Season Three

Episode Twenty-Two: The Art of Dying

By Kittsbud & Tree

Part Three

Dean locked onto Rennie’s waspish grin and from there to the flickering Zippo in her hand. He hated demons, but right now, he hated this woman more.

Using that hatred to push away the pain, he jarred at his own thumb, utilizing the metal ridge of the handcuffs to pop it out of place. If Sammy couldn’t do it, then that left big brother to fill the gap. And come Hell or high water, he was going to.

His thumb felt like it had snapped, tendrils of pure agony snaking through his hand and wrist as he yanked it free from the manacles, but he didn’t really feel it. The only sensation he had left was the overwhelming disgust he felt for the woman who had once been a fellow hunter.

Dean pulled his arms free from the pyre, but didn’t waste time freeing Sam. He couldn’t, not while Rennie still held the treacherous flame in her grasp, not while demons and hunters alike died around them, screaming as their souls were torn from their bodies.

“You’re the one who’s gonna burn, bitch.” Dean hopped away from the soaked wood to stand in front of the sneering hunter. His voice was low, and his eyes cut into her like he had Superman’s “laser vision.”

“Big words from such a little man,” Rennie snapped back, taking a second to glance over her shoulder as another one of her friend’s cries for help was cut short as his throat was torn out.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m big in all the right places trust me. Not that you’re ever gonna find out…” Dean lunged forwards, keeping his eyes locked on the Zippo.

One false move now and Sam would go out in a blaze of glory better than even Jon Bon Jovi could conjure up.

Rennie yelped in anger as the hunter slammed into her and the pair rolled backwards.

Dean made a grab for the lighter in her hand, his fingers not quite able to reach the metal. The orange flame sputtered as the movement almost blew it out, but still it wouldn’t quite die.

Rennie’s desperate gaze watched in morbid fascination as the lighter jarred from her hand as Dean rolled over, putting all his weight into pinning her down.

The Zippo seemed to bounce, the loose earth beneath it actually acting as an extinguisher. That added with the draft from its fall were finally too much, and the silver lighter flickered once, and then died.

“Still trying to show me how size matters, Winchester?” Rennie pushed against Dean’s grip, but he still sat atop her, holding her arms down so she couldn’t throw any punches.

He was no fool – this girl could hold her own in any bar room brawl – and then some.

“Maybe we should call it a draw for today before your little demon-loving brother gets taken on a mystery tour by his brethren?” She looked past Dean to the pyre and he felt compelled to look, even though he knew she was probably just trying to distract him.

For once, she wasn’t.

One of Lucifer’s finest had reached Sam and was looking at him as if he was his next meal.

The thing actually licked its lips, saliva ebbing from the corners of its mouth like it was more vampire than demon.

Dean had the distracted thought that maybe Ferinacci had been doing a little cross-breeding, but he let the wild idea slide. “See you around, bitch!” He snarled, lip curling better than even James Dean could manage in Giant.

And with that he loosened the pressure of his hands, allowing Rennie to escape as he jumped up from his squatted position.

Rennie scrambled sideways, scooting to her feet and making a beeline for the darkness. Perhaps she was foolish enough to think she could escape there. Or maybe, she had a backup plan. With her, anything was possible.

At this point, Dean didn’t care.

“Dude, you better stop looking at my bro as if he’s supper, ’cause I’m telling you, he ain’t the tasty one among us Winchesters…”

The Armani-suited demon whirled, black orbs reflecting in the moonlight. It seemed to weigh up its opponent. Possibly realizing that Sam was going nowhere, it left him, treading carefully forward through the petrol-soaked soil until it was facing off against the elder brother.

“Ferinacci sends his regards,” the demon snorted through a thick nasal voice Dean realized was caused by a broken nose.

“Love the Miss Piggy look, dude. Nice piece of improvised snout surgery you got there…”

The thing hissed, more saliva dribbling from its mouth until it did actually resemble something more porcine than human. “Maybe I’ll tear your friggin’ nose off, pretty boy…along with various other appendages…”

Dean waved the thing forward with both hands, his expression turning from smile into full-on smirk. “Bring it on, pork face.”

The demon hunched its legs and then launched like an animal, flying through the air to impact hard with the hunter.

The pair rolled, the demon instantly getting the upper hand as it smashed a fist into Dean’s face, drawing blood from his nose.

He spat the blood straight back in the thing’s eyes, momentarily blinding it with the scarlet liquid. It blinked, trying to clear its vision, while attempting another blow.

The strike missed as Dean dodged to the left, quickly grabbing the Zippo from where Rennie had dropped it. He flicked once, twice until the lighter flared up.

It was a calculated risk. Could he afford to try torching the demon’s soaked trouser bottoms? Or would that put Sammy in too much danger?

With little other choice, he doubled his body over to let the ebbing flame touch the demon’s flammable attire, for once thanking Rennie mentally for having the forethought to actually spill gasoline.

The thing’s legs immediately burst into several orange-yellow hues and it balked, trying to swat out the annoying fire.

While the rapidly growing flames wouldn’t kill the demon, it was too much of a distraction for it to carry on the kill while it burned.

Dean pushed away from the living torch, thinking of the horror movie The Burning he’d watched as a kid.

“Dean, hey Dean!!!!”

Dean risked taking his eyes off the dancing inferno to realize that sparks from the demon’s clothing were flaring out into the night sky dangerously close to where Sam still sat on top of the soaked pyre.

Ignoring the angry demon’s screams of frustration, he charged past the flailing thing and jumped up next to his brother.

“About time, dude. I was thinking I might have to huff and puff and blow the stupid fire out if you took much longer.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘What took you so long?’” Dean asked, struggling with the cuff locks because of his dislocated thumb.

