Season Three

Episode Ten: Distant Voices

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Hank Pruitt’s Home

Dean glanced at the breakfast Hank had set out for him and then pushed the plate away into the middle of the table. While he usually had an appetite the size of a woolly mammoth, there were certain occasions that rendered him unable to eat. Now was one of those occasions.

The bacon, eggs and numerous other tempting foodstuffs remained on the platter, glaring at him, daring him not to care about his missing brother and eat anyway.

Dean swallowed, leaving his chair behind to stomp across the room and look out of the tiny dining area’s window. He leaned on the sill, watching, waiting for his gangly sibling to come marching back across Hank’s driveway.

But Sam wouldn’t come back.

Some inner part of the elder Winchester already knew that.

Dean had pushed too far, gotten angry with his brother once too often, and Sam had had enough of it. It had been this way since they were kids, and sometimes it took weeks, months, even years for Sam to come back around.

Stanford had been the proof of that.

Why does this family always end up pushing one another away?

“You not hungry?” Dean turned to see Mia eyeing his cold breakfast, one hand on her hip as if she disapproved of his starvation tactic. “Or maybe you’ve seen the light of day and finally think Hank is the next Ed Gein?”

Dean shook his head and stalked back to his chair, dropping down hard on the wood until he thought he heard it creak with the strain. “The food’s fine. I guess I’m just…”

“Worried about Sam?” Mia finished, sitting on one of the free chairs and stealing a piece of well-done bacon.

“Pretty much,” Dean admitted, taking another fleeting look out the window. “I mean, Sasquatch probably spent last night sinking beers or something, but…” He paused, trying to find the right words as he toyed absently with a fork. “But the way our family’s luck holds – especially lately…”

“Since I’ve been around?” Mia dropped the rasher she’d stolen, suddenly as uninterested in the food as the hunter. “Look, I’m not blind. I know I’m not exactly your lucky horseshoe, but I haven’t willingly done anything to you guys. I never would…”

Dean nodded, torn between his emotions for the girl and his worry for his brother. “I know.” He stood again, grabbing his leather jacket from a hook on the back of the door. “Sam knows that too. He was just venting. Listen, Mia, I have to go find him. Tell Hank I’m borrowing his pickup and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Dean…”

Dean reached out to the door but stopped mid-motion when he noted the pleading tone in the girl’s voice. Mia was a tough nut. She didn’t go soft without good reason. Reason like being possessed multiple times.

Or?

“Is there something I should know?”

Mia opened her mouth and closed it again as if she’d changed her mind. She shook her head, cupping her hands in her lap until she looked like a frightened little school kid rather than the ass-kicking mechanic Dean knew and…

Loved…

The hunter moved back into the center of the kitchen, standing over Mia and putting a hand gently on her shoulder. “Mia, whatever it is you’re holding back, if it could involve Sammy, you gotta tell me.”

“I think it’s back, Dean.” Mia looked up, her left hand searching out the hunter’s until she squeezed his fingers. “The demon, the thing that haunts me – I’ve seen the signs – I’ve sensed its presence, even though it can’t possess me anymore.”

“You’re sure?” The inner soldier suddenly snapped to attention and Dean looked to the window – this time, not for Sam – but for the wind creature that had attacked Joe Bearwalker.

Bearwalker had been lucid enough to tell the Winchesters what had caused his injuries, and just how incensed the being had been. If it was around, it could make a full frontal assault at any given moment.

Pazuzu could smash Pruitt’s house to the ground with one flick of its wind-inducing scorpion’s tail. It could flay the skin from their bones with its tornado-style sandstorms, and there was squat Dean could do to stop it.

And I let Sammy walk out of here, alone, vulnerable…

“I’m sure.” Mia let go of his fingers and closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she drank down a deep discontented breath. “Dean, I know I’ve come across as a total ass since we got here, but…Hank? He more than just gives me the creeps.”

