had just about had enough of his driving technique.

The white-painted Ford E450 had been acquired rather hastily from Klein’s Caterers, and neither brother had realized it had been parked separately because it was in desperate need of repair. They were paying for that mistake now as the van lurched rabbit-style every time Dean attempted to change gear.

“Dude, you need me to show you what gear you should be in?” Sam smirked, creases forming on his face as he teased his brother. “And you say I drive like a girl…”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you’d picked us a better cover, Sammy,” Dean groaned struggling with the van’s clutch as it slipped yet again. “This thing is so fried even McDonald’s would reject it.” He glanced over, rolling his eyes at his brother as he pulled the white Ford onto a private lane. “Caterers, Sammy, why’d it have to be caterers…”

“Maybe because you’re a walking food encyclopedia?” Sam countered, his smirk widening. “I mean, you do have every burger joint and junk food dive memorized this side of the equator. Forget Sat Nav, you just hone in on the nearest diner.”

Dean scowled, almost stalling the van as he lost his concentration for a second. “Yeah, well, just don’t expect me to play waiter to these guys when we get inside. I already look like a friggin’ penguin in this outfit…”

“You resemble that remark,” Sam mimicked Burgess Meredith’s cackle from Batman. “Just no hiding any weapons under the penguin, okay?” He grew more serious, his brow knitting and his eyes searching Dean’s for any sign of duplicity. “No knives in ankle holsters either, Dean. Ferinacci’s men are bound to frisk us, regular caterers or not.”

“No knives,” Dean conceded. “Just as long as you’re sure this will get us in? ’Cause, dude, I was so ready to go with the C4 option. You know, if we’re going out, do it with a big bang…”

Sam took down a breath, but didn’t respond. Dean had been joking, but for the first time he’d actually acknowledged that ‘going out’ could actually be an option. To Dean, dying in a blaze of glory at Ferinacci’s would always be a better death than simply to be taken by some demon. And yet, Sam wasn’t so sure.

They’d come here for the Seal, for a way to prevent a deal Sam had willingly agreed to, but something was just off about the whole thing.

Sam couldn’t help but to keep going back in his mind to that niggling feeling he’d had at the motel. Ferinacci was familiar to him somehow, and it wasn’t just because he was a high profile mobster.

“Whoa, talk about Munster Mansion, this place looks like something out of the dark ages.” Dean slowed the Ford as he approached a double iron gate that led onto a spiraling paved driveway.

At the entrance, several men that could easily have played for the New York Giants stood on guard, their black garb and ear mikes making it transparently obvious they were security at its tightest. Dean had no doubt each man’s perfectly tailored jacket was also host to a concealed automatic, maybe two.

Beyond the men, and the driveway, loomed a house that could have been built during medieval times. Harsh stone turrets jutted from its corner extensions and ornate arched windows gave away its European heritage.

“Why the hell would an Italian mobster have something like this ferried over stone by stone from England, dude?” Dean surveyed the house and the surrounding gardens with distaste. People who had this much money to throw around usually annoyed him anyway, but when the money came from the kinds of nefarious deals Ferinacci made, he sometimes wondered if he actually hunted the wrong kind of devil.

“It’s a status thing.” Sam clarified. “You know, show who’s at the top of the pecking order. Besides, don’t forget, this guy collects occult items. Maybe he’s into a little black magic.”

“Yeah, and maybe he’s just a greedy-assed sonofabitch.” Dean took down a breath as he finally dipped the clutch and brought the van to a halt. Putting on his best fake smile he wound down the window. “Got a further delivery for Mr. Ferinacci’s party…”

“Where’s Hector?” The middle goon walked forward, his shaven head shining in the sunlight as if he’d actually polished it. “You’re not the regular guy from Klein’s…” He kept a hand under his jacket just enough to indicate he had a weapon nestled there, ready and waiting.

Dean cocked his head, taking note of the move. “Way I heard it, Hector is already out here. I just got told Mr. F. had upped the order and to bring out the extra. ’Course, I could always take it back, but when the guests run out of pretzels and reach for their Uzis, don’t blame me…”

The head guard’s eyes narrowed and he studied Dean hesitantly. “Both of you out of the van, now.” As he gestured for Sam to climb down too, the remaining suits surrounded the delivery truck, making any kind of escape a physical impossibility.

“Don’t tell me, this is where you guys get a little hands on action, right?” Dean’s mouth creased into a smirk as he was spun around by two of the men and slammed into the side of the van.

While one guard held his face flush to the metal, the other began to shake him down for weapons.

