Season Three

Episode Four: Devil Inside

By Gaelicspirit & Sojourner

Part Two

Alley outside apartment building, Providence and Berkeley, Night

Dean felt as though he were moving through quicksand toward Sam: the harder he tried to move, the slower he advanced.

Tightening the muscles in his stomach, pulling away from the wall, Dean saw Sam’s fingers gradually slow their desperate digging into the flesh of his own neck, stop trying to slip up under the rope buried so deeply that his skin around the nylon was bloodless white. Sam’s eyes stayed with Dean’s, a silent plea there, accompanying the wheeze of a word bubbling up almost incoherently past his parted lips.

Dean caught it, though. He heard his name. The whole world plunged into red hues as Sam’s hands fell to his side, his eyes rolling back into his head behind fluttering lashes.

“SAM!” The bellow came from his gut, a scream of denial that caught the attention of the man choking the life from his brother.

The man, who was impossibly larger than Sam, turned his tar-black eyes on Dean, waiting for a response, a move, silently taunting Dean with the malicious question: Are you just going to watch him die? His body language was a challenge to Dean to rescue Sam, telling him he was running out of time. The twisted curvature of the man’s lips became more excited as the last bit of resistance was leeched from Sam, as his body weakly bucked back against his attacker only a few more times.

Dean snapped into an auto-response, despite knowing in the back of his mind he was going to end up paying for it, and charged the demon again with another growl. This time he was allowed to get a little closer before he was sent spiraling back into the opposite wall. The pain shock-waved through his shoulders and looped up and down through his spine, making his legs buckle at first when he tried to stand. Being thrown into walls was starting to get old fast. He ignored the sharp pull along his lower back as he stood and tried a different approach.

“Least we were right about it being a demon,” Dean grunted to himself as he straightened. Once again, he faced the demon his lip curled back in defiant anger, turning the challenge back at the figure before him. “Didn’t think he was your type.”

The demon tilted its head.

“Unless you’ve decided to swing that way. Which, hell, your choice, man. Whatever trips your trigger.”

The demon dropped Sam, who folded into a heap at his feet, grabbing at his damaged neck, coughing in wet gasps to try to bring in more air through his bruised windpipe. Dean focused on his brother the second the rope dropped and Sam curled in on himself. He knew the demon was rushing toward him, but he was more concerned with seeing if Sam could breathe again. Taunting the demon had served its purpose, he just wished that it wasn’t about to hurt like a bitch in the next few blinks of an eye.

The entire mass of the possessed man slammed into Dean low in his gut, the demon’s shoulder connecting with his abdomen, once again expelling the contents of his lungs in an audible umpf. Dean felt his body lifted into the air, felt the air whoosh past his face as the demon ran them backwards, crashing him bodily into the ground, his back once again radiating tendrils of pain throughout his jarred bones and muscle. The leather kept him from being cut up against the abrasive concrete.

Dean twisted on impact, bringing up his foot to greet the man’s torso, keeping them rolling, using that momentum, so he didn’t end up underneath the weight of the demon, trapped. They both reeled further down the alley until Dean came to a stop against the dumpster, the demon sprawled out a few feet away.

The man was up unnaturally fast, faster than the time it would take Dean to recover completely and Dean was forced into crab-walking backward along the side of the dumpster; trying to stay away from the advancing demon. It saw him crawling and seemed amused, slowing its powerful strides long enough to watch Dean skitter backwards.

“Maybe we’ll see if you’re my type,” the demon smirked, his voice eerily calm and hoarse.

Another nylon rope dropped in a slowly unrolling coil from his hand and Dean’s eyes bounced from it back to the man’s face.

“Sorry to disappoint kinky demon perverts, but I definitely don’t swing that way.”

“Won’t have much of a choice,” the demon replied. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam who was still gasping in thick, rough rasps of air. “Make your brother watch you go out this way. Then I’ll have my fun with him. Change up the game a little.”

The game? Murder and rape were a game to this freak? Dean’s jaw set in vehemence at that thought. This ends now.

Dean moved back further until his back was against the wall. He tilted his head a little in mock thought. “Not if I change it up first.”

The demon started for him again, but quickly found it couldn’t move much more than a couple of inches toward Dean. As he watched the expression on the demon’s face swiftly shift from confusion to horror then anger, Dean smiled. He got to his feet casually, dusting off his jacket and tugging it straight, a laugh dancing up from the back of his throat.

“Well, that was easy,” he said with a nod to the demon, his lips curling up in a sneer as the demon twisted around, trying to see what was holding him in place.

Ignoring the fire that radiated along the abused muscles in his back, Dean raised his eyes past the being seething before him to his brother who had rolled flat, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

“Sammy? You gonna live?”

His brother flipped an arm in the air to signal he needed a moment. Dean nodded once, knowing that was Sam’s way of telling him that if he was going to ask half-assed questions, then he was going to get half-assed answers. Dean knew Sam’s neck would be sore, but he’d live.

From where Dean was standing, he could make out the rising and falling of Sam’s chest evening out, heard the ragged gasps lessening. Dean felt his heart begin to slow down, his senses calming now that Sam was all right and the demon was trapped.