“You think Hank is the demon? Aww c’mon, he’s just a small town guy.” Dean heaved the chair he’d used earlier until it was close to Mia and then perched himself on its edge.

“We arrive here and he just invites us to stay?” Mia looked warily to the door as if the mechanic might enter at any given moment. “Don’t you think he took on guests far too easily? We could be a bunch of freaks for all he knows.”

Dean’s mouth creased into a smile. “Well, sister, we ain’t exactly normal.”

Mia slowly let out the breath she’d taken down, rubbing her forefinger gently against her temple in frustration. “It’s him, Dean, it has to be…who else is there?”

And if it is, Dean inwardly admitted, then I’ve led Sammy here and let him walk right out into a trap last night.

But was it that simple?

If Pazuzu wanted them dead he’d had plenty of time on the road. Demons were rarely specific to one territory. The thing could easily have taken them out before, so why now?

There was just as good a chance that Sam was still fine. He was a hunter – a damn good one – there was no reason to think he’d been hurt, or was even in any danger until there was solid proof.

Mia’s been attacked enough times to know, though. I can’t just ignore what she’s saying in the hope that good ol’ Hank is one of the good guys…

“Okay,” Dean finally conceded. “We’ll check out Hank first, but if he checks out, I’m going after Sammy.”

Mia nodded, and to the hunter she still seemed quiet, subdued somehow. He shrugged it off, knowing that what he had to ask of her next was likely to make her even more cowed; and again, that just wasn’t like Mia.

Dean reached to his waistband, letting his silver Colt slide into his palm as if it was an extension of his arm. He checked the clip, even though he knew it was full, then looked back down into the girl’s innocent gaze.

“Listen, I want you to stay put. I’m gonna go out back and have a word with Hank.” He watched her reaction, gauging the size of her pupils’ response to see just how freaked he was really making her.

Mia’s eyes gave away nothing, but her reaction said enough. “You’re not leaving me in this freaky house while you go play twenty questions with that black-eyed sulfur lover!” She jumped to her feet, edging around the kitchen like a boxer ready to lay a punch on her opponent.

“Yes you are,” Dean responded as he pulled out a small silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed the lid. “You’re going to get your scrawny ass right back on that chair and stay there until I find out just what the hell is going on.”

Mia stopped mid-stride, suddenly more annoyed by the hunter’s description of her than the apparent danger they were both in. “Scrawny ass?” Her brow shot up in defense. “Scrawny?”

Dean smirked and then shrugged his shoulders. “Got your attention didn’t it? Now will you just…” He stopped, eyes narrowing as a noise from the front room caught his attention.

Someone had just slammed the front screen door, and given that Dean was convinced Sam wasn’t coming back in a hurry, that only left Hank Pruitt.

Dean instantly edged to the side of the door, holy water in one hand, automatic in the other. He bobbed his head to the left, quickly indicating that Mia should hide.

Mia’s brow scrunched in annoyance and she hesitated, only ducking into a small pantry when Dean mouthed “haul ass NOW” at her through gritted teeth.

As the cold-room door clicked gently closed, Dean’s eyes zeroed in on the doorknob in front of him. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, throbbing against his ribcage as he played the waiting game.

Had Hank realized they were on to him?

The marred wooden handle moved – a slow, deliberate motion than made the hunter flinch and take a step back.

Click.

The oak knob turned just enough for the door latch to give and the door swung outwards. Before it came to rest, Dean made his move.

Jumping into the opening, he brought up the flask of holy water, spraying the unsuspecting mechanic with half its contents. As the liquid found its mark, the hunter played his second and final hand.

“Christo, you sonofabitch!”

Sonoran Desert

The heat wasn’t the worst of it; no, the worst was the insatiable thirst that was already building in his mouth. Sam had been stuck without a drink before, but he’d never been lost under the baking hot sun until his lips had begun to crack through lack of moisture.

If this was happening after just a few hours, what would it be like after a day? But then, had it been hours? Sam wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything since he’d found himself here.