“Bite me…”

“No thanks.” He glanced over his shoulder to the still sizzling mass that was now treacherously close to lighting them up. “But that freak sure as hell looked like he wanted to chow down on your lanky ass.”

Sam grimaced and finally pulled free, dropping down from the woodpile just as the floundering demon smashed into it, causing a new conflagration of volcanic proportions .

“So not my kind of barbecue.” Dean commented, slapping Sam on the back as they ran in the same direction Rennie had taken, hoping it lead to a road. “Oh and by the way, dude, next time, you frag your own thumb, its way more painful than it looks in the movies…”

Sam just smirked back and carried on jogging.

* * * *

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop outside the storage sheds and winced. No matter how hard he tried, he seemed to catch his throbbing thumb, annoying it anew. It didn’t matter that Sammy had yanked it back into place, it still hurt like a bitch, but he’d be damned if he wanted Sasquatch to know about it.

“Dean…” Sam bobbed his head towards the side of one of the storage lockers. It was pretty dark, but as Dean’s eyes adjusted he could make out a pickup truck.

A black, kick-ass pickup truck.

“Dad’s been here,” he mouthed, carefully opening the Chevy’s big door in an attempt to lessen its metallic whimpering.

Sam followed, instinctively reaching into the back of the car for a sawed-off and flashlight. He nodded to Dean when he was ready, and the elder Winchester pulled out his favorite .45 from his waistband and nodded back.

Anyone or anything could be waiting in the locker; anything other than John, probably.

As they passed it, Dean caressed the truck’s hood with his free hand, assessing how long it had been parked. “Cold,” he whispered, eyes dancing to the entrance of the shed.

Sam moved to the side of the door, gun cocked and ready, but he didn’t attempt to answer. Waiting for Dean’s lead, his chest began to heave as adrenalin and nervous anticipation took control.

Dean stepped to the other side, careful not to let his shadow play across the doorway. It seemed to be slightly ajar.

Just a tiny crack, but enough to signal something wasn’t quite right.

There were no sounds from within, but a rich pungent odor permeated the air like a rotting carcass left out in the desert too long.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped, hoping that the foul smell wasn’t the precursor to a more morbid find. It’s not Dad in there. It’s just not.

Composing himself, he swung into the open and kicked at the entrance to the locker, diving in with his weapon at the ready, finger itching on the trigger in case Rennie had somehow beaten them here.

Rennie or something worse.

As Dean swung his .45 around in an arch, Sam joined him, playing his flashlight over the interior scene along with the barrel of his shotgun.

The beam from the light stopped on a mass of pulp on the floor that seemed to be several million flies’ new best friend.

Dean coughed onto the back of his hand, only just able to resist the urge to wretch.

Whatever was being fed upon by the maggots and flies had once been human.

At least, Dean thought it had been human. The writhing mass that was left was difficult to actually identify.

“It’s not Dad,” Sam offered, sounding more confident than he looked.

“You can tell?” Dean shot back, wincing as he took another look at the remains.

Sam stepped forward, playing his light across what had once been a leg. It now lay severed at the thigh, the knee joint bent back oddly as if it had been snapped like a twig.

He kneeled, illuminating the foot end. “You think we’d ever catch Dad wearing those?”

Dean leaned forwards and squinted. Whoever the body parts belonged to had a penchant for garish surfer shorts, and sandals that no Winchester would be seen dead in – let alone on a beach.

Besides that small fact, the leg appeared to be far too skinny to be John’s.

“So if it’s not Dad, who the hell is it?” Dean asked, straightening back up. “And more to the point, who ground his scrawny ass into hamburger meat like this?”

“Well, I don’t think this is Rennie’s style,” Sam reasoned. “But this kind of handiwork could definitely be demonic…” He let the flashlight wander around the rest of the storage area as he spoke, but there were no clues to what had occurred.

Lots of boxes containing books on magic, witchcraft, demonology, mythical creatures – basically, everything John had accumulated on his favorite subjects.

Their dad often joked it was in case he was ever a contestant on Jeopardy, but the truth was much darker.

“Yeah, well why would a demon kill this poor schmuck? And where the hell is Dad? I mean, he hasn’t gone far without his truck unless…”

“Unless whatever did this took him…or worse…” Sam completed the sentence, his face paling, even in the dull glow from his light.

“I wasn’t gonna say that!” Dean snapped back reprovingly. “Dad’s okay…he’s just…on a gig or something…”

The truth was, Dean didn’t think his dad was okay. There was too much evidence to the contrary, but knowing deep down and admitting it, well they were two different things.

“We should look in the truck. Maybe he left something in there we can use. A map, anything.” Sam jogged back out of the locker and Dean followed, relieved that he didn’t have to smell the minced dude’s eau de mort any longer.

The truck was exactly where they’d left it. Nothing stirred in the yard, and there was very little traffic out on the main roads that ran adjacent to it. This place was dead.

As dead as the guy in their father’s shed.

“It’s open.” Sam tugged on the truck’s door and it creaked open, making an even louder grunt than the Impala. He clicked the flashlight on again and swung it around the interior.

While Sam looked on the seats, on the floor, and behind the sun visor, Dean flipped open the glove box. Several fake I.D.s fell out, along with a Sig Sauer and a spare clip.

Dean knew several other locations in the vehicle where he could find similar weapons. He smiled, thinking of how he’d watched his dad periodically check the guns in between hunts when he was younger.

If they’d been a normal family, the guns would probably have been fishing tackle, or maybe rifles more suited to deer or bears.

“I got nothing.” Sam broke Dean from his memories, and the elder hunter had to admit neither had he.

