Season Three

Episode Fifteen: All The King's Men

By Tree

Part Two

Sam paced, staring out the large plate glass window of the diner as the rain came down even harder. It wasn’t hailing anymore, but the precipitation falling from the sky showed no signs of easing up. Already, the water was laying ankle deep in the street, the storm drains overflowing as they failed to keep up with the runoff from the non-stop downpour.

“You want anything else, mister? We’re shutting off the grill soon if you do.”

The tall hunter turned to the voice, seeing the young waitress looking at him nervously from behind the counter.

“No thanks,” he answered with a gentle smile. “I’m sure you want to get out of here. I would have thought my brother would have been here before now. I’m sorry to keep you.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and lifted the to-go box from the table.

“I’m sorry mister. You don’t have to go out in that. You can wait here for your brother,” the petite blonde offered. “I still have some dishes to clean up and Roger, the owner, is still moving as much as he can up to the second floor.”

Sam nodded his appreciation for the offer. Truth was he didn’t want to go back out into the dismal storm, especially since he had just gotten dry enough to actually warm up. Still, he’d been waiting for nearly a half hour since Dean had called and said he was on his way.

He’s probably screwing with me. Probably sitting back at the motel, nice and cozy… and dry… laughing his ass off. Fine… two can play that game.

His anger rejuvenated, Sam tugged on his jacket and headed for the door, the Styrofoam container holding Dean’s cheeseburger smashed tightly to his chest.

“Serves him right if the damn thing is cold and soggy,” Sam mumbled as he stepped from underneath the protection of the diner’s awning.

He groaned as he became instantly soaked once more from the liquid onslaught. The wind alternately tore at his outerwear then pummeled him from all directions, making it difficult to stand up straight.

Sam trudged from one form of cover to the next, slowly making his way back down the sidewalk toward the distant motel. The street, like the sidewalk, was empty except for the occasional police car still patrolling to protect the few citizens that had yet to evacuate the town.

Shielding his eyes from the stinging drops, Sam only casually noted the dark SUV that sped toward him. Kicking up water as it neared, the young hunter ducked away to avoid the wave that splashed up out of the roadway as the large vehicle passed him.

In the end, there wasn’t any place to escape as the wall of water flew up off the asphalt, covering him in a blanket of wetness. If the driver even noticed it wasn’t apparent as the SUV continued down the road and turned at the corner light, moving much faster than was safe for the conditions in Sam’s opinion.

“Sonofabitch!” he yelled after the rude driver.

Completely waterlogged now, he stood there staring after the black truck even as it disappeared from his sight.

“Dammit Dean, you better not have fallen asleep watching some dumb movie,” Sam grumbled as he looked down at his soggy jeans and equally sodden shoes.

Sam shivered then sneezed, water spraying off him as his head jerked forward. The cold and damp seeped into his skin and gnawed at the bones underneath making him feel even more miserable. He hated being wet, but even more, he hated being sick and now here he was, still several blocks from the relative warmth of the motel room and all because his brother probably thought it was funny to make him walk.

Still, there was something not quite right about that theory. Dean had called him, had said he was coming to pick him up. His brother had seemed serious enough, a slight tinge of worry in his voice and although he hadn’t come out and said it directly, Sam knew that Dean had been sincere, almost apologetic when he called.

Another tremor shook him, but this one wasn’t related to the weather. Something was off, and that something was suddenly making Sam feel as though there was more to Dean’s lack of appearing than just his elder sibling playing some sort of prank on him.

Quickening his pace, Sam trotted toward the motel, the food container absently dropped to the ground even as he was pulling the cell from his pocket. He hit the “last call” button, still moving forward as he waited for the ringing to begin.

“Hello….”

“Dean? Dean, where the hell are you dude?” Sam rattled off.

“Hello…”

“Dean? It’s Sam. Can you hear me?”

“HELLOOOOOOOO…”

Irritated, Sam shouted back into the phone, his patience worn thin by his obviously uncaring brother and the unrelenting rain.

“Dammit Dean! If you’re still messing around just to piss me off, it’s working!”

“Okay okay, don’t shout. I can’t hear you anyway ’cause I’m really not here. Leave a message at the beep and I’ll call you back…”

His brother’s voice was drowned out by the elongated tone signaling the recording on Dean’s voicemail kicking in. Sam chuckled, shaking his head. He hadn’t heard this latest prompt and he wondered when Dean had taken the time to create it.

“Funny Dean… but where the hell are you?” Sam asked, knowing full well that there wouldn’t be a response.

He ended the call, jamming the phone back into his jeans even as a loud crack of thunder shook the ground beneath him. Beyond him, a passing car hydroplaned on the rain-slicked roadway, the driver correcting the vehicle and barely avoiding crashing into a streetlamp.

Sam watched in abstract fascination, relieved to see that the occupants of the small car were all right as the car slowly continued on.

“Oh crap!” he groaned, his mind suddenly filling with a myriad of possible accidents involving Dean and the black Chevy.

Thinking that his brother had been playing some sort of retaliatory joke on him, Sam had failed to consider that Dean might have gotten into an accident on his way to pick him up. Now, as fear pointed an accusing finger at his gut, Sam picked up speed, breaking into a faster jog as he raced back toward the motel.

Despite it being only a few blocks from their lodging to the small downtown, it seemed to take him a lot longer to get back than his trek into Central City. His heart pounding, Sam raced along the vacant sidewalk, battling the torrential rain and the pounding wind.

Lightning flashed around him, but he focused only on getting back to the motel, ignoring nature’s violent protests. Dean was in trouble. Somehow he just knew it, every fiber of his being was screaming the exact same warning.