The sun, the never-ending dunes, it sometimes felt like he was trapped inside his own mind rather than lost in the wastelands.

Sam rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and forced his legs to continue their slow gait, even though his muscles ached and he felt like he could curl into a ball and sleep for a week.

Can’t stop. Can’t sleep. Won’t ever wake up…

Out in the desert, Sam was all too aware of the dangers of sunstroke, dehydration, and worse still, the disorientation both brought with them.

Confusion was already seeping in, of that he was sure, but was it caused by physical reasons, or by the thing that had brought him here?

Something is toying with me…wanting me to break down…

Sam reached a short incline, his boots sinking into the sand as he began to clamber up the slope. He pushed his muscles harder until they were screaming at him for respite, but he wouldn’t give in to their pleas.

He had to stay focused –he had to stay angry – at Dean, at anyone, as long as it kept him motivated.

At the top of the bank, Sam paused, squeezing his eyes closed and gulping down warm air that seemed to burn into his lungs as he inhaled.

If Dean was here he’d make some smartass remark about me panting like a puppy.

Eventually, the hunter’s breathing evened out and his dry eyes fluttered back open. He’d hoped for some sign of life at the top of the sandbank, some view that gave him hope, but there was only more desert.

Sam felt the pit of his stomach lurch and contort at the prospect of yet more aimless walking – more trudging through sand until the coarse particles cut into the soles of his feet.

And for what?

I have to keep going. Dean will find me. Dean always finds me.

And usually, that was true. Except this time, Sam didn’t even know how far away from his brother he’d been transported, or how. Just because he thought this was the Sonoran desert, that didn’t mean it was. Was he even in the same state as Dean anymore?

Sam pushed away the thought and looked back out across the blistering mesa. He used his hand to shield the harsh sunlight from his eyes, tediously scanning across the landscape one section at a time until something finally caught his attention.

Something in the distance was glinting, reflecting the sun’s rays back like a mirror – except Sam doubted Alice and her looking glass were out in the Sonora.

Sam squeezed his eyes until they were mere slits, forcing them to refocus on the object on the horizon, but the glare was still too much to decipher its origins.

Metal maybe…it glints like the Impala’s polished paintwork on a sunny day.

Sam dropped his hand back to his side and decided to take a calculated risk. Running in the intense heat of the day would undoubtedly sap his strength quickly, and if he didn’t get water soon he’d probably collapse, but he suddenly had to know what the thing was he was looking at.

Picking up the pace, the young hunter began to jog across the barren slopes, carefully picking his way between cacti and the odd burrow of some desert creature. One wrong footfall out here could mean a twisted ankle or worse, and there was no one to help him walk if that happened.

As he dodged around nature’s strange obstacle course, Sam kept his eyes locked on the shining monolith until he could finally see more of it protruding from a huge drift of sand.

The thing was metal, like he’d guessed, but it was still impossible to make out what it had once been. There appeared to be panels fastened onto some kind of frame, but so much of its bulk had long since been buried by the drifting sand that little remained on the surface.

Forgetting his own predicament, Sam felt himself being drawn in by the metallic mystery. It was like the alien thing was calling to him, compelling him to unearth its secret.

“Water, maybe there’s water inside.” Sam tried to convince himself he had a valid reason for expending so much valuable energy on the thing, but in truth, he was mesmerized by it.

He began to dig, slowly at first, brushing away the loose sand from the riveted edges until he could see a small insignia painted on the metal. The emblem meant nothing to the hunter, and he began to dig faster, sweat droplets falling from his brow and being absorbed by the heat before they had chance to seep into the sand.

As his hands ate away at the desert, Sam finally realized his battle was an impossible one. Whatever the object was, it was far too large to dig free from its sandy grave. He sighed, his body loosely dropping back to rest against the hot metal in defeat.

What was so special about this thing anyway?

Sam swallowed and realized the action was getting harder and harder. He let his tongue run along cracked, salty lips and he wondered if people had died here.