“Dude, I heard about what you guys get up to in the county jail, but lemme tell you I so don’t swing that way.” Dean heard a second thud and just managed to see Sam being held in a similar position. From the look on his face, Sammy wanted his big brother to shut up, big time.

Dean’s hazel eyes glinted his usual ‘sorry, man’ message and he continued unabashed. “C’mon, guys, you should know not to upset the waiter…I mean, didn’t four of your hard asses get whacked in a restaurant recently?”

“Bruno, can I take this guy and teach him a few manners?” The ‘frisker’ looked to the bald goon almost pleadingly.

“Maybe later.” Bruno tapped his earpiece sounding almost disappointed. “Hector just sent a message from the kitchen asking if the extra supplies have arrived yet. I guess these guys are legit. Let them on through.” He peered at Dean with cold, distrusting green eyes. “Stefan, go with them…”

“Gee, Mr. Wandering Hands gets to come to the party.” Dean brushed down his jacket as if it had somehow been sullied by the guard’s contact. “Just no touching the goods from now on, Capone, or I might have to show you how caterers take care of business.”

Stefan’s eyes flashed with anger, but he’d been trained well enough not to rise to the bait. Climbing into the catering van, he waited patiently for Sam and Dean to join him.

Dean grimaced as he clambered back in the cab and remembered the wayward clutch he had to deal with. No doubt their newfound ‘friend’ would find it amusing – or worse – suspicious.

Trying hard not to grate the gears, Dean restarted the Ford and exhaled as the mammoth electric gates began to peel back. Once he was through, he steered towards the rear of the stone-built building where Sam had instructed him Klein’s usually delivered their foodstuffs.

“You know, that headache has got to be a bitch. You really should take something for it.” Dean looked off-handedly at Stefan and then raised a brow when the man stared back at him as if he’d gone insane.

“You pair got a death wish or something?” Stefan sneered. “’Cause you gotta know nobody walks in here and smart mouths like you pair did back there and gets away with it.” He jerked a thumb towards the rapidly vanishing gates and his companions.

Dean shrugged, ramming at the stick shift again when it refused to slip into gear. “Nah, no death wish. We just make deals with devils. Right, Sammy?” He looked behind Stefan to his brother, half-joking, half-deadly serious.

Stefan huffed, but reflexively turned to the younger caterer just in time to see the butt of a Glock descending towards his skull. He yelped, pushing out a hand in defense, but by then the metal had already impacted and he was slumping forward in his seat.

Dean leaned over as if the mobster could still hear him. “See, told you that headache was gonna be a bitch…”

“Dean, there will be more security inside, and it won’t take Bruno long to figure out his buddy here is missing.” Sam pulled Stefan’s limp form backwards and dragged the unconscious guard back through the cabin into the rear of the van. The Ford had a cooled but not refrigerated compartment, so it was safe to bind and gag their prisoner without worry of imminent death, even if he probably did deserve it on some level.

“You got the plans to Ferinacci’s security, though, right?” Dean whipped the van into a parking space reserved for the service entrance and took a look around the grounds. The place was huge, and it reminded him of some French court back in the time of Louis’ reign. If a group wearing feathered masks and ball gowns had wandered in front of the van, Dean wouldn’t have even been fazed in the least.

The place was just bizarre on every level, even for a mob boss. And why the hell was Ferinacci having some big bash so early in the day? It wasn’t like some cool dinner party for the Cosa Nostra, it was some strange all-day event with a guest list that had no gangland connections – at least, it looked that way from what Sam had managed to hack into.

“I’ve got the plans,” Sam confirmed, stuffing a cloth gag into Stefan’s mouth. “And if you cut the sarcasm we just might get inside without being noticed long enough to use them.”

“Dude, they’re the mob, they expect nothing less.” Dean hopped from the cab, still unhappy that his Desert Eagle had been forced to stay ‘home’ in the Impala. Sam had his Glock secured under the van’s front seat, but he had insisted Dean had hid no weapons, knowing the elder hunter just wouldn’t be able to resist carrying one when he shouldn’t.

The back door of the van clanked and Sam jumped from the footplate, landing with a thud on the meticulously patterned block paved drive. “Ready to gatecrash the ball, Mr. Ness?” he asked, at last feeling like there was a chance – a way to stop Haris.

Dean grinned, twirling a ladle in his hand like it was his favorite hunting knife. “I thought you’d never ask, Cinderella.”