He rounded the last corner, popping out in front of the motel’s office just as the brilliant flashes of light assaulted his eyes. Technicolor whites, blues, and yellows lit up the overcast sky, the smell of burning rubber and acrid smoke wafted in the air despite the gusting wind.

Panic tore at Sam as he spotted the snapped electrical pole, its transformer on fire as sparks danced from the downed lines like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Just beyond the fallen post the Impala sat silently, its black skin reflecting the multihued flashes from both the damaged transformer and the continuing lightning that was coursing across the sky.

The car was exactly where Dean had parked it earlier that morning when they had returned from breakfast, his brother furious that he was forced to leave the Impala so far from the door to their room. As Sam’s eyes scanned the Chevy for any sign of Dean, another exploding flash from the transformer lit up a dark shape on the ground.

“DEAN!”

Sam shouted above another clap of thunder, charging forward as he recognized his unmoving brother, mere inches from one of the downed electrical lines.

Drawing closer, the younger hunter came to an abrupt halt, shielding his eyes from the bright sparks even as he tried to figure out how to reach his sibling.

“Dean!” he shouted again, not sure if his brother was conscious… or even alive.

What if Dean had already been struck by one of the lines? Was he already dead, electrocuted again, as if some bizarre hand of fate was determined to take him out that way?

Sam refused to consider it. Dean had to be all right, there simply wasn’t any other option. As the line jerked spastically, he knew that he had to get his brother to safety. He quickly looked for something to toss on top of the line to hold it still, hoping that it would buy him some time to reach Dean. But, a frantic glance revealed nothing useful.

Another loud crash of thunder caused his brother to stir, simultaneously causing Sam a sigh of relief before another concern settled in.

“Dean, don’t move. Lie still!” he ordered, his head twisting in every direction as he desperately looked around for something to use on the sparking lines.

Sam watched as his brother struggled to rise up only to sag back down to the rain-covered parking lot. He couldn’t tell how badly Dean was injured, but there was no doubting that his older brother was dazed.

Heedless of his own safety, Sam moved forward, determined to pull Dean away from certain death. He was just a few feet away, his hand reaching out to grab at his brother’s jacket, when something forcefully pulled him backward by his shoulder.

“What the hell…” he cried out, spinning around to see what had seized him.

“That’s not the way to save him…” a deep voice warned.

Sam sought out the voice, his eyes blinking against the rain that struck his face. Dragging a hand across his eyes, he found himself staring at the stranger from earlier, blue-green eyes staring back as the man offered a hand to steady the young hunter.

“He’s alive. Don’t worry,” the tall blond assured Sam. “I was just going to my room when I saw the telephone pole get struck by lightning. It was falling before your brother even knew what was happening. I knocked him out of the way, but I think he must have hit his head on something on the way down.”

Sam nodded blankly, his eyes shifting back to Dean’s still form.

“We need a rope or a piece of wood. Something to get that line away from him,” he suggested.

The stranger patted his pockets, a wry grin spreading across his face as he answered. “Sorry, must have left those things in my other jacket.”

“Okay, okay… lemme think for a second…”

Sam bolted to the motel room, his shoulder striking the door hard enough that it broke the lock and flew open, smacking the interior wall with a resounding thud. He quickly grabbed the wood chair from beside the table and dashed back out into the threatening weather.

“We can use this. It’s not perfect but short of calling and waiting for the Fire Department, it will have to do,” he announced.

The stranger nodded, offering out his hand to receive the piece of furniture. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Can you get my brother? I’m gonna use this to pull the wire away. It’s wood so it doesn’t conduct electricity… I hope. Just get to my brother, please…” Sam pleaded.

“I can take care of the lines, you get your brother,” the man replied, reaching for the chair.

“No… I can’t ask you to do that. The ground is soaked and I doubt that those cowboy boots of yours are rubber soled like my shoes. Please… just get Dean!”

The man nodded reluctantly and Sam turned, tentatively moving to where the line was still twisting and flopping like some electrical cobra. He paused, watching as the stranger moved closer to Dean’s downed form.

“Okay… you ready?” he shouted above the din of thunder.

“I’m ready, go for it…”

Sam slowly crept closer, sparks flying at him and stinging his exposed skin. He prayed that his shoes would protect him from the threatening current, hopeful that he wasn’t about to condemn them all to certain death.

Sucking in a deep breath, he glanced one last time over to his brother.

Please be okay… his mind whispered.

Waiting till the line jerked away from him, he sprung forward, slamming the chair over top the thick corded wire. As though it knew it had been trapped, the line danced wildly up and down, sparks still spitting off in every direction as Sam pulled with all his might to drag the dangerous wire out of the way.

Too occupied with his own perilous duty, he didn’t see the stranger grab Dean under the arms and pull the unconscious hunter away from the silent Impala to the cover of the motel awning.

“I got him…”

The shout was a welcome sound to Sam’s ears as he gave the chair a final tug before letting go and dashing off to where the man was kneeling down beside Dean.

Let him be okay, please let him be okay…he silently begged as flashes of finding Dean in the basement of that deserted house played through his mind.

The electrocution triggered a heart attack, a pretty massive one… his heart is… damaged… we’ve done all we can… we can try and keep him comfortable… but I give him a couple of weeks at most maybe a month…

The doctor’s haunting words repeated in his head as Sam rushed to Dean. Seeing his brother lying there motionless conjured up dreaded memories of that night in the basement when Dean had battled the Rawhead. Gently rolling his brother over, he loosed the breath he’d been holding as Dean’s chest steadily rose and fell in time with his breathing.

Breathing!