Was this a vehicle that had been lost to the Sonara? A plane maybe?

Was he going to die here along with this metal skeleton?

Dropping to his knees, he shuffled back to where he’d found the insignia on the framework. It was abruptly familiar – abruptly recognizable as a USAF marking he’d seen in Hank’s cabinet.

“Maybe your pa wasn’t so crazy after all, Hank,” Sam mouthed the sentence as he rubbed away more sand under the motif. Eventually, black lettering appeared that he was able to read as “669.“

This wasn’t just any piece of metal. Just any vehicle lost in the sands of time and space.

This was Gertrude Tompkins Silver’s Mustang, and Sam had finally found its resting place.

Sitting back on what Sam now realized was the remnants of a wing, the hunter shut his eyes and let his hand drift back to the badge in his pocket. It was still cold, still eerily familiar.

Something traced down the center of his spine like someone rubbing an ice cube along its length, and for a second Sam was reminded of the saying “someone just walked over my grave.” His eyes snapped open as a flash of garbled radio chatter suddenly echoed across the expanse of the desert – and then was gone.

I imagined it.

Letting the heat get to me.

Knew I shouldn’t have run, not without water, not without water.

And then, the other voice was back, soft but reproving. The voice that was in his head, but wasn’t his. Should have brought a compass. Pilot’s best friend…

Sam’s body jerked and he scuffled backwards, wanting, needing to put as much distance between himself and the silver Mustang that had been here for over sixty years. It was like the thing was taunting him - like someone or at least something – was manipulating him.

It’s the demon that’s after Mia. It’s messing with my head. Am I even in a desert, or is this some crazy mind game? Some weird play inside my own subconscious based on recent memories?

Sam rubbed at an ache that had begun to plague his neck and decided it didn’t matter. If this was real, then he had a real urgent need to find provisions. If this was an illusion, then it didn’t matter if he wasted time looking for food either, did it?

But what happened to Gertrude?

The question shouldn’t have mattered – at least, not until Sam’s own predicament had been resolved – and yet it did. Was there a bony skeleton carcass just waiting to be discovered under the surface of the sand?

Sam swallowed and looked at the airframe sticking from the ground. In his mind, he tried to picture the shape of the fighter as he recalled it from school history books. If he was thinking straight, the small motif wasn’t far from the cockpit.

Dropping back to his knees, Sam began to scoop away more sand, gently probing until his fingers finally met Plexiglas. Brushing away the desert, his fingers found a crack in the surface he was touching, and he began to work faster until the entire canopy was clear.

Sam took a moment to collect himself and then peered in through the break in the glass he’d found.

There was no body.

No evidence Gertrude had ever flown this doomed craft save for a leather flying helmet and mask sitting innocently on what remained of the pilot’s seat. The hide had become cracked and desiccated by age and the sun’s heat, but Sam could still imagine the female aviator wearing it, just as he’d seen her in the photos.

If Gertrude didn’t die in the crash, then what happened to her?

Sam fell back against the waiting sand dune behind him as reality hit home.

Gertrude had probably succumbed to the desert, just as he soon would. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. It was inevitable.

Sam smiled, the smile becoming a grin, the grin becoming a loud chuckle until he couldn’t stop and the desert resounded with his laughter.

The heat was getting to him, it had to be, because somewhere in his mind he could hear music that crackled over the airwaves like it had been lost in the ether for decades.

Music that still had the familiar hiss as the needle flowed over vinyl rather than the clarity of a modern day CD.

Eventually, Sam managed to stifle his unwanted mirth as the music dissipated, and he returned to the plane in search of supplies. Probing around the cockpit until he found the exterior release lever, he somehow managed to haul the canopy away enough to bob inside.

As his face hit the fetid air within he squirmed, uncomfortable with the rank, musty odor that greeted his nostrils. The plane might not smell of death in the human sense, but it still oozed the stench as if the timber and metal it had been built from had caused a thousand fatalities during its construction.