The fire behind his anger, however, was still pulsing strong through him. No one. No. One. Hurt Sam. Or threatened the things this being had threatened.

Dean brought out the rosary and the exorcism book from his jacket pocket, thinking for a moment that memorizing this would probably be a good idea now that demons seemed to be holding reunion tours in the world. Reading in the dim lights of the alley was going to be a bitch. At the sight of the items, he heard an unnatural growl build and rattle in the demon’s throat.

“Aw, now, don’t be like that,” Dean said derisively. “You knew this was coming.”

Curses and obscenities spewed from the demons mouth in an almost visible stream of black filth. Dean raised his brow at the variety and selection of words that echoed through the narrow alleyway. Sailors wouldn’t be blushing, they’d be wincing.

“Jesus, and I thought I was bad. Come on, don’t be such a sore loser.”

A sharp huff came from the demon, black eyes glistening. “You don’t get it.”

“What? That you had to copy a serial killer to get your jollies?”

“That’s just it,” the demon laughed his dark eyes alight with pride. “I’m not copying the Strangler, boy. I am the Strangler.”

The arrogance oozing from this demon’s face was enough to make Dean itch to cross the sigil and take him on again. He lowered the exorcism book, narrowing his eyes.

“You expect me to believe…”

“I don’t expect a basal, waste of flesh, like yourself to believe anything.”

“Aw, you’re gonna hurt my feelings,” Dean replied. “Trust me, I’ve heard the demon mantra; the whole you’re worthless speech. Sticks and stones. Your kind should know that by now.”

The demon sneered. “Ah, but we both know what kind of glass walls you in particular have, Dean Winchester.”

Dean knew he shouldn’t be surprised it knew him, but the use of his name forced him to pause longer, to listen to what it had to say a moment more than he knew he should.

“Waste of flesh has such a different meaning when attached to your stunt in Wyoming, when dear old Dad asked you to die so Sam could live. Waste of flesh has more of a barb to it, if you ask me, when Daddy doesn’t even trust you enough to tell you where he’s going. But then again…sticks and stones,” the demon ended with a cocky shrug of the shoulder.

“I swear…” Dean sighed, trying to let the words fall away inside of him, to make sure they didn’t take hold. “Every time I trap one of you bastards it’s like Freudian amateur hour. Are you done, or would you like another jab at my psyche?”

The demon laughed, piercing, short.

“So you are the Strangler, huh?” Dean continued with a lifted brow. He walked the outer edge of the trap, feigning being impressed. “Bundy? Dahmer? You taking credit for them?”

“No. But I knew them. I was possessing DeSalvo back in the sixties. Hell, he wasn’t even the only one—he was just the last one. The meat puppet the police finally caught.” The demon smirked. “He had glass walls, too.”

Dean’s jaw muscle ticked. He angled the exorcism book toward the light from the entrance of the alley where Sam still lay and started reading. He was finished listening to this demon talk. He wanted to see how arrogant the guy was while the threat of being ripped back to Hell loomed over his head. Dean dove into the rite, ignoring gurgled cries as the demon struggled to hold on to his host.

“There’s a reason behind the evil in people, Dean. There is always a reason!” The demon yelled out over the rite before howling in pain and dropping to one knee. “It doesn’t end with me. My brothers have returned!”

As he read, Dean watched the man’s throat and torso move unnaturally against the beast inside, the being pushing out beneath the flesh and bone of the throat and chest. It was more of a diversionary tactic than anything, but Dean never got used to seeing it. And what it had just said about brothers…Dean halted again against his better judgment.

“Come again?” Dean asked. He squatted beside the trap so that he was at eye level with the man on his knees. “Brothers?”

The demon, panting, managed a smirk at Dean’s sudden interest. “The Cruor Frater, my brotherhood. We’ve been around for a long, long time, Dean. Since the beginning of time…”

It moved to the very edge of the trap, moving in as close as it could to Dean’s face. Dean could feel the hot moisture of its breath against his skin and had to resist the urge to move back.

“Searching inside of humans for that special little spark that set them just to the left of normal.”

“So you picked up whomever you deemed worthy and ruined them?” Dean asked.

“Aw, now, Dean, don’t feel bad for these ‘innocents.’” The demon crawled, hand over hand, foot crossing foot, around the edge of the circle, its feral eyes on Dean, eyeing him as a predator sizes up its next meal. “Ever the protector of humanity and all the virtue your kind has to offer, aren’t you, Dean? I see you’re concerned. Don’t. Be.” Lips curled with satisfaction. “These men weren’t saints. They would have gone over the edge all on their lonesome. But the game was to see how far. And trust me,” it sneered, “there was something, that spark, in each of them. They weren’t so hard to manipulate. My brothers possessed them, slaughtered with their hands, and watched them embrace insanity like a cheap whore.”

“Brothers,” Dean scoffed again. “Your brotherhood... Like any of you black-eyed freaks know what that word means.” The demon’s only response was a laugh and Dean pushed up on his knees to stand. “I forgot. This is some kind of game to you.”