“Dean, come on dude… time to wake up,” Sam teased as he gently tapped the side of his brother’s face.

A jagged cut extended from the top of Dean’s hairline, running down to his temple, the blood thinning as it mixed with the heavy downpour. A large knot had already appeared underneath the laceration and Sam assumed it was likely the reason his brother had been unconscious.

“Sammy…” Dean groggily called out, his eyes flickering open as he reached a shaking hand up toward his sibling.

“Yeah dude, take it easy. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Dude, what the hell am I doing out here in the rain? I hate the rain… it’s just sooo… wet,” the short-haired hunter complained.

Sam laughed, his obvious relief showing as he carefully slipped an arm behind Dean’s shoulders. “Let’s get you inside and take care of that cut before any more of your brain oozes out onto the sidewalk,” he ordered.

“You look like a half-drowned Sheepdog, Sam,” Dean teased weakly as he let himself be hoisted to his feet with a groan.

“Keep it up, dude. Just remember who’s gonna be putting stitches in that thick skull of yours once we’re inside,” Sam reminded him.

“Damn…” his brother bemoaned, taking a staggering step toward the motel room door.

Later

The lightning and thunder continued their relentless chorus outside as Dean leaned back against the headboard of the bed. Unfortunately, the racket generated by the weather was nothing compared to the constant banging in his head. Several ibuprofen and a bottle of Milwaukee’s best had done nothing thus far to decrease the thunder pounding in his skull.

Still, he was thankful to be alive, the half dozen stitches and darkening bruise were a small price to pay for what could have been the alternative.

“What is it with me and electricity?” he absently wondered. “Who needs demons when I have fifty thousand volts trying to fry my ass?”

Pushing the morbid thought from his mind, he tossed back the last dregs of the beer and decided to tackle other pressing concerns.

“So, it was only the flash of the transformer that I saw?” he asked, absently rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, I didn’t see anything else. But then, I wasn’t exactly looking,” the stranger replied.

“You really thought you saw a gun?” Sam asked as he packed away their first aid kit and cleaned up the bloody gauze from his repair of his brother’s scalp.

“I thought so, but now I’m not so sure,” Dean answered. “I mean, I saw that black SUV cruising the lot. It went past me once, then it seemed like it turned around and bee-lined straight for me.”

“Do you think it might have been some of Luc… er… I mean some of our New Jersey buddies?” Sam posed anxiously, catching and correcting himself as he cast a nervous glance over at his brother’s savior.

Dean shrugged. “I dunno, Sammy. It looked just like the one from Bobby’s and like I said, for a minute when they dropped the window, I was pretty sure I saw the flash of metal from a muzzle. But now, I’m just not sure.”

“Dammit!” Sam cursed, slamming his gear bag down on the opposite bed.

“What is it?” Dean asked worriedly.

“That friggin’ SUV. I saw the same damn one flying through town like a bat out of hell. I just figured it was someone trying to get out before the river rose,” the younger man answered.

“Yeah, well maybe it wasn’t anything more than that,” Dean agreed. “Maybe my imagination just got the best of me.”

But deep down, the elder Winchester didn’t believe that. He’d been hunting for far too long, relying on his gut to tell him when things seemed hokey. Right now, his gut was twisted up, tensely alerting him that there was more to that black SUV than a frantic resident trying to escape the rising flood.

“Can I ask a question?”

Dean looked up from where he had been absently peeling the label from the beer bottle. Across the small room, the older man was leaning forward on his chair, his steely eyes narrowed as he spoke, the gold coin he had been twirling between his fingers now coming to rest in his palm.

“Shoot….” Dean prompted with a casual wave of his hand.

“Did you see the driver?”

Dean paused, closing his eyes as his mind tried to replay the event. He remembered calling Sam, stepping outside into the torrential downpour, wanting to kill the motel clerk for making them park so far away from the room, lightning flashing across the sky like strobe lights at a rock concert, and then the SUV.

In his head, he recalled the dark vehicle shadowing him like a stalking panther, then pulling away only to return from the opposite direction. He could see the driver’s side window lower as the truck came to a near stop just several yards away. And then there was a flash.

It had been a gun muzzle! Hadn’t it?

Dean twitched as he remembered the loud bang and his body filled in the rest of the memory as every ache and bruise confirmed his hard landing on the ground.

The flash, the booming thunder, it could have been nothing more than lightning striking the nearby transformer. But what if it wasn’t?

“I don’t think I did. I’m not really sure what I saw now,” he admitted.

“You smacked your head pretty good, Dean. Maybe things will be clearer in the morning,” Sam suggested protectively.

“Try to think about it, Dean,” the man encouraged. “Are you sure you didn’t see the driver’s face?”

Irritated, the young hunter pushed up off the bed, instantly regretting it as the throbbing in his skull increased tenfold. He strode over toward the window, brushing past the older man’s hand as he moved by.

Jerking sideways, Dean felt as though his leg had been jolted with electricity, an instant tingling sensation coursing down the extremity. It wasn’t painful, but it startled him just the same.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, carefully backing away from the seated man.

The sensation was familiar, if not totally uncomfortable, but even as he moved toward the nightstand and his .45, Dean knew that there wasn’t any danger present.

My amulet… it’s the same feeling as when the amulet touches my skin!

“The sword recognizes the Guardians,” the man stated matter-of-factly, a small grin creasing his rugged face.

“What the hell?” Dean repeated, coming to a stop near the wall, his back pressed tightly against the drywall as he stared incredulously.

“Dean? What is it?” Sam demanded, already taking action and standing defensively with his own automatic drawn.

“You know what you felt, don’t you Dean?”