In all his years as a hunter, Sam had never felt such a powerful sensation – like a portent of what was to come. He felt the hairs on his exposed arms begin to tingle and it was all he could do not to recoil from the cockpit and begin running as far away from the Mustang as his legs would carry him.

“Just my mind playing tricks, or maybe the thing messing with my mind playing tricks,” Sam comforted himself, busily looking around the inside of the aircraft rather than allowing time for more morose thoughts.

The interior of the Mustang was smaller than he’d imagined, and as he scoured its meager controls, Sam realized he probably would have had a hard time fitting in the plane as a pilot. He slid a hand into the area beneath the seat, hoping there might be a flare gun or survival kit stashed there.

Instead of feeling anything metallic, however, Sam’s fingers met something soft and almost alluring. Taking a hold of the item, Sam pulled it free, his eyes widening as he realized he’d found a journal not unlike his father’s.

The book was leather bound, with Gertrude’s initials embossed in the right corner in silver. Unlike the Mustang, the diary looked brand new.

Sam ran his fingertips over the supple leather, comparing the almost electric prickle it evoked to the feel of Gertrude’s wings. He didn’t know why, but every time he touched something belonging to the aviator, he felt strange – like for just one frozen moment in time he wasn’t even on the same plane of existence as everyone else – but then, considering where he was standing, maybe he wasn’t.

Pulling his huge frame back through the cracked cockpit, Sam shielded his eyes and took a careful glance at the position of the sun in the sky. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, it was already afternoon. Could time have passed so quickly?

Taking another look at the buried plane and the likely fate of its pilot, Sam decided to take a risk and wait to continue his journey. He could use the upturned fuselage of the Mustang for a little cover during the remaining daylight hours, and then travel in the cooler night temperatures.

While he waited for sundown, he flicked open the journal he’d discovered and began leafing through the pages. Mostly the book was full of flight plans and other information that meant nothing to the modern day hunter.

But then, further at the back, Sam found entries that both unsettled and yet intrigued him.

Gertrude had lived through the crash landing in the desert and for days had been making notes in the journal. The entries stopped after just over a week, but there was nothing to suggest why. In his head, Sam had already figured out the reason, but he refused to accept that was his fate too.

Starting back at the first log, Sam couldn’t help but read the events that had transpired sixty years previous.

Oct 27th 1944

I was lucky not to hit rocks last night when I came down. I can see an outcropping in the distance that would have torn my bird to pieces if we’d struck it. The landing gear is torn to shreds anyway though, so even if I hadn’t lost oil pressure there would be no hope of taking off again.

I should be thankful I’m in one piece, but with only a little water and one chocolate bar I won’t get very far unless a search plane sees me from the air. The radio seems to be working, but I’m unable to make contact with anyone.

Just one night in this place and I already feel so alone. I never realized before that being in a desert must be the nearest thing to being on another planet. There’s nothing as far as the eye can see. No way to contact anyone.

My bird’s compass was smashed when I brought her down too, and last night there was too much cloud cover to try and use the stars to pinpoint my position.

Perhaps tonight I will fare better.

Until then, I have given my time to gathering the local Saguaro cacti as there is water at their centers I can drink, and their red pulpy fruit are likely the only sustenance I will get until I am found.

If I am found…

Sam re-read the last line, feeling the same desperation that the pilot had. Was he sitting on the same sand dune that she had as she’d written these tragic words?

But she didn’t have Dean looking for her! The idea was optimistic, just like Sam always tried to be, but it was flawed as the other half of his subconscious was quick to point out. No, Gertrude didn’t have Dean searching for her, she had the USAF, and they still didn’t find her…

Sam closed the journal and set it under an exposed section of the Mustang. Reading the woman’s last words wasn’t exactly giving him hope, but it had already taught him something. The cacti he’d so carefully jogged around before were probably the only friends he was going to have. And right now his swelling tongue and blistering lips were screaming for the fluid the little plants could give.