“You’re more than welcome to play along,” the demons taunted. “You’ve already figured out the new rules this round, and I’d be careful if I were you. Careful with your casualness about the game. That spark we look for…”

The demon cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Sam and Dean followed his gaze. Sam was leaning against the wall near the trashcans he’d toppled, holding a hand to his rope-burned neck, watching the exchange. Dean wanted to go to him, make sure he was really okay.

The demon licked its lips as it looked at Sam, then turned dark eyes back up to Dean. “Everyone has a little bit of it…”

Dean felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the demon insinuated that the spark they looked for might be found inside of his brother. His taunts did nothing but succeed in pissing Dean off more.

“Yeah, well, after tonight, there’ll be one less of you joy-riding bastards exploiting it,” Dean growled.

The rite poured from his lips quickly, fluidly, and much faster than he’d ever read one of the exorcisms. There was a part of Dean that needed to get away, needed to shut this thing up and end its killing spree so he could find the rest of its brothers, so he could rid himself of the dirty feeling he got from just being in this thing’s presence.

The word brother twisted inside Dean’s gut like razor wire. The demon had taunted Dean to play the game, and Dean was going to figure out what exactly the game was as soon as this player was sent packing.

Loose papers from the alleyway trash were kicked up as wind started to curl around them, pouring from the power of the rite and picking up in speed and ferocity. The man’s body and face contorted with pain, as the demon’s black eyes seared into Dean’s with hatred. It wasn’t going to leave easily, but it wouldn’t have a choice once he reached the end of the rite.

“At least I had a good run,” it yelled above Dean’s steady timbre, above the raucous movement of the metallic cans as they rolled into one another and the walls. “Say hello to the boys for me. Be seeing you around, Winchester!”

The man’s head snapped back, the black cloud form of the demon ejected from his throat in a guttural cry, his body purged of the lecherous presence. Dean slammed the book shut as the man’s body connected with the concrete, unconscious. Panting with anger, staring at the man with an unforgiving heat behind his eyes, Dean stood still for a moment digesting what had been said. He could see from where he stood the man was breathing and he made a wide arc around him to get to Sam, not bothering to check on the fallen man.

Sam was sitting up, his back pressed against the brick and mortar of the alley wall, chest lifting and sinking in deep heaves. His face was turned toward the man slumped in the invisible Devil’s Trap, who was starting to mutter nonsensically as he curled in on himself. Dean knelt down beside his brother seeing, now that he was closer, the raw flesh, the angry red line, the bruising where both the rope and Sam’s fingers had dug into his neck.

“Hey, Sammy. You doin’ all right?” Dean said softly, moving his hand under his brother’s jaw so he could bring his face back toward his. The air moving through his brother’s throat rattled up into a cough as he tried to respond. “Just go easy. I take it you heard all that…”

Sam’s headed rolled forward in a halfhearted nod as he reached up and fisted his hand in Dean’s shirt for support. Sensing Sam wanted help up, Dean slid his arm around Sam’s back and gently lifted him to his feet. Dean’s own throat hurt at the wheezing sound coming from Sam and as he caught once more the irritated line along his jugular.

“There you go,” Dean encouraged, shifting his weight to support Sam’s when he stumbled a little.

As the two of them moved away from the wall, Dean heard the previously possessed whimper. He was crawling backward until his back was flush with the dumpster, wild eyes wide and darting the space between them and the other side of the alley. Dean couldn’t even imagine what memories had to be flooding his mind now. Rapes, murders, attacks and fear, blood on his hands, light leaving eyes, innocence destroyed. Things that had splintered his psyche.

The man, who was bleating out terrified incoherence, seemed to be receiving Sam’s sympathy. Dean felt his brother lean in that direction, felt the words forming in his brother’s throat before they were even spoken, and he knew Sam wanted to check on him.

“Gotta get you to the car first,” Dean took opposition. In his gut, Dean knew there was nothing anyone could really do for this guy.

“Help him,” Sam whispered.

By now the man had pulled himself into a ball and was mumbling while playing with his hair. Dean caught utterance of devils, something about angels with pretty legs and long hair.

“…want to see the angels again, touch their pretty legs…wanna see them smile for me…”

There truly was nothing Dean could do. The DeSalvo demon—or whatever the hell it was—had taken this man past a mental breaking point. Dean turned away from the sight. The words he would have been like this on his own returned like a gut check. He’d never been this torn.

“Can’t help this one, Sam,” Dean said as he tried to guide Sam’s lanky form back toward the car. Sam was dragging his feet and Dean couldn’t tell if it was because he wouldn’t accept that this one was too far gone, or the fact that the demon had practically crushed the poor kid’s larynx.

Somehow he managed to get Sam back to the Impala, helping him fold into the passenger seat. Dean knelt down beside him once more to check his neck, glad to hear his breathing was becoming less labored.

Whether or not there was anything they could do about the man’s sanity, someone still had to pick up the guy they’d left in the alley, and Dean pulled out his cell to call the police. He watched Sam eye the phone, expression grim. Dean could tell Sam would have had something to say in protest if he could find what was left of his voice.

“Dean…”

“I don’t know what else to do…I’m sorry, Sam.”