“Who the hell are you? And don’t bother with that bullshit name you gave us earlier,” the younger brother demanded.

“Does it matter what my name is? Call me anything you want. It’s what I am that is important.”

“And what the hell are you?” Sam shouted, his weapon now trained on the unmoving stranger even as he glanced anxiously at his brother for answers.

Dean looked from the man’s face down to his right hand that was once more spinning the large gold coin between his fingers. Even with the rapid movement, he could see the ornate markings on the piece. It wasn’t like any coin he’d ever seen, certainly not one currently being circulated. It was old… ancient… like the amulet.

“You’re a Guardian?” Dean half asked, half stated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Takes one to know one,” the older man replied with a laugh.

Dean sank back to the bed, the burst of energy seeping from him as he absorbed the implication of that answer.

“How? Why are you here? What do you want?” The questions tumbled from his mouth as he fought to process the sudden revelation.

“I’m here because of you, Dean.”

“Me?” he stammered.

“Dean, what is he talking about?” Sam interjected nervously. “Do you know this guy?”

The older sibling shook his head slowly, still unable to take his eyes off the stranger and the coin.

“I’ve never met another Guardian before,” he said simply.

“You have now.”

“Who are you really? How did you find me?” Dean queried apprehensively.

The man sucked in a deep breath, settling back into the chair as he took a deep pull from the beer bottle in his unoccupied hand.

“My name is Chris Anderson. I’m from Lincoln, Nebraska if that makes a damn bit of difference. As for how I found you, well, it doesn’t matter how I found you, only that I found you in time,” he replied.

“In time? What the hell does that mean? So, there really was a gun?” Dean exclaimed.

“Is somebody after my brother? Is somebody trying to kill him? Sam demanded simultaneously.

“Calm down, do you two need some Ritalin or are you always this excitable?” the sandy-haired man joked. “How much do you know about that amulet you have around your neck?”

Dean paused, silently reflecting before answering.

What do I know? Let’s see. It was handed down from firstborn to firstborn until it got dumped on me… its part of some powerful sword that was broken into pieces for safekeeping… oh… and if I lose it I’m toast. Yep, that about sums it up…

“I know it’s a piece of Solomon’s Sword,” he answered finally.

“Sure, it’s that, but do you understand that there are forces out there that would do anything to get it?” the older Guardian asked.

“Yeah, I get it. It’s important and it’s my job to protect it,” Dean snapped back.
Anderson shook his head in dismay.

“Are you trying to tell me that someone is after my brother for the amulet?” Sam posed, his face a mask of concern.

“Not someone, something…”

“Something? Jeez Neo, can you be a little more vague?” Dean snarked. “Really dude, if you think you’re scaring me then think again.”

“My brother’s spent his entire life hunting every conceivable form of evil. We can deal with whatever’s coming after him now,” Sam insisted.

“We’re not talking about the occasional vampire or some low level demon. The average demon is pathetic, focused only on torturing poor humans to pass the time. Have you ever heard of Asmodeus?” Anderson asked.

Dean looked at Sam, the name ringing familiar.

“Asmodeus was the demon that Solomon supposedly tricked into helping him build his kingdom,” the younger hunter stated.

“Sure, that’s the Judaic version, but I’m talking about Asmodeus’ true origin. Do you know that one legend has him as the Zoroastrian demon of wrath?”

“Zoroastrian? Great! Just freakin’ great,” Dean groaned. The pounding in his head rose to a crescendo as memories of Chicago and the battle with Meg’s summoned daevas surfaced in his mind.

“So, he’s a demon. Dean and I have sent our fair share of demons back to hell,” Sam insisted.

“And again, I’m telling you that you’ve never dealt with a demon as powerful as Asmodeus. Already, several Guardians have fallen, their pieces of the sword lost,” the older man stated.

“What does he want with the Guardians?” Dean asked.

“He doesn’t want anything with the Guardians, he wants the Sword.”

“The Sword? What good would it do him?” Sam questioned.

“He wants to recast it, to melt all the pieces back into the original,” Anderson answered.

“What does a demon want with a demon-killing sword?” Dean interrupted.

“Legend has it that Asmodeus battled and was defeated by Raphael, ending up with the demon earth-bound and subservient to Solomon. Think about it… Solomon’s Sword was supposed to be a demon-killer, and angels and demons are nothing more than kissing cousins in the scheme of things. If Asmodeus gets possession of it, then not only is he unstoppable, but he’d also wield an incredible power,” Anderson explained.

Dean swallowed hard. Memories of Haris screamed through his head. Visions of the yellow-eyed demon trying to get the amulet from him replayed vividly in his mind. Haris had tried everything to gain custody of the golden talisman, only to be repelled.

“How can he touch it? I mean, before, other demons couldn’t stand to be in contact with my amulet,” he queried.

“We’re not talking some piss-poor underling here. Asmodeus is a King in hell. Do you understand that hierarchy? He’s not some captain or duke or even prince. Next to Lucifer, Asmodeus is one of the most powerful creatures down in the Pit.”

“Yeah, but Dean’s amulet killed Haris,” Sam insisted.

“I know all about that. His amulet didn’t have the power to destroy the demon on its own. The individual pieces are limited, but it’s the sum of the parts that makes the Sword powerful. That’s why it was originally broken apart and scattered, for safekeeping. That’s the legacy of the Guardians.”

Legacy? Destiny? Dean hated those words. He didn’t believe in destiny and the only legacy he was aware of receiving was sitting outside in the rain.

“I dunno. I don’t buy in to all that fate crap. Plenty of others have tried to take this amulet and failed,” Dean casually told him.