“Ditto, Sasquatch. Whatever went down here, we got no M&M trail to follow.” He shut the glove box back up and slammed the door closed. Talking over the hood as he walked, he made a face that said he was both worried and pissed at having no clues. “We can’t go back to the motel, we might already have two lots of company back there waiting for us, we got no friggin’ idea where to start looking for Dad, and did I mention I’d feel a whole lot better if I kicked somebody’s ass right about now?”

Sam cringed. “I’d prefer it if you got in the car and just drove, dude. I can still taste the stench of that dead guy on the back of my throat. Maybe we can figure this out on the road. I can call Bobby, see if he’s heard anything…?”

Dean reached the Impala and tucked his Colt away before opening the door. He sighed as he climbed inside. “Sammy, right now if we had a satellite fix on Dad’s hairy butt, I wouldn’t believe it till I saw it. And somehow I doubt Bobby will have anything half as good…”

* * * *

Dean had been driving for over forty minutes before Sam had finally been able to get Bobby on the phone. In all that time, Dean had said barely two words. Instead, he’d simply glared out into the darkness, knuckles white as he gripped the Chevy’s wheel with just a little too much enthusiasm.

Sam knew what his brother was thinking – what they were both thinking. And there would be no placating Dean now until this mess was over and John had been found.

Having a missing father was all part of the fun for the Winchester family. But somehow, they both sensed this time was different.

“So there have been more?” Sam asked Bobby after a long pause.

“Damn straight there have,” Bobby groused back down the line. “Hunters are dropping like flies. Good men me and your daddy’s known all our lives. And that’s not all…most of the bodies were so covered in sulfur they coulda been human matchstick men…”

“Demons?” Sam asked, his heart sinking. “We met up with Rennie in Stockton, was kinda hoping she had more to do with this than Ferinacci and his Hell brigade.”

“Rennie’s mixed up in this whole dang mess?”

“She tried kicking our asses, but I had to decline the offer,” Dean chipped in, his voice loud enough to be heard even though he wasn’t holding the cell.

“So, Bobby,” Sam guided the conversation back on track. “If Rennie isn’t behind the hunter killings, and demons are…any idea why?” He tried not to think about Dean’s misgivings that a certain half-demon might be responsible for all this, waiting instead for Bobby to come up with some kind of alternative suggestion.

The line went quiet for a moment.

“Other than you idjits pissing the Devil himself off a few too many times? Err…nope.” Bobby audibly sighed, and Sam once again tried not to think too deeply about Mia. “Look, the way I figure it, Lucifer shouldn’t give a damn about hunters, we’re small fry to him. So why the sudden crusade to wipe us out? There’s somethin’ big goin’ down here, boys, somethin’ real big.” He paused again as if choosing his words carefully. “Any sign of John?”

“We trailed Dad to a storage locker. His truck was outside, and we found a mangled body inside, but nothing else. We don’t know if he’s still out there, or if Rennie or Lucifer…” Or Mia… Sam let the suggestion go unspoken as his voice grew gruff with emotion and he stopped.

“John’s out there, I know it,” Bobby reassured. “You’d have to show me the cold dead body before I’d believe anything else. Heck, with you Winchesters, I’m not even sure I’d believe that!” Sam heard the elder hunter take a swig of something on the other end – probably his home-made brew – before continuing. “Want me to come on out there and show you boys how to really track someone?”

Sam considered it. If anyone could track, it really was Bobby. The only two hunters he knew who were better were Joe Bearwalker and John. The thing was, Bobby was needed right now. They had to discover why Lucifer was suddenly having fun killing hunters. And if the Winchesters were indisposed, that meant Bobby had to spearhead the investigation.

“No thanks, Bobby, we need you to keep an eye on Lucifer right now. Try and find out why he’s killing hunters…” As an afterthought, and to put Bobby’s mind off arguing with him, Sam added. “Hey, did you ever find anything else out about that feather?”

Bobby grunted. “Well, if the lore is to be believed, you might just have gotten yourselves somethin’ special there, boys. It’s taken me awhile, and a few promises I’m not even sure I can keep but…”

“But?” Sam pressed, sitting forward on the Impala’s bench seat.

“Legend has it that certain angels’ feathers have specific properties. Some texts say the things actually glow and weep blood when they come into contact with anything evil…”

Dean looked over from steering the car, his ears still picking up the bulk of the conversation thanks to the high volume of Sam’s cell. “Jeez, a crying friggin’ feather? Am I supposed to be impressed? Just how does that make it something special unless you’re some Bible stomper?”

“Pity his brain ain’t as fast as his mouth, he’d be a genius,” Bobby chuckled back to Sam. “Now, if you two knuckleheads would just listen…when that thing bleeds, if the good ol’ red stuff touches the evil sucker? Poof, he’s ash! That angel feather is the best demon killer this side your daddy, and maybe then some…”

“But this is all just legend and folklore at this point, right?” Sam clarified.

“Right,” Bobby admitted. “But I’m still workin’ on it. Got a few more favors to pull in, and I’m still waitin’ on our good friend Kyle to get back to me. I figured if anyone was in the know about angels, it would be his priestly butt.”

“Okay, thanks, Bobby. And…watch your back, okay? I mean, hunters are in season right now. Fair game…”

“Sam Winchester, I just rebuilt this place, I ain’t about to go hide from it.” He sighed. “But I’ll watch myself. Got my favorite piece right here on the desk and a box of shells in every room. Demons or Rennie’s crew – they come lookin’ for trouble, they’ll sure find it here.”

“Good to hear.” Sam smiled at his old friend’s tenacity. “Talk soon, Bobby.” He flipped the cell closed and turned to his brother. “You hear all that?”