Dean made sure Sam was secure before he walked to the back of the Impala, out of sight and earshot of his brother, to make the call, leaving the man in the alley to take the fall for the demons deeds…

Liberty Inn, Boston, MA

“Dammit, would you hold still?” Dean growled, not really beseeching Sam so much as giving the order. Every time Dean moved to treat the rope burn along Sam’s neck, Sam would bring up his shoulder and scrunch away in irritation. “You haven’t wiggled this much since you were five.”

“’S fine, Dean,” Sam’s gravel-like voice protested. “Hurts. But ’m fine.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look fine, Sam. Bastard tore up the sides of your throat pretty good.” Dean had cleaned out the places where the skin had been roughed raw, making sure they were treated with ointment and covered with patches of gauze.

Sam’s hand went up to feel the side Dean had finished, pressing into the gauze carefully and clearing his throat. “Surprised, you haven’t said anything yet…”

“‘Bout what?” Dean asked with a hint of a smile, knowing exactly what Sam was talking about. Dean had been saving it for later. He finished taping the last piece of gauze into place and eyed Sam sympathetically. He looked rough; the patchwork Dean had completed not helping Sam’s image necessarily fall in line with his insistence that he was okay. “‘Bout how the Strangler came after you?”

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back against the headboard. Dean’s smile broadened. Sam should have known better.

“I can’t help it if your neck attracts psychopaths and supernatural beings, Sam. Gonna have to keep you away from rope, lamp-cords, vampires…Good thing you weren’t wearing stockings, huh?”

Sam wheezed, his voice like sandpaper. “Bet that brick wall was real soft.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean groaned, twisting up from the bed to go have a look at the damage done to his back in the bathroom mirror. “The universe has us pegged with its sadistic sense of humor.”

Dean shrugged his way out of his jacket, ignoring the tight pop and pull he felt in his shoulders and back, and dropped it in a listless heap on the other bed. The shirt followed, taking a little more time as Dean’s shoulder burned bright with pain when he tried to rotate it loose from the cloth. He kept the grimace from Sam, swearing inwardly. Being tossed into walls as much as he was, he wouldn’t be surprised the day something inside of him snapped in half. He kept the bathroom door open, making sure both Sam and the mirror were in his line of sight then gave himself a once over.

He probed the flesh around the base of his skull gingerly, turning his head so he could see his back in the mirror, despite how craning his neck elicited another series of sharp spikes radiating straight down his vertebrae. The bruising wasn’t too bad, and there weren’t any open wounds or cuts. Dean knew he had his leather to thank for that. The marks ghosting beneath the skin would be full blown bruises in a few hours.

“So…that went well,” Dean sighed, turning from the mirror to look at Sam. “Let’s just hope the others don’t already know we’re coming.”

“I don’t know if I believe what I heard…” Sam rasped.

Dean dropped a hotel cup under the faucet and brought some water back to Sam. “What part? The demon’s brotherhood or that everyone’s got a twisted side shit?”

Sam turned tired eyes, framed by the dark bruising beneath them, up to Dean’s face. He took the water with a muted thank you, and took a drink. After a few beats of silence he sighed.

“All of it…I mean I guess I believe that demons would mess with people like that…but that the original serial killers were demon-possessed… that this is some game to a society of demons known as Cruor Frater… I mean, shit, Dean, Blood Brother?”

Dean, lifted a shoulder, dropping down on the bed across from Sam and watching his brother work though his frustrated thoughts.

“I just… the idea that the man in the alley would have done all of this by himself without his hand being forced. I mean, alone he had a choice, right? But that thing possessed him and made him do all of those… all of that… And now because of demons, he has to take the fall. And why go back to the ways of serial killers past, why not start with new MO’s, new motives…”

“Whoa, whoa, okay. Holy shit, have you been holding that in since we left the alley?”

Sam looked down at the water in his glass. He cleared his throat. “Demons lie, Dean.”

Dean dropped his chin, running fingers along his lips in thought. “Yeah, but…they also tell the truth,” he said sadly.

Dean knew that one all too well. If it worked in their favor, if the truth would tear someone apart more than a lie, then demons would tell truths.

The quiet space between them grew heavy after his statement, and Dean could sense Sam’s busy mind working backward through all their experiences with demons. Memories of Haris bombarded Dean and he switched tasks to keep his mind from going to Wyoming, rising up from the bed to walk over and find another shirt in his open duffel.

Damn DeSalvo demon…bastard just had to bring that up…

“I have no idea how we’re gonna track a friggin’ brotherhood of demons all over the U.S. How do we even know how many there are?” Sam finally spoke up.

“We know that there are at least two more,” Dean responded, pausing to work a new shirt over his head. “Assuming the demon we met tonight is telling the truth. The Gacy and Berkowitz demons are chilling out in Chicago and New York. We go there, throw together a pattern like we did here, ‘cause the demon told us we already knew it, play the game, and stop them before they can kill anyone else.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Sam scoffed. He rested his hand on his throat, wincing a little. “You’re serious about this? What if we get deeper into this, Dean, and discover there’s not just three of them, but one or two in every state?”