“They weren’t as determined as Asmodeus…”

“I knew this demon-chick once. She was pretty determined to bury both our asses, but we’re still around,” the elder hunter replied sarcastically.

“Fine!” Anderson shouted, rising up in anger and snatching his jacket from the back of the chair. “You want to go it alone, so be it. But let me know where you’re headed so when you turn up dead, I can come and try to reclaim your amulet,” he snarled as he stormed toward the door, his own gold coin disappearing into a pocket.

“Just hold up a second,” Dean interjected, jumping up from the edge of the bed and blocking the older man’s egress. “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but damn, you pop in here, save my life and then tell me that there’s another big bad demon out there gunning for me? I mean, what the hell?”

“Believe me or don’t. I don’t give a damn,” Anderson complained. “I was just thinking that someone with your background might be interested in protecting mankind from the something that wants to destroy it.”

Dean became silent, his hand absently reaching up to the horned charm hanging
from his neck. The familiar tingle greeted his fingertips, reminding him of its presence as it lay ominously quiet against his chest.

This is not about you, Guardian. This is about the connection to the power that you are sworn to protect. As it is, the lines between good and evil are greatly skewed. These are times of chaos. There are those among us who would choose to go against the ancient establishment and those who would uphold it. You are one of those who would uphold it. However, there are many who have yet to choose or to be chosen. You can trust no one. You have been chosen, and you are sworn to protect the amulet…

Shadrack Mann’s word echoed in his mind. He thought he’d forgotten that conversation; his one and only meeting with the peculiar recluse had been the product of desperation, of him trying to save his own life. At the time, he’d casually blown off the old man’s cryptic words, but now, staring at another Guardian, everything came back in a rush.

Deep down, Dean knew what Anderson was saying was true. What more proof did he need than Haris’ attempt to get the amulet from him? What more evidence than their recent tangles with Lucifer himself? Was it then so inconceivable that Asmodeus might be planning some sort of global domination?

He drew in a shaky breath, his hand still rolling the amulet between his fingers. “Okay, what do you want me to do?” he acquiesced.

The older man smiled in satisfaction, smoothly moving back toward his former seat.

“We must mobilize those that are left,” he commanded. “We have to assemble and plan.”

“Dean, are you serious about this?” Sam exclaimed, striding closer to his brother. “We don’t even know this man and you’re ready to just take off on some wild goose chase?”

“Hey, if you don’t want to keep your brother alive, then fine. Let’s see how you do on your own,” Anderson snarled at the younger man.

“Don’t you dare threaten me! Dean and I watch out for each other. We’ve been covering each other’s backs since we were kids,” Sam shouted back angrily.

“Yeah, well have you ever gone up against one of the most powerful demons that ever existed?”

“As a matter of fact, we’ve gone up against…”

“SAM!” Dean’s voice cut through the raising verbal barrage. “Enough! Both of you!”

He dropped back down to the bed, groaning as he ran a hand through his hair and accidentally touching the newly repaired laceration. Turning first to the older man, he mustered up the best glare his fatigued body and throbbing head could manage.

“Anderson,” Dean began. “I said I’m in and I am. But Sam doesn’t have to be a part of this. As a matter of fact, it suits me fine if he’s nowhere near Asmodeus or anything to do with this amulet.”

“No way, Dean,” Sam interrupted. “I told you before that I’d help you figure all this out and I meant that. It doesn’t matter where it leads or what’s involved.”

“Sam, I know you mean well and all, but I don’t want to draw any more attention to you. We have enough enemies as it is. This is my gig, my responsibility, my duty.”

Closing his eyes against the agonizing pain that was beating like a jackhammer between his temples, Dean sagged back against the headboard once more. The steady crash of thunder outside was nothing compared to the storm that was raging inside him.

"… Why me, Sammy? I’m no freakin’ guardian of nothing dude. I’m not made for no special purpose…"

"…Why is this whole guardian thing freaking you out?" Sam had asked.

“What if I don’t want it?”

“Don’t want it?"

“Don’t want it, don’t deserve it, whatever."

“Don’t deserve it? Dean, we might not know much about the amulet or how and why it’s in the family or even what its purpose is, but this much I do know. If anyone was ever meant to be a guardian it was you. Hell, Dean, you can deny it all you want, but you give a shit about the people we save. That’s why you do the job. You’re not like Dad, not really. He was all about getting Haris after Mom died. And even me too, it was mostly about revenge for Jess. But never you, Dean. You do this job because you give a damn, because you want to help people, you want to protect them, to save them.”

“You said it yourself once, Sam. I do this job because I want to help people, protect them, save them. I can’t walk away from this now,” Dean reluctantly admitted.

He watched as his younger brother gave in, knowing all along that in the end, there had only ever been one choice to make.

“Fine then, but you’re not doing this alone,” Sam adamantly stated.

Dean watched his younger brother. The seriousness in Sam’s voice and face left no mistaking that the young man wasn’t about to let him go it alone.

“All right then, we’re in.”

The next morning

Dean jammed the last of his dirty clothes into the worn duffle bag, stopping to steal a glance for any forgotten items. Across the room, Sam was still grumbling about leaving Iowa as he finished his own packing. Neither had really spoken about yesterday’s revelations, but Dean knew it was only a matter of time before his brother couldn’t restrain himself any longer. From the look on Sam’s face and the occasional words uttered under his breath, Dean was counting the seconds before his younger sibling would let loose and speak his mind.

“Dean,” Sam began, finally breaking the silence.

Here we go… Dean thought to himself, unable to contain the loud sigh as he dropped to the edge of the bed. “Save your breath, Sammy. I’m not going to change my mind about this.”