Kneeling down, Sam reached into his boot and slid out a small knife. It wasn’t anywhere near the size of the thing Dean hauled around, but it was still perfect for slicing up a reasonably sized Saguaro.

Cutting the cactus off at its base and slicing into it, Sam quickly found the moist center and began to suck out the precious fluid, the cool liquid refreshing him far more than any man-made beverage simply because he was so dehydrated.

After using three of the little plants for sustenance, Sam took up the journal again. The little book had an almost hypnotic effect on him, and he realized that he would be compelled to read it no matter how important other tasks seemed to be.

The journal had already helped him find food, he convinced himself. Maybe Gertrude would show him the way out of the godforsaken place he’d found himself in.

I’m thinking of Gertrude as someone who can help me. Am I nuts?

And yet the feeling didn’t go away. Instead, Sam fingered the pages of the diary, flipping through them until he found where he had left off. This time, as he began to read, he did so out loud, his mind actually seeing the events play out in front of him in bright monochrome brilliance as if he were watching a classic wartime movie.

Oct 27th 1944

The clouds are still obscuring the heavens so badly I cannot pinpoint my position. I have to wonder how often a desert sky can be this way, and if I am not jinxed somehow.

Can one person’s luck be so bad?

After events earlier this evening, I have to think so. I was harvesting more cacti when I spotted something move next to my hand. Had I not been skittish I would surely be seriously ill by now, as the thing was a scorpion and it lashed out just as I drew away.

I am not sure how badly a scorpion’s sting would harm me, but in my current situation I can only assume death would follow.

I have to think that if that was the reason I was brought here, then I would surely have died in the crash. Nevertheless, my hope wanes as each hour passes and I find myself missing my loved ones more and more.

If I don’t see any rescue planes again tomorrow, then perhaps it is time to admit that I will never see my family again…

Sam closed the book so sharply a small puff of dust rose into the desert from its pages. He’d wanted to read there was still hope.

Dammit, he’d wanted Gertrude to show him a way home. Now, though, all he could think of was just how dangerous the desert could be.

Scorpions, snakes, spiders.

What other poisonous creatures lay in wait as he rested on the shifting sand bank?

Sam realized his breathing had become fast and jerky and he tried to take smaller more careful breaths, but it was no use. Ghosts didn’t scare him, supernatural creatures didn’t faze him, but suddenly he understood there was one thing he was frightened of even more than death.

Sam was alone.

Hank Pruitt’s Home
Cibola

“Christo, you sonofabitch!”

Dean dived in front of Hank, tossing holy water from the flask all along the front of the mechanic’s shirt. There was no hiss, no rising vapor or stench of burning demon flesh.

Instead, Hank’s eyes widened and he looked down incredulously at the wet patch now adorning his best piece of plaid.

After a brief moment he blinked rapidly as if his eyes were deceiving him and then he began to chuckle. It wasn’t all-out laughter, just a quiet chortle that seemed to rise from the very bottom of his stomach. “I knew you boys were a little ‘off’ when I first met ya, but I never pegged you for those religious types…”

Hank continued to find the whole situation amusing as he padded across the kitchen towards the pantry. When the store cupboard’s door swung open and Mia emerged, he paused again, and this time his laughter became muted.

“That wasn’t a joke was it?” Hank asked, whirling around in his worn ex-army boots to face Dean.

“I err…like to think of it as more of a mistake.” Dean squirmed, sliding the flask under his jacket but keeping the .45 in his hand. Just because their host wasn’t a demon didn’t mean he couldn’t be working for one.

“And I suppose that shiny thing in yer hand is a mistake too?” Hank narrowed his eyes, letting them lock cautiously on the Colt.

Dean waved the automatic in front of him. “This? Nah, this isn’t a mistake. This is insurance.” He smiled, a hint of sarcasm playing across his features as he took in Hank’s reaction.

If Hank was afraid, he didn’t show it.

“Insurance for what, Sonny? You thinking of taking me out if I don’t finish that car of yours on time?” Hank sniffed.