“Pretty much,” Dean acknowledged, taking a right turn onto a road that thankfully at least had lights. “We got hunters and demons running around waging war on um…lots of other hunters. The real hunters. We got no motive, no reasoning unless Lucifer finally got choked by his own Hell smoke and ain’t running on all cylinders. We got Mia still running around doing God knows what to God knows who. And…” He drew out the word. “To top it all up, Dad is still missing, no leads, no clues, no freakin’ idea what’s going on…”

“That about sums it up,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “Could it be any worse?”

Dean grinned, despite the dismal situation. If there was one thing he’d learned as a hunter, you had to keep your spirits up somehow, and he had a sure-fire cure every time.

“Hell yeah, it could be worse,” Dean growled. “I could be hungry!” He let his tongue roll over his lips and his eyes flashed to a road sign that suggested “Tuck in at Ted’s” half a mile. “Fancy some chow, little brother?” He arched a brow.

Sam realized he was actually hungry. “Just no ketchup, okay? Not after the storage locker…”

Dean’s grin widened as he slid the Impala into the jovially lit diner’s lot. “Dude, would I..?”

Tuck in at Ted’s
18 minutes later…

Sam ducked back down into his seat just as an unhealthily thin waitress named Mindy dropped a plate in front of his brother. He’d gotten a little hot in the Impala and had paid a quick visit to the men’s room before ordering, but it looked like Dean had gotten fed up of waiting and had chosen food for them both.

To Sam’s utter shock, the elder Winchester appeared to have actually picked a chicken burger over his usual greasy double cheeseburger.

“Dude, are you going soft in your old age? Where’s the half a ton of fat and onions you usually chow down on?”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows, taking a huge bite out of his food. “Hey, you’re not the only one who can eat healthy, college boy! Well…just a little healthy,” he corrected through a mouthful of bun. “Double fries are already on the way…”

To confirm it, he looked over his shoulder, and sure enough the waitress was returning with a mound of fries big enough to feed Godzilla.

As the girl set down the extra food, Dean eyed it, then eyed the waitress more than appreciatively, and Sam half expected his brother to offer her his cell number.

Sam shook his head, watching as the girl sauntered back to the counter, looking twice over her shoulder at Dean with the biggest “bimbo grin” he’d ever seen.

“Man, I think I’ve scored…” Dean’s eyes sparkled and he grabbed a fry, munching on it hungrily.

“You’re not kidding,” Sam agreed sarcastically. “Talk about Dork and Mindy…”

Dean shrugged, his lewd grin never faltering. “Sammy, with a body like that, she can come back to my place and play ‘nanoo nanoo’ anytime!”

“I always knew you were part alien…” Sam countered, beginning to inspect his own chicken burger. “How else can you explain your bizarre taste in music?” He stopped talking and winced as he lifted the top half of the bun to find ketchup smothered across the burger. “Very funny, dude, very funny…”

Dean winked. “I thought so,” he chuckled. “Got your appetite back yet, Sammy?”

Sam swallowed and realized that he actually hadn’t, and it was nothing to do with his brother’s prank. He’d felt hot out in the car, but now he could actually feel the heat coming off his face if he put a hand close enough. Splashing cold water over his cheeks in the diner’s bathroom obviously had done nothing to cool his soaring temperature.

He fanned himself and puffed as if he could exhale the intense heat brimming from his core. “Hot…” He gasped. “Man, I feel…kinda weird…”

Dean stopped munching and finally took his brother seriously. “You okay, little brother? You look like crap all of a sudden…”

Sam rubbed at his brow, noting with alarm that not only was he burning up, his head was beginning to pound too. Not a regular headache, but more like his brain was attempting to vacate the premises – through any orifice possible.

“Headache,” Sam panted, closing his eyes to try and dispel the pain and muscle-burning sensations searing through his frame.

“We should get you to the car…maybe some fresh air too…” Dean began to push up from his seat, but Sam waved him back down.

Fresh air wasn’t going to help, and besides, he suspected if he tried to move, he may just pass out. His head was swimming, like his mind was enveloped in a thick, unyielding miasma that was smothering all free thought.

“I’ll be fine,” he lied, hoping Dean didn’t see right through him. “Guess I just need something to eat…low blood sugar or something…”

Dean didn’t appear convinced, and his mouth opened as if he was going to argue when something clattered to the tiles back in the diner’s kitchen. The hunter turned, looking over his shoulder reflexively as if poised for action.

From their bench seat, there wasn’t a great view of the tiny diner’s kitchen, but as Sam’s gaze followed that of his brother, he saw a flash of flames and a small cloud of smoke ebbing towards the ceiling.

Several voices seemed to be yelling in unison until their conversation was unintelligible. Sam guessed someone had gotten a little too eager with the hotplate or frying pan and “Ted” was now paying the price with a small fire.

More shouting ensued, but none of the diner’s customers apart from the Winchesters seemed to notice.

Sam saw a small pudgy man wearing a soiled apron appear with an extinguisher, and two seconds later the commotion was over without the need for a full-scale evacuation.

“Jeez, can’t we even eat without being chased by some kinda Hellfire?” Dean quipped, settling back to his burger and fries. “I mean, c’mon…” He paused again, examining Sam. “You sure you’re okay? You still look like you got your thumb stuck up your ass or somethin’.”

Sam forced a smile and a bite of the hideously drowned burger. “Just tired,” he lied again, wondering just when he’d become so adept at deception – especially with Dean.

The thought made him drop the food back on the plate and he tossed a napkin over it, unable to force any more down.