“Dean -”

“Just don’t go making the Impala turn into a pumpkin anytime soon, Princess…”

* * * *

Sam edged through the service entrance to the mansion and abruptly felt uncomfortable. If it had been the starched shirt collar jabbing into his throat that was causing the distress, he could have lived with it, but the pang of insecurity was coming from a far more deep seated sense of deja vu. Dean had been right to think the place was weird. And if the house was strange, what did that make the owner?

Erika had warned them Ferinacci was dangerous, but right now, Sam was actually considering whether the mobster was insane or not.

The old English manor had been decked out in bright party regalia and the kitchen area was a flurry of activity – nothing actually unusual while such festivities were going on, it was true, but then, who normally held a costume party this early in the day?

From the itinerary Sam had managed to get a hold of, the masquerade had started at 11a.m. and was scheduled to continue all day and into the night. Hardly the normal goings on at a mafia stronghold. Aren’t these guys supposed to sit around tables eating and talking about who they’ve tortured lately?

Sam envisioned scenes from every mob movie he’d seen all rolled into one and decided that real life was often stranger than fiction. Fidgeting with his lapel as it continued to jab into the flesh of his neck, he looked at his watch, careful to keep to the sides of the room away from unwanted attention. It was already 12.15p.m. Only half a day left…

“Aren’t you supposed to serve the food, not eat it?”

Sam spun on his heels to see a tall, almost skeletally thin man in a suit staring at his brother as Dean stuffed some unrecognizable food item into his mouth.

Dean tried to smirk, but his cheeks simply bulged out like the face of an overstuffed squirrel. “I’m Mr. Ferinacci’s food taster.” He winked impudently. “Can’t be too careful these days, don’t you know?” the hunter crammed in something that resembled a King prawn filo and continued to munch as the taller, gaunt featured man gawked at him.

Great. Real subtle, Dean. We’re supposed to be on the catering staff, not acting like jerks! Sam grabbed a silver tray that contained three champagne flutes and hastily strode across to his brother before any more insulting comments decided to leave Dean’s rebellious mouth.

“Hector asked you to take these through to the hall.” Sam thrust the tray at the elder Winchester just before Dean could grab one of the drinks for himself. “Now, would be a good time.”

Sam’s scowl and the flicker of irritation in his voice told Dean that maybe ‘taunt the butler’ could wait awhile, and he grudgingly took the tray he was offered. Sam quickly retrieved a second tray and pushed his brother forward with a quick slam from his palm before any more damage was done to their cover. “Food taster, Dean? Are you having fun jerking mob guys around? Because I can tell you, I so don’t see the funny side.”

Dean cocked a brow, amused at the disdain in his brother’s voice. “Aw, not even a little? C’mon, Sammy…?”

“Not even a little.” Sam stopped dead in his tracks and his panicked, somewhat annoyed countenance changed to one of incredulity. “What the..?”

The mansion’s main hall they had just entered was already thriving with masses of people – if they could be called that. Each and every guest wore an outfit or costume, and each costume or mask appeared to match one theme.

“Dude, we walked into a hunter’s nightmare.” Dean gawked as a furry-faced female creature he could only assume was meant to be a werewolf walked up and plucked a drink from him. Underneath the fuzz, she appeared more than his type. Perfectly formed features and an hourglass figure most models would die for wiggled suggestively in front of him before vanishing back into the throng. He gulped, turning to Sam as a second guest with two large descending fangs took a glass from his brother’s tray. “Man, imagine the amount of rock salt and silver slugs we’d need if these puppies were real…”

Sam leaned over, his voice low, his eyes ever-watching the crowds and security dotted about the room. “Ferinacci and his friends must be into some dark crap, Dean. I mean, bizarre collections, occult parties like this...”

“You think they do the whole wild sex orgy deal after the party too?” Dean’s eyes twinkled just a little too much for his brother’s liking as he edged back, watching as the would-be lycanthrope sashayed into view again. “But then again,” he shrugged. “I’m not sure getting it on with a werewolf is my kinda thing. Too much hair in all the wrong places…”

Sam’s gaze locked on an oak door almost concealed in the left corner of the hall. If the plans he had were correct, it led to a secure stairwell, Ferinacci’s ‘collection’ and the Seal!

“C’mon, you can play pet the guest later.” Sam gestured with his eyes towards the doorway. “I think we’ve found what we came for.” So close. So close. He couldn’t resist the urge to check his watch again. Less than twelve hours to Haris’ deadline.

So damn close.