“I’m just saying we should look into all this a little more first before we take off. We don’t know anything about this Chris Anderson, he could be lying to us for all we know.”

“Sam…” Dean’s tone warned.

“Come on, Dean. This dude strolls in here with a story about being a Guardian and now he’s trying to recruit you to his private little army. I mean really? Don’t you think that’s just a little convenient?” Sam posed.

“He saved my life, Sam…”

“Yeah, and about that. Isn’t it convenient that he just happened to be here, in the right place at just the right time? How the hell did he find us Dean? It’s not like we tend to run on the grid.”

“I dunno, Sam. Maybe it’s some sort of Guardian thing? Maybe he just tracked us down?” the elder hunter offered.

“Oh sure, because you’re listed on some sort of Guardian Who’s Who directory. Dean, up to a few months ago, you didn’t know squat about that amulet other than what Mann or Dad told you. How does this guy know so much?”

“Maybe he’s just done more research? Maybe whoever handed down that coin to him filled him in on crap. How the hell do I know and what difference does it make?”

“But Dean, to just take off and follow him to Idaho, doesn’t that make you a tiny bit suspicious?” Sam asked, his eyes imploring as he sunk into the nearby chair.

Dean paused, his mind whirling with possibilities even while his gut told him that Anderson was on the up and up. He nearly felt a physical kick to that same gut when he realized there was more to this than Sam being paranoid about some stranger popping up and trying to enlist their help to stop a demon.

“This is about Mia isn’t it?” he asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

He watched Sam recoil slightly, his head dropping down as the two brothers found themselves unable to continue making eye contact.

“No Dean. This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Yeah, right. You think that I’m just falling for his story like I fell for Mia’s. You don’t trust me to be able to see through someone’s b.s. anymore?” Dean demanded, rising up from the edge of the bed as he stood defensively before his younger sibling.

“Dean, I do trust you. And this situation and the deal with Mia isn’t the same. I know you want answers about the amulet and I promised I’d help you find them, but let’s not go into this blind. That’s not your style,” Sam pleaded.

Defused, Dean turned and walked over to Sam’s still-opened laptop. He picked up the computer and handed it to his brother.

“Dude, you looked up that story about the guy in Atlanta, Gerard Daniels. You saw the police report on the guy’s murder. He was found dead, alone, in a locked condo with the alarm on. What do we know that can pull off entry to a locked, alarmed house?” Dean posed.

“I know, but the report also said Daniels was beaten and stabbed to death. Not exactly a demon’s m.o., now is it?” Sam retorted.

“Oh sure, ’cause demons never use conventional methods of killing people do they?” Dean threw back.

“Ya know what? Fine… I don’t want to argue about this anymore. I’m tired of arguing with you,” the younger man gave in, wearily rising to his feet and grabbing the laptop from his brother’s hand.

Dean shook his head. He didn’t want to argue either, he never wanted to argue with Sam again, not after what had happened in Plano.

“Sam, please. I know that this might seem like a wild goose chase, and I know there’s a lot we don’t know about Anderson or any of this whole Guardian stuff. But, look at it this way. We go in with our eyes and ears open, we don’t trust Anderson and we watch our backs at every turn…” he suggested.

When Sam didn’t answer, Dean moved closer, placing a hand on his brother’s arm.

“Please, dude… I need to know…and I need you behind me or…”

“What? You’ll take off and leave me behind again on some back country road?” Sam snapped yanking away from his brother’s loose grasp.

Wounded, Dean forced a thin smile to his face. He knew he deserved that comment, but that didn’t mean it stung any less. Forcing away the nagging memory of Texas and Mia’s brutal attack on his family, he reached out for Sam once more.

“Never again, dude. You’ve got my word on that. We either go together or not at all. If you don’t want to do this then fine, we don’t,” he gently apologized.

He saw the turmoil developing behind his brother’s eyes as Sam considered his offer. While he wanted, truly needed, to find out more about the Guardians and his own role in all of this, Dean knew he couldn’t go against Sam’s suspicions. Not again.

“No,” Sam softly replied. “You’ve been there for me every step of the way since Stanford, before that even. When I had no clue about what was happening to me with these freaky visions and crap, you stood by me. You know I’ll do the same for you.”

Dean’s smile broadened as he clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Thanks dude! And hey, look at it this way, we’re getting the hell out of Dodge before we needed the canoe,” he joked.

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes, but at least this time, he was smiling.

Pocatello, Idaho

Dean pulled the Impala into the diner’s lot, parking beside Anderson’s non-descript Ford F-150. Despite it being mid-afternoon, the elder Winchester felt like he’d been driving for days. Climbing out of the classic Chevy, he stretched, feeling his bruised body protest the movement. He was ready for a hot shower, a decent meal and a cold beer; not necessarily in that order.

As he followed his brother and the mysterious newcomer into the restaurant, Dean couldn’t help but think about the long ride out from Iowa. On one hand, he felt a familiar anxiousness that always accompanied the start of a new hunt, but on the other, he couldn’t shake Sam’s earlier concerns, suddenly wondering if his brother’s caution was rubbing off on him.

Maybe Sam had been right. Maybe he was too eager to follow Anderson without any real proof about the man’s claims or intentions. Maybe his need to understand the strange responsibility placed on him was clouding his better judgment. Maybe he really didn’t trust himself as much since falling so blindly for Mia.

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, Dean found himself twisted up, not completely sure if he was doing the right thing or not, but determined that he needed to figure out this amulet-Guardian thing before…

Before what? He silently asked himself. Why do I need to do this now? I’ve been wearing this damn thing for years and it never made a damn bit of difference.