“Then we keep going. What else do we have to do right now?” Dean turned around, pulling his shirt over his belly, and dropping his hands down to his sides as he leaned against the small table in the room. “Sam, these things look inside of you for something that is off and exploit it. I don’t care if these men were a few fries short of a Happy Meal, the fact that these demons are out there playing around with people’s heads…It’s the worst form of rape I can imagine.”

He pulled his bottom lip against his teeth, pausing for a moment to breathe, then lifted his eyes to meet his brother’s purposefully. “People are dying in heinous, unthinkable ways, so a few demons can have some laughs? No way. We’re gonna end it.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Alright, then. Hand me my laptop and let’s get started.”

Dean slid the computer across the table toward him. “I could—”

“Keep your sticky fingers offa my keyboard,” Sam croaked. “Hand it over.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbled.

Left with nothing to do but ponder and pace, Dean chewed his lower lip, shooting his eyes to Sam at regular intervals as his bother’s quick fingers clicked across the keys.

“Anything?” Dean asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam lifted an eyebrow, sliding hazel eyes over the top of the screen. “Sure, Dean. I just did a search for demonically possessed serial killers and found out exactly where we should go next.”

“I’m starting to see why the bad guys go for your neck so often, smart ass.”

Sam chuckled, then winced as the sound worked against his abused throat. Taking pity on his anxious brother, Sam sighed. “Okay, so… I was thinking that the demon said we knew the rules to the game, right?”

Dean tilted his head to the side. “Right…”

“So… I was thinking about how we found that guy. The A. You said that there were murders in New York and Chicago… I was just trying to see if the A fit those murders.”

“Not bad, College Boy,” Dean sat on the end of Sam’s bed, drawing one knee up onto the mattress, his other leg braced on the floor. “What?” He prompted at Sam’s frown.

“Well… I mean, I can see a pattern, but…”

“But what, Sammy, jeeze? You know pausing for dramatic effect drives me friggin’ crazy.”

“Well, Gacy and Berkowitz didn’t go out and kill people in any discernable pattern.” Sam said, resting his right wrist on the edge of his laptop screen.

“That we know of,” Dean pointed out, dropping his chin and raising his eyebrows.

Sam shook his head. “It would take me forever to find a pattern to those deaths that the cops didn’t even find.”

“Even with your super special Sammy powers?” Dean teased.

Sam drew his brows together, his frown instantaneous. That one had hit a little close to home.

“Sorry,” Dean offered sincerely.

“’S okay.”

“Seriously, Sam,” Dean said, resting a hand briefly on Sam’s outstretched leg. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” Sam interrupted.

Dean drew his hand away. “You got something?”

“New York Times. Another body was found today. In a car, shot by a .44 caliber pistol. Police are starting a full-scale search for a Son of Sam copy cat killer.”

Dean slapped his hands on his thighs, pushing to his feet. “That settles it.”

Sam snapped his head up. “What?”

“We’re going to New York.”

“Dean, we can’t just go off half-cocked.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk.

“Shut up,” Sam grumbled, looking back at his computer. “You know what I mean.”

Dean ran a hand through his short, spiky hair, then shook his hand in Sam’s direction. “Dude, seriously, you just said—”

“I said the police thought it was a copy cat killer. I’m not so sure we should go running around the country on the word of a demon,” Sam snapped at him, rubbing at his raw throat. He reached over for the cup of water Dean had handed him earlier. “There’s just no way all serial killers were possessed humans,” he continued after draining the cup.

Dean took the empty cup from him and silently went into the bathroom to refill it. Handing it back to Sam, he watched as his brother drank deeply.

“There were too many reasons why the people caught did what they did,” Sam said. “Too many… random facts.”

“What, like my dog made me do it?” Dean pointed out.

Sam lifted a shoulder. “Dahmer, Bundy, the Zodiak killer—”

“They never caught that one.”

Sam sighed. “All I’m saying is that we gotta be sure.”

Dean rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ll give you that. Maybe it’s not all of them. Maybe it’s…”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Now who’s all about the dramatic effect?”

“Maybe it’s just certain ones, Sam,” Dean said softly, sliding his eyes up to his brother, his jaw tight. “Maybe it’s the ones with that… spark that DeSalvo was talking about.”

Sam pulled at his lower lip, looking to the side. “You know… I think he was talking about me.”

“No,” Dean stated immediately. “He was screwing with us.”

“Yeah, but Dean—”

“He was screwing with us, Sam. End of story.”

They stared at each other a moment, an unspoken challenge hovering between them. Dean squared his stance. Sam settled his shoulders. Neither blinked. Neither looked away.

After a moment, Sam audibly swallowed.

“You need some aspirin?” Dean asked softly.

“Nah.”

“Well,” Dean rolled his neck. “I need food.”

Sam nodded.

“You want a… shake or something?”

Sam’s smile was shyly appreciative. “Yeah, man, that would be great.”

“You keep that up,” Dean gestured to the laptop, grabbing up his coat from his bed. “I’ll be back.” He winked at Sam, pulled the door open and stepped out.