“Yeah, well I wasn’t planning on petting,” Dean retorted, reluctantly pulling his gaze from the girl and her outfit to follow his brother across the hall. “Gotta tell you, though, to say these guys got money, their costumes suck out loud. Lon Chaney Jr. was more believable and he looked like a friggin’ poodle!”

“Dean- ”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up…”

Ferinacci’s Personal Collection
12.47p.m.
11hrs 13mins…

Sam’s eyes scrutinized the small security panel before him and he took down a long, drawn out breath. Breaking into this kind of system wasn’t a first, but it required a steady hand and a certain level of concentration. Right now, he didn’t think he had either. It was one thing to know you were breaking the law to kill a spook, like he had back at Blake’s Auction House when he’d ‘circumvented the alarm,’ but here, one mistake could mean no Seal, and no Seal meant no life.

“Dude, you want me to take care of it? ’Cause you’re shaking like it’s your first date.” Dean watched his brother glance at him stubbornly and shake his head before continuing to fit tiny crocodile clips to a set of recently exposed wires.

Once the clips were in place, Sam tapped in a key code from memory and waited. After a short pause, the red flashing LED on the panel changed to green and the door’s multiple alarms clicked into their inactive positions.

“Open Sesame,” Sam whispered, gingerly stepping through the threshold into a darkened room, bathed only in a faint red glow from two down-lights. “Now just remember, don’t touch anything unless I say so. I’ve deactivated the door sensors, but some of the displays have extra security.”

Dean’s mouth moved silently as he mimicked his brother’s warning behind Sam’s back. Sometimes Sammy was just way over cautious for his own good. “Can we just get the ring and shag ass, dude? This room is pretty creepy, even for us…I mean, red light?” He rolled his eyes mockingly. “You think the guy has a pitchfork in his collection?”

Sam glanced over his shoulder to find his brother scowling in bewilderment at a cylindrical glass case that enclosed a very old, carefully shaped piece of metal that may or may not have once been a spear tip. It couldn’t be…

Sam shook his head, dismissing the thought and moved on, checking out further cases. Some held bizarre daggers and occult chalices, others ancient texts that even Sam couldn’t translate. Each text seemed to have been written on parchment, though, rather than paper, and that gave a clue to their true age.

“It’s like being in a museum of demonology.” Sam walked from case to case, realizing he was seeing items that had probably been lost to the Christian world for millennia – just like the Seal. “In fact, some of this stuff may actually belong to the church rather than the dark arts…”

“Yeah, well, just like every other museum I’ve ever been in, this place is stuffy and I can’t wait to get out.” Dean paused as a smaller case inset into a cabinet caught his attention. Whatever was inside was pocket-sized, maybe even small enough to be what they were looking for.

Striding closer, he placed a hand on the sliding Plexiglas panel and was surprised to find no lock. Slipping back the toughened glass he plucked the tiny, yet priceless item from its stand and took a slow breath.

The ring was smaller than he’d expected, and from what he could tell, it was made from at least two different metals. Most of the upper half has a polished yellow hue that may have deceived many into thinking it was gold. Dean though, knew better.

The circular section of the Seal was actually brass, and inset into the metal was a very familiar design. To some it was a pentagram, to others, like Dean, it was a ‘Devil’s Trap.’ A symbol that used in the right way could hold a demon with its power. In this case, though, it was said to do more than just ‘hold’ it was said to control – if the legends were true.

This is it. This is the thing that’s gonna save Sammy.

Dean looked at the signet ring in awe, swallowing hard as his throat suddenly felt like he’d traversed a desert without water. “Sammy, I found it…” He could hear the hasty footsteps of his brother across the marble flooring, but he dare not look up. One glance away and the mirage that was the ring might vanish, might leave them with no options save one Dean didn’t want to think about.

Dean sensed Sam behind him, looking over his shoulder, wanting, needing the thing to be real as much as he did. “Are we sure?” Sam dared to finally ask. “I mean, how can we tell if it’s real and not some high class fake?”

“It’s real, Sammy. Don’t ask me how, I just know.” And Dean did. It was like the ring had called him over. Like it knew him, wanted him to find it even. Dean had felt that sensation once before in a Louisiana swamp. “I told you we were gonna fix things, Sammy.”

Sam wanted to believe it was true, but Winchester luck never ran that way. As he stared, transfixed at the ring, he realized there was a small flashing diode on the velvet plinth Dean had plucked the Seal from. “Dean, tell me you didn’t just take it off the stand..?”

Dean’s features turned into a sheepish, lopsided grin and he hunched his shoulders, admitting his guilt. “Ugh, Cinderella? Now might be a good time to leave the ball before the ugly sisters appear.”