Pushing the plate away, he took down a long breath, but he still felt wrong. The headache had subsided some, and so had the fever-like symptoms. But he wasn’t even half right, and if he carried on like this, Dean would know it.

Dean’s gaze didn’t falter as he finished the last of his burger in one mouthful. If he suspected anything at this point, his next sentence didn’t reflect it. “Okay, c’mon, Sleepy, let’s find you a motel and bed for the night before you turn into a cute little dwarf with a white beard, heavy eyelids and an awesome blue pointy hat!”

Sam forced a small smile and pushed up carefully from his seat. Whatever was causing the weird feelings, he wasn’t going to find out sitting here. And if he couldn’t find the cause, then he was at least damn well going to fight it. That was the Winchester way. Chow down on the bit and ignore the pain, the nausea, everything.

But what if it’s demonic? What if this is some inner part of me “turning” somehow?

Sam ignored the stupid ideas filtering through his skull. Just because demons and hunters alike were chasing his ass didn’t mean he was a bad person.

He watched as Dean pulled out a couple of notes and dropped them down on top of their tab, but he didn’t speak until they were finally outside by the car.

He couldn’t, because until the cleansing air had hit him, it had felt like his vocal cords had melted with the heat emanating from his body.

Reaching for the Chevy’s door handle, he cleared his throat and attempted his first words. “You really think we’ll find a motel that takes plastic way out here? ’Cause unless I’m mistaken you just paid with the last of our cash.” The sentence sounded like he’d been sucking on sandpaper, but he raised a brow, hoping his brother didn’t notice.

Despite his voice sounding harsh and gravelly, he was feeling cooler, and his head no longer felt like it was going to spontaneously implode.

Dean rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face and sighed. “Nope, I don’t think we’re likely to find any kinda motel, but we did pass an abandoned house about half a mile back that way.” He jerked a thumb the way they’d come. “I figure free is always good, and I have a coupla six packs in the trunk that say we’ll be asleep in no time and won’t even notice the lack of room service. Whattya say, Sasquatch?”

Sam smiled, more from the fact he was feeling almost normal again than his brother’s choice of accommodation. “I think you’d be a lot happier if you were sharing with Mindy than Sleepy,” he sniggered.

Dean climbed behind the wheel, reached for the keys and then paused. His eyes narrowed mischievously. “Dude, don’t give me ideas…I can always lock Sleepy in the trunk till morning…”

Lawrence, Kansas
Disused Barn

John looked around the barn’s interior with half-closed eyes, blood and sweat exacerbating the effects of the swelling where he’d been repeatedly beaten.

He blinked, the salt from his own perspiration soaking into the raw welts on his face and making him wince.

The place was old, missing laths on the ceiling revealing the clear sky beyond. Part of the upper level had long since collapsed, allowing the straw that had been stored there to tumble onto the floor below.

John was tied to a support beam nearest to the “fall-in.” He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but from the numbness in his fingers and hands it had to be at least a few hours, if not longer.

He squirmed, feeling a jolt of pain in his left side to compliment the throbbing in his leg. Just a little more of Mia’s handiwork to add to his screwed up body. He couldn’t be sure, but the elder Winchester suspected he had a couple of cracked ribs.

“Enjoying your new room?” The barn door creaked open and Mia stood dead center of the opening, munching on an apple like a vampire would bite the inviting flesh of a human neck.

John grunted, realizing that dried blood had caked his lips and had coagulated in various parts of his beard. He ignored the odd sensation, eyeing Mia warily as she strolled further into the shelter.

“Wonder where I’ve been, John Boy?” Mia leaned over, assessing the damage she’d caused to his features. Apparently satisfied, she continued. “I’ve been out practicing! Good can always be better, right, hunter?”

“Depends on what you’re practicing,” John growled back, his head lolling forward as he tried to keep focus on his captor.

“Death, of course.” Mia smirked matter-of-factly. “I mean, it’s the one thing I truly do excel at, wouldn’t you say?” She put a hand on her hip and then tapped her forefinger over her lips as if in thought. “Demonic gifts are just so ‘in’ these days. Everyone’s after them. People practically jumping into Hell for a piece of the pie…and here’s little old me just full of them without even trying, thanks to you.”

Mia flicked her hair distractedly and then stretched out her hand, pointing her fingertips towards him. She closed her eyes briefly, as if summoning up the right “power.” And then, he felt it. Just a minor twinge at first, a pang of pain that resembled the onset of indigestion.

But the pain in his chest grew, and John knew it wasn’t from anything he’d eaten - because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had food.

Mia’s eyes glowed knowingly as John writhed. “I can stop your heart with just one more flick of my fingers,” she assured. “Trust me, I’ve just done a full rehearsal at the local gas station. Who knows, maybe they’ll put all the bodies down to the legend around these parts…maybe something from the old church scared those poor suckers to death…”

“How many?” John gasped through clenched teeth, pain still shooting through his torso as if Mia physically had her hand inside him, squeezing at his heart. “How many did you kill just to fine tune your sick little powers?”

Mia shrugged, letting her grip on him lessen. “Oh, eight, maybe nine…if you count the brat that was still in diapers…”

“Why?” John heaved down a breath as the tightness in his chest began to subside. “If this is all about revenge against me…”

Mia slumped down onto an old tractor tire and tossed her apple core at the wall, watching it bounce off before she “willed” it right back into her palm like a movie sorceress. “Oh Johnny…you’re so full of yourself it’s painful. Why would I stop at killing you, when I can work my wonders on all your hunter pals once I’ve refined them?”