Boston, MA, city streets

The night was frosty, but Dean rolled the window down. He needed space. And air. He needed to remember that breathing was natural and to convince himself the ache in his chest was a by product of meeting an immovable object with the soft tissues of his body, not the claustrophobic sense of walls closing in around him.

In the background, the local classic rock station touted an acoustic set and he heard Layne Staley’s voice begin to croon softly.

We chase misprinted lies
We face the path of time
And yet I fight
And yet I fight
This battle all alone
No one to cry to
No place to call home

Leaning his elbow on the window sill, Dean watched a man in an overcoat approach a woman holding a baby. He turned Nutshell down, his eyes sharp on the man, watching his quick eyes take the woman in as they passed each other on the sidewalk.

The demon’s taunting voice echoed in his memory. Trust me there was something, that spark, in each of them.

“How did they know?” Dean wondered softly to himself. “What did they see?”

The man in the overcoat continued on, as did the woman and the baby, unmolested. Dean saw a fast food restaurant a few blocks up and turned the radio up, listening to an acoustic version of Van Morrison’s Crazy Love as he pulled into the pick-up lane and ordered food for him and a chocolate shake for Sam.

Taking the sack of food and drinks, Dean regarded the bored-looking clerk with cautious eyes. Anyone? Could anyone have that spark? That trigger that turns them evil? Could the line between right and wrong disappear so easily?

“Have a good night,” the clerk said automatically.

“You, too, man,” Dean returned, rolling up his window as he drove away. He refused to believe that given a choice, humankind would take the dark path. Otherwise, why would Lucifer consider the world a challenge? One preacher defeated the End of Days… there was hope for humanity. There has to be, or else… what the hell are we fighting so hard for?

Returning to the motel, Dean steadied himself before he exited the Impala. He hadn’t been gone that long, but he hoped the time had been long enough for Sam to have found something. Anything that would give them a path, a point to follow. A direction to focus his anger. Because he could feel it building like bile in his throat.

Liberty Inn, Boston, MA

“There you are!” Sam exclaimed as soon as Dean opened the motel room door.

Dean kicked the door shut behind him, holding up a white bag with two large grease spots on the outside and one paper cup.

“Not like the food was out in the parking lot, Sam.”

Sam took the cup gratefully, letting the cool ice cream concoction slide soothingly down his throat. “You were just gone awhile…”

“Question is,” Dean shrugged out of his jacket, then dug into the bag. “Was I gone long enough?”

Sam nodded, drinking more. “I think we’re onto something with this A theory.”

“Good,” Dean said, his mouth full of cheeseburger. “Least that’s somethin’.”

“Dude,” Sam pulled his head back. “Cover your mouth or something.”

Dean took a bigger bite, chewing noisily.

With a put-upon sigh, Sam drank more, then nodded at the screen of his laptop, now resting on the small table in the corner of the room. “So… not all the killings in New York and Chicago happened on the A like here, but—” he sucked down more shake, “in Chicago, the victims were taken from each of the points on the A, see?”

He pointed to an image from Mapquest, indicating streets, then sliding his finger to a different window that listed the last known location of each victim. Dean nodded, unwrapping his second cheeseburger.

“And in New York, the victims were left at each point of the A.”

“Okay, so…”

“So, maybe,” Sam finished his shake, tossing the cup over Dean’s head and rimming the trashcan. “Last time was about body count and this time… it’s symbolic.”

“Last time?” Dean quirked a brow. “You buying into the Blood Brothers theory now?”

“Well, there’s more.”

“‘Course there is,” Dean dropped into the hard-backed chair, watching as Sam geared up for the big reveal.

Rubbing unconsciously at the bandages on his wounded throat, Sam sat across from his brother, watching the green of Dean’s eyes widen as his pupils narrowed in concentration.

“Turns out this brotherhood is…international.”

“Come again?” Dean’s eyebrows darted up in an inverted V as he leaned forward.

“Ever hear of Jack the Ripper?”

“Get out,” Dean sat back, his shoulders thumping against the edge of the chair. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Sam shook his head regretfully. “According to The Times in London, not only has the Ripper returned, but—”

“He’s killing his victims on the A.”

“You got it, brother,” Sam pointed at Dean, resting a hand on his thigh.

“We can’t get them all, Sam.” Dean’s voice was soft with worry. “There’s no way we can get them all.”

“And they know it,” Sam concluded.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean stood, wadding the white paper bag into a ball, and slamming it into the trash can. “More people are going to die.”

“Well…”

Dean turned around quickly, facing Sam, his eyes dark with fury. “What?”

“We could get help.” Sam offered.

“From who?”

Sam opened his mouth, the word Dad hovering there like a flag of truce.

“No, Sam,” Dean shook his head.

Sam wasn’t surprised Dean had known what he was going to say. When it came to John, Dean had always seemed to have a sixth sense.

“Why not?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

“Because he left. If he wanted our help, he’d have told us. So…” Dean shrugged, his face a mask of nonchalance, his eyes wounded. “I say we do the same thing.”

“Uhh… you mean…”

“I mean, do it without his help.”

Sam licked his lips. “Dean, if he knew about—”

“No, Sam,” Dean shook his head once.