Footfalls outside the room rapidly followed his confession and both brothers turned to see their exit blocked by Bruno and a scarlet-faced Stefan, the latter obviously more than a little angry at his early incarceration in a catering truck.

Both men had automatics drawn and pointed in the general direction of the Winchesters. “Now why would two wise-assed waiters be interested in Mr. Ferinacci’s collection?” Bruno stepped into the room, his gun wavering from Dean to Sam and back again. “Guess you boys intended serving up more than just dessert, huh?”

Dean facetiously cocked a brow. “Oops, too late, the ugly sisters are here and they’re pissed they missed the party.”

Something clicked and the chamber was abruptly illuminated in white light as overhead fluorescents built into the low ceiling kicked in.

Bruno appeared to appreciate the extra lighting and cautiously walked up to Dean, arm outstretched until the barrel of his silver Smith and Wesson was pressed against the hunter’s temple. “Missed the party? Lemme tell ya, for me, the party is just about to begin…” His finger ticked hesitantly on the trigger, his desire to obliterate brain matter only outweighed by loyalty to Ferinacci.

“Okay, sensing some serious desire to ventilate my skull here.” Dean slowly raised his hands, keeping the Seal tucked into the palm of his left fist.

“Bruno?” The voice was impressive, a slight accent that neither brother could pinpoint highlighting his timbre. “Should I be concerned?”

Bruno moved back just enough to look his boss in the eye. It was a requirement of the job that all employees faced the mob lord without showing cowardice. Any sign of weakness was never tolerated in his dominion and had brought death to many unsuspecting rookies.

Ferinacci was standing in the doorway, his sharp, beady orbs taking in every part of the room as if his stare could actually pierce whatever – or whoever – he looked at. His beard twitched as his gaze settled on the Winchesters. “Tripping a silent alarm like that wasn’t very smart, boys.” He strolled into the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back as if he believed he were a god, not a mere mortal. “But then trying to rip off Luciano Ferinacci has to be the dumbest scam every attempted in New Jersey.”

Sam waited. Ferinacci was going to want to know why they were here. He was going to take the Seal back, kill them both and bury them in some dark pit under a building site. And then Haris still wins. Except…except I’ll have taken Dean with me!

If Dean sensed his brother’s fear, he didn’t show it. It was game face time, except he’d never tried it on anyone as powerful as a mafia boss before. “I’ve been called dumb a whole bunch of times,” he confessed off-handedly. “But hey, sure must take one to find one, ’cause your boys let us right on in through the gates.” He looked at Stefan purposely. “Didn’t you, Capone?”

Stefan gritted his teeth, stealing a wary look at his boss for permission to act. When Ferinacci’s head moved in a slight nod, Stefan stowed his weapon in a shoulder holster and launched himself forward, grabbing Dean’s hair and yanking his head back until he was practically gagging for breath.

While Bruno kept his Smith and Wesson trained on Sam, Stefan dispatched two short, sharp punches to Dean’s gut until the remaining air in the hunter’s lungs was knocked from him and he was nearly forced onto his knees.

“Man, not…exactly, the Godfather, are you?” Dean stammered, still struggling to suck down air as he glared at Ferinacci defiantly. “I mean, nice suit, but Brando was way cooler.”

“Dean –” Sam hissed his brother’s name through clenched teeth as Bruno forced him down onto the floor, hands locked behind his head. Bravado was one thing, but out and out stupidity in the face of the mafia was suicide.

But then, so was making deals with Haris.

In their own way, each brother had had a death wish since the day their mother had died. Since the day they had become hunters and embraced their destinies. Maybe today was the day that wish came to fruition. There was no way for Sam to know, but he wasn’t sure if he cared anymore.

Searching for the Seal, being here at Ferinacci’s, it was all simply just going through the motions for his big brother. Because no matter how much he denied it, Sam had given up any real hope the last time he’d been in New Jersey.

The day he’d made the deal for Dean’s freedom.

Ferinacci appeared to notice the younger man’s silence and circled him, evaluating the people who had broken into his fortress before acting to remove them. “I sense your friend has a sense of humor,” he nodded to Dean, a brief flash of amusement crossing his normally stoic façade. “Tell me, why would two punks like you break into my home? I know you must realize who I am, and you’re certainly not classy enough to be from a rival gang.”