She eyed the apple core and tossed it again, but this time it disintegrated on impact and she lost interest in the game. Refocusing on John, she sighed as if becoming bored. “I’ve been waiting for months for this day to arrive. It’s taken weeks of digging and research…but it will all be worth it tomorrow. All that wading through local legends and lore like some scumbag hunter…like you, even…all worth it in the end…”

“Except, I don’t kill innocent people,” John countered, testing the ropes that bound him as he talked.

Mia didn’t like his reasoning. Stretching forward angrily, she used the back of her hand to swipe him across an already bloody section of his cheek. “You killed my mother,” she hissed, face reddening. “Don’t you want to know what I have cooking to repay you? How I’m going to make you burn in Hell until your skin peels from your bones with the heat, but you can’t die, you can’t ever have absolution…not from me, not from my brethren…”

“I don’t care what you do to me,” he whispered, swollen eyes boring into his kidnapper. “Hell ain’t such a bad place to be…”

Mia laughed, tossing her head back like a wayward mare. “Such an AC/DC fan…I like that about you, John. In fact, I like that about Dean too…but that’s okay, because right after I finish with you, I’ll make sure your boys follow you into the Pit…”

“They didn’t do anything to you. Haven’t they suffered enough at your hands? Haven’t all the innocents?” He coughed, wondering if his injured ribs and the chill in the barn were prompting the onset of pneumonia.

“There are no innocents,” Mia scoffed, pressing her high boot heel harshly into his thigh like a poker. “No one lives, Winchester…not your boys, not any of those dicks that call themselves hunters…no one. When I’m done there won’t be anyone left on earth like you.”

John’s head flopped backwards against the joist he was tied to. He was tired, so tired of all this, but he couldn’t let her have the last word. “Why don’t you just go to Hell and join your momma…”

Mia shrugged, obviously not as upset by the jibe as John had hoped. “You first, Winchester…and I’m sure mother will be waiting to have a word with you. Lots of my brethren will once the gate is open tomorrow.”

John blinked again, finally putting some of the pieces of the conversation together to form a picture of Mia’s plans. It wasn’t pretty, hell, it wasn’t even sane – but he was very afraid it was possible.

Mia hadn’t just brought him back to Lawrence, she’d brought him back to Stull.

And tomorrow was Halloween.

John tried to hide the fear steadily building in his heart, in every fiber of his body, but he couldn’t. His muscles spasmed involuntarily and he began to shake. He told himself it was the lack of heat in the barn, anything but admit the truth.

Local legends told the tale of Stull church, a holy place, with a very unholy passageway that appeared on certain occasions that led to Hell itself.

A church where Lucifer was said to appear twice a year, once at Spring Equinox, and once at Halloween…

The actual building had been torn down back in 2002, but locals insisted that twice a year, an apparition of the crumbling church would materialize and for one night evil would walk their tiny neighborhood, rising up from the catacombs below the mirage.

Most thought the rumors were just stories to bring in tourists, tall tales that had stood the test of time and snowballed until they were part of Kansas history.

But John knew different.

Kansas, Lawrence and Stull were so much more.

This was one of the seven true portals to Hell, and Mia intended to use her knowledge to make sure it opened, and possibly stayed open.

And if she did, and not only the Winchesters, but mankind perished, then it would be his fault.

“The old Stull legends?” He managed to sound upbeat, cocky even, although his face betrayed the lie. “They’re just a myth. Just a few townsfolk trying to drum up business in a long dead town…”

Mia sniffed gleefully. “Oh really? Then why do I smell your fear? Half demon, remember, Johnny? You can’t expect me not to know the real potential of this place. Every cell in my body is drawn here. Drawn to the master and his night.” She closed her eyes, inhaling the air as if it was tainted with traces of sulfur. “And you, your sons, and those like you? You’ll be my sacrifices…”

She dropped to her knees, straddling him. Leaning close, she grabbed John by the neck and forced his head back so harshly he felt splinters dig into the flesh on his skull.

Mia took another long breath, taking in his scent, his lifeforce. Then she tilted her own head forward, kissing him like they were lovers. Her lips lingered on his, and he was powerless to pull away until she had been satisfied.

Eventually, Mia yanked her head back, flicking her hair jubilantly. “Why John Boy…you and Dean really are similar.” She let her tongue roll out over her lips savoring the moment. “I can taste the fear and defeat in you…just like I could in your cocky little spawn…”

Deserted House
Elko, Nevada

Sam was surprised to find that the so called “abandoned” house his brother had spotted was, in fact, simply shut down. Either its occupants had come to an untimely end in some bizarre accident and it was awaiting a will being read, or more likely, the owners were off skiing somewhere and drinking cocktails for several months.

As he cut the wires to the sophisticated alarm system, Sam was betting on the latter. This was not the home of an ordinary family. Probably some rich lawyer or corporate suit used the house maybe once or twice a year and had properties in several other states, if not countries.

“Will you hurry it up there, dude?” Dean groused, a six pack under his arm. “Beer’s getting warm here…”

Sam cut another wire and then turned his attention to the front door lock. He was inside within two more seconds, hoping as he flicked the light switch that the water and power were still connected.

A magnificent fitment modeled on a classical chandelier burst into life, allaying his fears and casting new light on their accommodation for the night.

“Do I pick great spots, or what?” Dean bristled with enthusiasm, diving into the first room to find a TV the size of his local drive-in screen. He tossed the six-pack down and surveyed the rest of the lounge. Eventually he whistled. “Man, I love this family and I don’t even know them…”

Sam used a button on the light switch to dim the room. Dean may be excited, but there might be neighbors who knew the house’s owners weren’t around. It wouldn’t be wise to get tossed into the local jail for breaking and entering right now.

“Dude, will you start thinking with your brain?” Sam rubbed at his brow, but the tension there wasn’t just caused by his brother’s suddenly sloppy behavior.