Sam knew he’d never understand the line Dean drew in the sand when it came to their father. The line he was quick to step across when John needed them, but stood steadfastly on this side of asking him for assistance.

“Okay, then… what about Bobby?” Sam suggested.

Dean licked his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, Bobby’ll help.”

Dad could have, too, Sam wanted to say, but he held his tongue as he watched the tension he hadn’t noticed before leak from Dean’s shoulders.

Sam dialed Bobby, turning his phone to speaker, and set it on the table.

“You boys better have a damn good reason for calling me this late,” Bobby said by way of greeting.

Dean pulled his lips down in a whoops frown, glancing at the clock. Sam didn’t bother to look.

“We do,” he answered. “You ever hear of the Cruor Frater?”

Bobby was quiet, causing Dean to lean forward.

“Bobby?”

“Where are you boys?” Bobby replied.

“Boston.”

“Dammit,” Bobby muttered. “I was hoping I was wrong.”

“You’ve heard of this brotherhood?” Sam asked, frowning.

Bobby’s sigh filled the phone and seemed to drift between the brothers. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

“We just took one out,” Dean announced.

“You boys okay?” Bobby asked, worry clear in his voice.

Dean’s face softened. “Yeah. Sam sounds a bit like Steven Segal, but we’re fine.”

“You been keeping up with the papers?”

Dean nodded, but Sam spoke up. “We think Gacy and Berkowitz are back.”

Bobby was quiet again.

“Bobby?” Dean prompted.

“You boys okay to head to New York?”

Sam met Dean’s eyes with a sigh. “Yeah,” he said, trying to hide his reluctance. He’d wanted Bobby there with them, but realized what the man was saying: divide and conquer.

“I know some guys,” Bobby continued. “We’ll meet you in Chicago.”

“Hey, Bobby?” Dean said, then cleared his throat as his next words seemed to get caught on emotion.

“Hey,” Bobby returned. “These demons aren’t the only ones with a brotherhood.”

Sam smiled ruefully.

“You remember that,” Bobby admonished.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam replied. “Be careful, Bobby.”

“I’ll see you boys soon,” Bobby replied, hanging up.

Sam felt his brother’s eyes as he turned off the phone. Dean’s gaze was heavy, his body visibly tired.

“One at a time, bro,” Sam said softly. “It’s all we can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean sighed, then stood quickly, motion masking his worry. “Let’s get some shut eye,” he said, his voice thinning as he stretched his arms over his head. “Tomorrow, the Big Apple.”

Sam shuffled to his bed, shucking his jeans, and climbing beneath the covers without bothering to shower. It was too much of an effort at this point and he felt like hammered shit. Dean flicked off the light by the switch next to the bathroom door, and Sam felt his bed shift as his brother bumped into it in the dark with a soft curse.

Soon the bed nearest the door creaked with Dean’s weight and Dean groaned as he stretched out.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Dean breathed.

“Okay, Murtaugh,” Sam teased, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of night. Water in the pipes through the walls around them, cars on the highway outside, muted voices with meaningless words, his brother’s breath.

“Whatever, dude. I’m Riggs, you’re Murtaugh.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam mumbled, willing sleep to claim him.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think we’d still be hunting after… y’know?”

“After Haris was dead, you mean?” Sam asked, opening his eyes to watch the dark chew on the edges of his vision.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I guess I thought… well, that we might get a shot at… normal.”

Sam huffed out a breath through his nose. “What’s normal for us, man?”

“Dunno,” Dean yawned. “Guess the Devil had different ideas for the Winchesters, since we’re chasing friggin’ serial killers all over the eastern seaboard.”

“Killers that were caught and killed or jailed before our time.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I guess I…”

“What?” Dean spoke up.

“Well,” Sam shifted to his side, propping his head up on the flat of his hand. “I guess I did think I might go back to school someday.”

“I figured.”

“What about you?” Sam asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, Dean. What’s normal for you?”

Dean was quiet for a moment. It was only his pattern of breathing that told Sam his brother was thinking over the question. “Guess… finding someone. Maybe getting a job at a garage or something. Settling down.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know…” Dean yawned again. “Pipe dream, really.”

“You don’t think that’ll ever happen?”

Dean shifted and Sam felt his brother’s eyes in the dark. “Do you?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sam said with a soft grin.

“Me neither.”

“Night, Dean.”

“Night, John Boy.”

New York City, mid-afternoon

“I friggin’ hate New York,” Dean grumbled, turning down another tight, car-lined, one-way street. “I hate rain, too.”

“You’re joking,” Sam dead-panned, peering through the sheet of water coating the front windshield of the Impala.

They’d reached New York City limits four hours ago, searching for the intersection of Peyton and Gamble, the cross street of the A Sam had guessed was the place Demon Berkowitz was planning to claim his next victim. They’d succeeded in getting turned around three times, narrowly missing removing the spotlight from the Impala’s passenger side with the rear-view mirror of a double-parked cab, and turning the wrong way down two one-way streets.

“This sucks out loud!” Dean bellowed.

And pissing Dean off, Sam mentally added to the list.

“Calm down, Dean.”