Sam cocked his head back to look up at Ferinacci. The man was just as imposing as his reputation, but what did it matter anymore? The mafia was the least of his worries, and in less than half a day he’d be dead anyway. But Dean…

“We heard there was a kick ass view of the city from up here,” Dean interceded, trying to draw the mobster’s attention from his little brother. Sam already has one bad guy after his butt. No need to attract another. “Oh, and the ghoul party you got going? Dude, that werewolf chick has the cutest…”

Dean found his voice suddenly restricted by long bony fingers digging into his larynx. A thought crossed his mind that perhaps the girl was Ferinacci’s daughter, or even girlfriend. There had to be some connection for the mobster to go nuclear so easily, surely?

Ferinacci squeezed just enough to make Dean begin to choke, but not enough to actually finish the task. He watched, wanting to see the fear in the young hunter’s eyes, but was given no such satisfaction. “Maybe I should teach you some respect for my kind?” The words were hissed so low they were almost serpentine.

“I’ll…never respect…you.” Dean managed to gag his throat bobbing desperately.

Ferinacci grinned. “If only you knew how many had said that and then kneeled to serve me.” He released his grip on the hunter’s neck, instead forcing Dean’s chin up with his thumb and forefinger so the elder Winchester was compelled to look at him. As he pushed back, something glinted, catching the mobster’s eye.

Ferinacci paused, his full attention now taken by Dean’s amulet. He reached out tentatively but didn’t touch it, as if he held a strange reverence for the golden bauble. It was familiar to him, and yet he didn’t know how. Over the years he had put together some of the rarest items pertaining to the church and indeed demonology, and yet this thing’s nature, its origins evaded him.

Even without its true origins, one thing he was certain of: The amulet was powerful. Dangerous even, in the wrong hands.

Ferinacci eyed the gleaming trinket again, backing up just enough to get a better view of it. For a moment he had considered killing the two men outright, but now, now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he should let his people ‘question’ them for answers first. Knowledge in his position was a powerful thing, and knowledge about the amulet may prove even more interesting.

“Where did you get that trinket around your neck?” he demanded.

Dean shrugged. “Free gift in my Lucky Charms, dude.”

The mob boss raised a hand to slap his captive but jerked back as he noticed the way Dean’s palm was curled around something. “Hiding your spoils?” Ferinacci asked, nodding to Bruno to punch Dean in the stomach for a third time.

Dean took the blow, trying not to crumple in front of the hoods, but his body refused his brain’s pleas. Falling forward, his palm automatically opened to break his fall and the Seal tumbled out onto the marble floor.

“You came for the Seal?” Ferinacci’s beard ticked again as his anger bubbled to the surface. These men were no mere thieves, and they weren’t from another family. Worse still, they had entered his home, breached his security and almost gotten away with it. This wasn’t something he could be seen to allow and still keep his standing among his fellow Cosa Nostra. Justice would need to be swift among his men, no matter how much he wanted to question the interlopers for his own pursuits. But the Seal…the amulet…

Ferinacci didn’t expect Dean or Sam to answer. He didn’t expect they’d respond even to torture. In a way he felt like he already knew them. Spinning around, hands still interlocked behind his back he barked new orders as he stormed from the room, unsure if he had made the right decision. “I want no trace of them left on the planet, Bruno…no trace…”

Bruno Moretti exhaled, savoring the feeling of utmost pleasure the order gave him. Killing was his life, garnering instant gratification from every body he destroyed, every limb he maimed.

Delicately pulling a pair of expensive leather gloves from his trouser pockets his scarred upper lip curled into a snarl of satisfaction. “Now it’s time for the real festivities,” he enlightened the two brothers, jarring on the tight black gauntlets with glee and then carefully retrieving the Seal from where it had fallen.

“Don’t tell me you’re a magician,” Dean still snarked fearlessly. “And for you’re party trick you’re going to make both of us disappear?”

Bruno pursed his lips, grabbing Sam’s shaggy hair from behind and jerking his head back as he had done Dean’s earlier. He may only be a pawn in Ferinacci’s army, but people had ‘tells’ and Dean’s weak spot was obviously the kid he had with him. Bruno intended to exploit that before he put the intruders finally to rest.

“Oh you’ll disappear alright,” Bruno taunted. “See, I got a nice acid bath waiting to liven you two boys up. It’ll eat the flesh off your bones first, burning, searing till there’s nothing left of you but a thick glop I can flush down the toilet.” He yanked on Sam’s hair again, watching the hatred burn in Dean’s eyes and relishing it. “Oh, and ya know what? I’m gonna make you watch while stilts here goes first…”

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The Winchester Chronicles