While the pain and discomfort from the diner had long since faded, he couldn’t shake the idea that there was something wrong in his head. And he didn’t think it was anything physical like a tumor – it was something far stranger.

Sam turned for the door, abruptly not wanting to face Dean.

What if his gifts were growing, and he was losing control of them? Had he actually caused the fire back at the diner?

“Hey, Sammy, don’t you want a beer?”

Sam glanced back over his shoulder to see Dean offering up a can, but he shook his head. There was always the option of telling his brother what had happened, what might still be happening, but what could he really say without freaking Dean out?

Hey, dude, I think I’m losing it…or worse still…

Sam shrugged off the thought. He was being stupid, letting a set of coincidences cloud his judgment.

“I’ll grab one later,” he finally answered, not stopping as he headed for the stairs in the hallway. “Gonna go grab a shower and freshen up first.”

“Yeah, you smell like a skunk,” Dean wisecracked back. “Wasn’t gonna say anything, but we might have to start calling you Pepe…”

Sam laughed, but as he climbed the spiral staircase up to the bathroom, he couldn’t help but think about the flames he’d seen licking up inside the diner’s kitchen.

Funny, how everyone always associated Hell and Lucifer with flames….

* * * *

Dean laid a cloth over the ornate coffee table he was sure had cost more than an average car. He supposed it was kind of arty, if you were into that stuff, but it really wasn’t his thing.

Instead of admiring the craftsmanship of its highly polished wooden surface, he began setting out weapons on the cloth ready for stripping and cleaning. Alongside the two shotguns and his .45, he set down a flask of water and a rosary ready to make some homemade holy water.

While Sammy bathed, he could maybe watch some TV and get a little work done.

Picking up one of the shotguns first, he detached the fore-end and then the barrels ready for cleaning, but despite his eyes focusing on the task, his mind was elsewhere.

Sam could hide it all he liked, he could make excuses and play all innocent, but Dean knew his brother was hurting, and whatever had brought on that mental or physical hurt, it had started back at the diner.

Why the hell won’t he just open up sometimes?

Yeah, right, just like I do…stupid friggin’ question…

Dean began feeding a small brush down the detached barrels as he talked to himself.

There was just too much going on, too much he had to try and ignore right now when in reality he was worried as hell. There was Dad, Mia, the weird feather that was definitely not for foreplay. And then there were rampant demons, Rennie the renegade and…and dammit his amulet felt weird…

Dean dropped his handiwork into the chair at the side of him, surprised and unnerved by the fact that the little golden necklace was vibrating against his skin, making his flesh tingle until he wanted to rub it.

Reaching under his shirt, Dean pulled at the cord the amulet was attached to until the bauble popped out into his hand.

It was glowing.

Not just a small shimmering effect, but a radiant burning light that seemed to eat into his retinas until he was forced to blink.

The amulet looked like it was about to melt, and as it touched the calloused flesh on his fingers he realized that it was indeed hot – although the heat appeared not to be searing his skin, even though it should be.

Dean let the amulet drop from his hand back onto the material of his Henley. It continued to pulse and gleam, and he could feel a low thrum ebbing through it even atop the shirt.

Dean looked to the windows and then to the lounge door. Had Sam locked the main door behind them? And dammit, why hadn’t they had the good sense to salt all the window frames and entrances?

Dean pushed up from his chair, his chest suddenly heaving with the adrenalin rush blazing through his system.

The amulet never glowed like this, not this strongly – except for once, in the presence of Haris.

He reached the lounge door and opened his mouth to shout a warning up to Sam, but the words never had time to form in his vocal cords.

Even if they had re-locked the front door, it wouldn’t have mattered.

The door exploded off its hinges and flew into the hallway in three separate pieces. Shards of wood and glass fell all around like an unholy deluge.

And in the midst of it all, three men strode into the house, eyes blazing in midnight-black triumph.

Dean stepped back into the lounge, quickly stuffing a hand in the back pocket of his jeans as the apparent ringleader zeroed in on him.

The man wasn’t tall, but his muscles and stocky build reminded the hunter of a Latino version of Mr T – minus the Mohawk.

“Whoa, can’t a guy even have a quiet drink in peace these days?” Dean tugged a small flask from his pocket and quickly unscrewed the cap. He smirked, showing the flagon to the demon now gawking at him.

The thing didn’t trust him, keeping a wary distance. Dean shrugged, offering the creature a “suit yourself” look before taking a long swig.

“We want the remnant, hunter…or you’ll be needing more than whiskey…” The demon’s eyes narrowed and suddenly Dean was floating on thin air. For once, he wasn’t tossed backwards into a wall, but the position was just as undignified.

“The remnant,” the demon demanded again, nostrils flaring and eyes twitching as it shoved its grotesque face into the hunter’s.

Dean didn’t answer, but suddenly spit out a huge mouthful of liquid onto his enemy. The demon’s flesh sizzled and cracked open, large sores instantly forming on its features.

It screamed, grasping its face and swiftly letting go its psychic hold on the hunter.

Dean dropped to the floor and was charging across the room for the intact shotgun before the other two demons could react. “I never said it was whiskey,” he barked sarcastically. “What’s the matter there, bud, can’t take a little holy water before supper?”

He grabbed the Remington and quickly stuffed a cartridge into each barrel. But before he could yank it closed, demon number two had grabbed him from behind, spinning him around by the throat.

It ignored its still writhing boss and slowly squeezed its fingers, cutting off Dean’s air supply. “We want the remnant…”

Dean coughed. “Jeez, a little monosyllabic in Hell, are we?” He shook his head. Crap…where did that come from? Definitely been around Sam too long…”Dude, I don’t even know what the freakin’ remnant is!”