“Don’t friggin’ tell me to calm down,” Dean growled. “I’m pulling over. I don’t even think we’re in New York anymore.”

Sam was forced to grab the dash as Dean whipped a harsh left into an empty lot flanked by several tall, run-down apartment buildings. The Impala rocked roughly as Dean slammed the gear into park, then sat back with a huff.

“You done?” Sam asked.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, and pounding the flat of his palm against the steering wheel. “This is juts a friggin’ waste of time, man.”

“Take a breath, Dean,” Sam commanded. “Listen to this.” He pulled a paper from his messenger bag.

“What’s that?”

“Some stuff I printed up on the motel printer while you were checking out.”

Still disgruntled, Dean shifted in his seat, putting his back against the doorframe, hissing slightly as the bruises there made contact with the handle, and adjusted his body to a more comfortable position.

“Shoot,” he requested.

“Bad pun,” Sam grinned, drawing a chuckle from Dean’s stormy face. “Okay, so get this. Berkowitz emerged from the building shortly before 10.00 p.m., carrying a .44 Bulldog in a paper sack. Police arrested Berkowitz as he was starting the car outside his apartment on Pine Street in Yonkers, New York on August 10, 1977. His first words upon arrest were reported to be, “You got me. What took you so long?” Police searched his apartment, and found it in disarray, with Satanic graffiti on the walls. They also found a diary wherein Berkowitz took credit for dozens of arsons throughout the New York area.”

The background hum of Metallica’s Ecstasy of Gold thrummed as Sam waited for Dean’s reaction.

“Well, that’s just friggin’ fantastic Sam, but we’re no closer to finding the sonuvabitch and someone else is going to die if we don’t!”

Balling the piece of paper up, Sam jutted his chin out. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me.”

Dean sighed. “I’m not mad I’m… frustrated.”

Sam waited. Dean looked out into the rain, worrying his bottom lip.

“This brotherhood is playing us and I don’t like it,” Dean continued. “I want to find this demon and send his black-eyed ass back to Hell in the most painful way possible.”

“I know,” Sam sighed, dragging his computer out of his messenger bag.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Looking up that map,” Sam explained, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Here? In the car?”

Sam lifted a brow, but didn’t look away from the screen. “Dude, these buildings all have wireless… just gotta… there. Found one.”

“You’re joking,” Dean breathed out in disbelief.

“Nope,” Sam looked up, peering into the gloom at the surrounding area. “All I have to do is… holy shit!”

“Uhh…” Dean chuckled. “Care to share with the class?”

“There’s a reason people believe in divine intervention,” Sam whispered, peering closer at the street sign on the edge of the parking lot Dean had chosen to swing into.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where did that article say Berkowitz lived?” Sam asked.

Dean peered out of the window, obviously searching for whatever Sam was seeing. “Uhh… it was a nut or a tree or something.”

Sam looked down, smoothing out the paper he’d crumpled. “Pine Street in Yonkers, New York.”

“Told ya.”

“Do you know where we are?”

Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Yonkers?”

Sam pointed to the brown street sign. “Pine Street.”

“Holy shit,” Dean echoed Sam’s burst of realization. “Think his old apartment is around here?”

“Gimme two minutes.”

“Take ‘em, brother.”

Five minutes later, Sam had closed and stashed his computer and they were standing in the rain at the Impala’s trunk, retrieving rock salt-filled shotguns, flasks of holy water, the exorcism book, and a rosary.

“Think we should bring the Clearneon?”

“For a Devil’s Trap?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Gotta find him first.”

“True,” Dean said, closing the trunk. “Did I mention I hate rain?”

“Only about twelve times,” Sam flipped the collar of his jacket up ineffectually against the deluge.

“Well, just so you know,” Dean muttered, water skipping off the edges of his lips and turning his lashes into tee-pees.

“Alley?” Sam yelled at him over the rain as they faced Berkowitz’s old apartment building.

“Why not?” Dean returned.

They sprinted across the street, legs splashing through ankle-deep water as they approached the alley next to the apartment building.

“How the hell are we going to trap this one, Dean?”

“You’re the one that said we had to find him first,” Dean fired back.

“We don’t have the plumber angle working for us this time,” Sam pointed out as they moved into the relative protection of the nearly-empty alleyway. “All we know is that he grabbed his victims from the A and shot them.”

“Well, let’s case the joint, see what we see, come back,” Dean said, wiping water from his face.

“Case the joint?” Sam smirked.

“What? It’s a perfectly legitimate term.”

“No more late night crime drama for you.”

“Okay,” Dean shrugged. “I’ll switch back to porn.”

“On second thought—”

“Shh.” Dean grabbed Sam’s sleeve. “You hear that?”

“What?” Sam asked, amazed Dean heard anything over the sound of the pounding water.

“Sounds like someone running,” Dean muttered, pivoting slowly to his left to look over his shoulder toward the opening of the alley.

Sam had one heartbeat to follow his brother’s line of sight, one heartbeat to register the figure of a man approaching at a run, and then his heart stopped with fear as a shot rang out, echoing off the alley walls and silencing any sounds of protest.

Continued...

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The Winchester Chronicles