But that’s before you had a demon trying to take the thing off you, before you basically died and met a cowboy that let his own dark needs betray the amulet, before you melted the thing down and shot through your brother to kill ol’ Yellow-Eyes.

“Dean? Hey dude, the food’s this way,” Sam called out jokingly as he held the door open.

The hunter looked up, suddenly realizing that he had stopped in the middle of the parking lot as he was lost in thought. Shaking his head to clear the myriad of voices that seemed to be screaming over top each other, Dean smiled wanly and picked up his pace.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m awesome,” he answered, carefully avoiding his brother’s piercing gaze.

They moved inside, taking a table in the far corner of the establishment. Dean didn’t miss the fact that Anderson quickly took the seat that placed his back to the wall. Even as they perused the menu, the older man’s wary eyes never left the entrance.

“You expecting someone?” Dean asked curiously, spotting the man’s stealthy reach for a concealed pistol.

Anderson laughed as he thumbed off the safety. “No, but I didn’t get to this age by being a careless fool, either.”

“What do you mean by that?” the younger Guardian snapped back.

“Not a thing! But as I’ve told you repeatedly, there are those that would stop at nothing to gain what we possess.”

"Yeah, yeah, I got all that last night. But I make it a rule to not ruin a good cheeseburger by shooting up the restaurant,” Dean quipped as he reached for his own .45 within the pocket of his jacket.

“Can we please just eat in peace without one of you opening fire?” Sam intervened.

The waitress came and went as they placed their order and quickly received it. The threesome sat in relative silence as the meal was eagerly devoured. It wasn’t until the woman returned with the coffee pot that Dean spoke.

“So, we’re here now, middle of nowhere Idaho. What’s the plan?” he asked, toying with the steaming cup. He would have much rather had a cold brew in his hand, but Dean knew that his day was far from over.

“I traced another Guardian to Pocatello, guy by the name of Seth Bowman. I’ve got a recent address so I figured you and I could go talk to him,” Anderson suggested.

“And tell him what exactly? Excuse me, but we’re from the National Association of Anonymous Guardians and we’d like to talk to you about helping us reassemble an ancient sword before a powerful demon gets his claws on it. Yeah, I’m sure that line will get us through the front door,” Dean snarked.

"It worked on you,” the older man retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m not the average civilian, completely in the dark about what’s out there. Sam and I have had our fair share of dealings with the likes of Asmodeus.”

“Speaking of which,” Sam interrupted trying to diffuse the growing antagonism. “Since you two seem to have the welcome wagon detail well in hand, I’m going to do a bit more research on all this.”

“Research?” Anderson’s voice rose.

Dean tensed as he watched the blondish man react to the mention of Sam checking in to more about the Sword and the Guardians. The response was a little over the top in his opinion, but then Anderson didn’t exactly come off as the most social of people to begin with.

“Hey, chill out man. This is what Sam does best. Trust me,” he said simply as he smiled. “Sammy here’s like the human Google.”

“You won’t find anything useful,” Anderson stalwartly replied.

“You don’t know Sam.”

“Fine, whatever. We don’t need him with us to meet Bowman.”

“Okay then,” Dean continued, “I’ll take Sam to the motel and I’ll meet you there. Where does this guy live?”

The hunter didn’t like the narrowing eyes of the older man seated across from him, but he chalked it up to Anderson just being a loner that didn’t trust others or technology. After all, was he so different? Hadn’t he essentially grown up being taught to rely on himself, developing and trusting his hunter’s instincts above all else?

“I’ve got an address for this Bowman at 1137 Randolph Avenue. Think you can find that and meet me there in thirty minutes?” the Guardian asked sarcastically.

Dean smirked, his head cocking sideways as he answered. “I’ll be there!”

He followed Anderson as the man rose from the booth, casually throwing several bills on the table and stalking out the door. Dean waited a few seconds before he drained the last of his own cup and began to rise as well.

“So, tell me that wasn’t just a little bizarre,” Sam mused aloud.

“Yeah, he’s wired a little tight, but just remember what I said. We keep our eyes open,” Dean cautioned. And the safety off… he added to himself.

Mountain View Motor Lodge

Sam came out of the bathroom regretting his choice of chicken salad sandwich earlier at the diner. He rubbed his stomach, wishing Dean would have left him the Impala so he could have gone for some Pepto or something.

Dropping onto the nearby bed, he groaned as his belly grumbled and rolled again, threatening to empty itself once more. Closing his eyes, he willed his intestines to quiet as he fought down the urge to bolt back into the bathroom.

“There can’t be anything left in me…” he bemoaned wiping a sweaty palm across his equally sweaty forehead.

“How the hell does Dean manage to eat all the crap he does and not end up like this? It’s just not fair…”

The room was too warm and the oppressive feeling of claustrophobia suddenly washed over him like thick syrup. He needed some fresh air, the remnants of his activity in the tiny bathroom now wafting into the main room.

Forcing himself to stand, he slowly crossed over to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open with a satisfied sigh as the cool evening breeze poured into the room. Like a gentle caress, the light wind ruffled his hair and dried off the sticky perspiration that clung to his face and neck.

Sam stood there, wavering less and less as he inhaled the fresh mountain air. It soothed his protesting stomach and helped him refocus on the task at hand.

Or rather the task that had been at hand… before I spent the last thirty minutes bowing to the porcelain god. And why do they refer to it as the porcelain god anyway? The porcelain hellspawn would be more appropriate…

Reluctantly, the young hunter turned away from the door and glanced at the laptop that sat glowing on the nearby table. As promised, he’d immediately dug right into researching everything he could about Asmodeus, Solomon, the Sword and anything else he could think of related to the Guardians. He’d even done a reasonably thorough search on Chris Anderson, turning up little more than a birth certificate and a high school yearbook picture that could have been of anyone with sandy-blond hair and bluish eyes.