The demon released the pressure just a little. “The feather,” it droned. “We want the feather.”

“Hey, sulfur breath, don’t you think if I had that thing I’d have found somewhere to stick it right about now? Or is your head so far up your butt you don’t realize what it will do to you?” Dean smirked.

“You don’t have any more holy water, hunter. And if you don’t have the remnant, you’re of no use to us…” It didn’t shift its gaze, but spoke to its fellow demons. “Find the other Winchester, bring him here, then search the house…”

There was no answer, only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

The demon finally turned, annoyed at its brethren.

* * * *

Sam had been out of the shower five minutes when something exploded downstairs. Considering the mood Dean had been in, he could have taken out the TV with his shotgun if the local channels were showing reruns again, but the more likely scenario was that something big, and very bad, was going down while Sammy was standing almost butt naked in the bathroom.

Sam reached for his jacket hanging on the back of the door and pulled a small bottle of holy water from the pocket. He had his Sig too, but unless the noise was a police SWAT team storming the house, he was guessing bullets weren’t going to be of much use.

Taking a look down at his boxers and huge bare feet, he couldn’t help but feel slightly underdressed as he padded carefully down the stairs, ears tuned to any new sound as his eyes scanned the hallway.

The door was on the floor, its wooden sections shredded to pulp.

In the lounge, he could hear voices.

Dean was snarking, taunting someone, and Sam was sure he’d heard the words “sulfur breath.”

So, that was it, more demons.

Edging up to the lounge door, he noted one of the creatures rocking back and forth on the floor, its hands cupped over its eyes. He guessed rightly that Dean had temporarily blinded it with holy water. That effect would only last so long, though.

One down, two to go…

Sam used the added stealth his shoeless feet gave him, sneaking across the wooden floor to come up behind the nearest creature. The demon appeared to have inhabited the body of a kid. If Sam was right, the poor schmuck didn’t even look twenty.

Nevertheless, Sam had to try and take him out, or at least slow him down.

Sam tapped the youth on the shoulder silently.

But as the kid whirled, so did the demon holding Dean by the throat.

Crap!

Sam wanted to react, wanted his hands to move and throw water in the demon’s eyes, but he couldn’t. The feeling from earlier was suddenly back, only this time he wasn’t just hot.

Sam took a step away from the demon, away from his brother, sensing the power building inside him like Vesuvius before the great eruption. Something was happening, and all he could think of was the transformation of Jekyll into Hyde.

Was the presence of evil literally “turning” him all the more quickly? Not turning, not turning…just my gifts…just gifts…not bad…

Sam’s body began to shake violently, his hands shuddering so intensely that he dropped the holy water and the demons looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t fight – he was powerless.

And yet, at the same time, he was the most powerful thing in the room.

Sweat began to ooze from every pore on his body, and Sam couldn’t take the ferocity of the event any longer. If his gift was to channel other beings’ powers, then right now he was channeling the force of every demon in the room and surrounding area.

Mirroring one special kid or demon had been hard to control, Gudrun and Daisy together even harder, but this was impossible, even though his body, his mind were both demanding it.

“Dean!” Sam wanted to warn his brother, to yell out what might be about to happen, but his throat was once again as course as sandpaper, and his voice nothing more than a muffled croak.

* * * *

Dean couldn’t take his eyes from Sam – how could he when Sam looked so afraid? So different.

Sam had backed himself up to the lounge doorframe and appeared to be wedged there. It looked like he was having some kind of convulsion, and a thin line of blood spilled out beneath his nose, ebbing over his lip to add to the frightening portrait of the unknown.

But his eyes, they were the worst of it, because no matter how hard Dean looked, Sam’s eyes looked almost as black as the Hellspawns’ now gathering around him.

“Sammy!” Dean fought the grip of the thing still holding him, using both his hands to try and pry its stubby fingers from his throat.

The demon didn’t yield, but somehow seemed compelled to continue staring at the younger Winchester rather than fight. It was as if Sam’s conversion had mesmerized it.

* * * *

Sam didn’t notice. Whatever had taken hold of his abilities was now way out of control. “DEAAAAN!!” He screamed, letting out all the pent up emotions, the rage, the terror.

He wanted his brother safe, he wanted the demonic creatures obliterated by their own dark powers – but tonight, in his hands, there could be no differentiation between the two.

As his voice cracked with the effort of his screams, a massive, unrestrained wave of pure energy burst from his hands like an electromagnetic pulse, laying waste to everything and anything in its path.

The huge television in the corner of the room imploded, its screen sucked inside its casing and out the other side. The clock on the mantelpiece stopped ticking, the rotating brass balls inside its glass dome suddenly whirling so fast they tore from the metal shafts holding them in place.

Furniture was blown across the room as if a tornado had formed, smashing its way from where Sam stood towards the demons and beyond. Valuable artwork was tossed from the walls, canvas tearing as it too became part of the voracious maelstrom of power.

Sam felt like the cells in his body were disintegrating from the exertion, and he fell forwards onto his knees, panting, gasping down air.

But still the storm continued, blasting the demons from their feet and crushing them with its raw, unreserved energy.

Sam could hear their screams through the howling of the artificial wind around him, long guttural cries that almost made him pity them. And so he should, because wasn’t Dean out there too, in the middle of the hell on earth he had created?

Sam tried to look up, forcing all-too heavy eyes to open, to focus, to obey.

Dean would be safe.

Sam would never hurt his brother – not ever.

But as Sam dared to strain his neck upwards, all he could see was that he had laid waste to an entire house.

Everything.

And everyone.

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The Winchester Chronicles