Still, just because there wasn’t much info on the man wasn’t a reason to become ultra-suspicious. Was it?

Sam sucked in another deep breath, relieved when his intestines chose to remain inside him. He cast a look out to the vending machine at the end of the line of rooms. Deciding that a cold Sprite might settle the last of his queasiness, he walked the short distance down the sidewalk and dug into his pocket for the required change.

Retrieving the can, he popped the top and tilted it back, relishing the cold drink as it flowed down his raw throat. Taking another long drink, he startled, nearly spilling some down the front of his shirt when the loud screech of tires drowned out the usual nighttime sounds.

He looked around nervously, expecting at any minute to see a black SUV tear out of the encroaching darkness straight at him. Calculating the distance and time needed to reach the door, Sam considered making a dash for the room and the weapon he’d carelessly left behind in his duffle.

But as the crickets chirping returned and no obvious sign of a demon-driven truck appeared, the young hunter relaxed and grinned at his sudden paranoia. As his heart rate decreased back to normal, the sudden thrumming in his chest ceasing, he slowly made his way back to the motel room.

Dean should be back soon, no reason to be so jumpy.

Once inside, he closed and locked the door, turning the deadbolt until the telltale click signaled the cylinder’s movement and the throw dropping into the strike plate on the inner jamb. Catching sight of the computer again, he made his way to the small table, first stopping off to grab the automatic from his bag.

“Paranoia or not, can’t be too careful,” Sam voiced.

Sliding into the chair, he laid the gun next to the keyboard and resolutely let his fingers begin to glide over the keys. Opening up a tab from earlier, he stared at the picture of Solomon’s Sword. It's long golden length glowed back at him from the web page, the ornately designed hilt with raised reliefs of the Ark of the Covenant and the Star of David.

He didn’t know if that’s what the actual weapon had looked like, since very clearly the real sword had never been discovered. Tales of the blade had circulated down through the centuries, treasure hunters claiming to have found it at one time or another, but each was soon debunked when the sword turned out to be nothing more than a pathetic copy forged in the sweatshops of China.

Sam knew the real weapon would never be found. At least not in one piece.

Stretching back from the table, his mind wandered further. What if this Anderson did manage to find all the Guardians? What if they did try to recast the sword?

What would that mean for Dean?

Sam vividly recalled seeing his brother nearly die in front of him, twice, because of losing the strange amulet. Hadn’t Dean been warned, repeatedly, about the risk to his own life if the talisman left his possession? Hadn’t he risked enough during his little stunt in Wyoming?

“Just promise me that thing stays round your neck from now on, okay bro?”

He had been somewhat teasing with Dean that day back at Bobby’s, but his tone did not belie the sentiment. Sam was worried about his older brother, fearful that Dean in his quest to find out more about his part in this odd destiny would stop at no end. Likewise, knowing his headstrong sibling, it would probably cost him his life…

“Or at least several pints of blood,” Sam snarked aloud.

He went back to the keyboard, this time typing in the words “Guardian” and “Solomon”, unsurprised when the computer returned nothing useful. Sighing with disappointment, he'd hoped to have something new to tell his brother when Dean returned. Draining the last of the soft drink, Sam was about to type in another search when the soft creak of the floor made him look up.

In an instant, the attacker was on him. Covered from head to toe in black, the face obscured, Sam couldn’t tell who was behind the mask as his body was thrown backwards out of the chair.

He came to his feet quickly, his hand stretching for the 9mm that had been lying on the table. Yet as he blocked a sharp kick to his chest, Sam saw that the gun like the table had been overturned in the initial attack, the weapon nowhere to be seen.

Before he could turn his attention back to the fight, the mysterious intruder landed a solid blow to his abdomen, staggering the tall hunter and instantly making him gag as the recently-drunk soda threatened to reappear. He weakly threw his own punch but it missed its intended target, glancing off his attacker’s covered face.

Sam blocked the next blow that was aimed for his own head, deflecting the incoming fist with his forearm. He countered with his own left hook, satisfied when it connected solidly with the figure’s jaw and eliciting a loud grunt.

“Who the hell are you?” the hunter demanded, taking an offensive step forward.

It was a man’s low voice that answered. “You should know.”

Perplexed, Sam was caught off-guard by the peculiar question. A thousand possible answers roamed through his head, but he didn’t have the chance to reply as the stranger charged him.

He felt the impact as the man’s shoulder drove into him, throwing him backwards and into the closest wall. Sam groaned as his head ricocheted off the drywall, brilliant stars flashing before his eyes like some Warner Brothers cartoon.

Another rock-hard punch to his jaw and the younger Winchester felt the room darken. He managed to throw his hand up in time to block the subsequent blows, but his defense was feeble at best.

Weakened by his earlier bout of food poisoning, Sam felt the energy quickly draining from his body. The muscles in his arms moved as though they were weighted down by concrete and despite the urgency of the situation, even the adrenaline coursing through his veins wasn’t enough to help him mount a decent defense.

“What the hell do you want?” Sam shouted, managing to squeak out that final question before his attacker’s hands encircled his throat.

Thumbs pressing in on his trachea, the hunter could do little more than scratch at the man’s stranglehold. He felt his lungs screaming for air as the darkness invaded his field of vision.

“You, Winchester. I’m here to stop you,” the intruder snapped back as everything went black.

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The Winchester Chronicles