“I don’t think it’s Dean we have to worry about…” Mia’s huffed voice carried across the kitchen with just enough fear to make the room grow silent.

At first, Dean thought the girl was talking about the mechanic, apportioning blame just because Hank was something of an oddball. She hadn’t hidden her feelings about the man and he seemed the obvious choice. Then the hunter noticed Mia’s startled gaze and followed it.

Outside the tiny kitchen window, where he’d only recently been looking for Sam, was something Dean had never seen the likes of before.

Soil, pebbles and other pieces of debris had been sucked up from Hank’s modest driveway and were being tossed around in a huge funnel outside the back screen door.

Somewhere across the yard, a dog that Dean presumed was Hank’s barked continuously as if the whirlwind was more than just some strange weather phenomenon.

“Well I’ll be damned…I’ve seen some twisters in my time but what the f…?” Hank yanked off his cap and then looked apologetically at Mia. “Sorry ’bout my cussin’. I’m just not used to a lady around the house.”

Dean edged closer to the window, watching as the thing outside grew closer, stronger, more intense until it filled his whole field of vision. “Trust me, Hank,” he offered dryly. “Mia ain’t no lady.” He turned, waiting for the rebuke, and when Mia simply scowled he winked.

“On any other day that might be funny.” Mia joined the hunter and the mechanic, a slight hint of panic in her voice. “Dean, that’s the thing that attacked Joe Bearwalker…”

Dean slowly bobbed his head. He hadn’t really needed confirmation from Mia to know that it was Pazuzu about to tear down Hank’s humble home, but somehow her words made it all the more real. “I know…”

There was a beat, a pause while the hunter tried to think of a plan, hell maybe even an explanation for Hank before he was likely skinned, but neither came to him. If this was some huge demonic game of chess with the Winchesters, then Hell was about to play checkmate.

And all the time, in the back of his head, Dean could only really focus on one thing.

Where’s Sam?

“Dean?” Mia’s voice rose just enough to suggest her fear had been replaced by desperation. “Dean we have to do something or that thing is going to come in here and lay this house to the ground and us with it.”

“Yeah, well in case you hadn’t noticed already, sweetheart, we don’t have a lot of options here.” Dean began looking around the kitchen. Of any place to be trapped by a demon, it was likely the safest – everyone usually had salt – and Hank didn’t strike Dean as a health freak type who was likely too worried about his blood pressure to have any.

“There’s one option.” Mia took down a breath and stepped back into the middle of the room. “I can give the thing what it wants. If I walk out there now this whole thing is over, and you, Hank, Sam, you can all go back to your lives…”

“Are you friggin’ nuts? Did that thing take your brain right along with it when we exorcized it last?” Dean’s face contorted into anger and frustration. Now was just not the time to play heroine. “No, just no, alright? I already lost Sammy out there somewhere, I’m not gonna lose you too.”

“People…I don’t mean to be rude here, but would somebody mind telling me just what the heck is going on? What with the twister and all this crazy talk, I feel like I’m smack in the middle of the Wizard of Oz here.”

Dean shot the mechanic a look that said ‘“You think House of Wax was bad and you watched that crap?” but he didn’t voice his opinion. There was no time to play The World’s Greatest Movies any more than there was to discuss Hank’s questionable taste in the big screen.

“Yeah, well you thought the Wicked Witch of the West was bad, wait till you meet the guy outside.” Dean noted a salt cellar on one of the work surfaces and grabbed it. From the weight it only felt about half full. Not enough to make a circle big enough for one, let alone three…

“Aww sh…” Hank glanced at Mia again and then outside. If he hadn’t looked scared before, he did now. “I think I see your point,” he said, his mouth opening in something akin to awe. “And he’s one ugly sonofabitch too.”

Dean forgot about the salt and followed Hank’s gaze, realizing the “wind” noise the demon was causing had abruptly calmed. Where the cone-shaped shaft had extended from the ground now stood the most grotesque creature the hunter had ever seen.

It seemed tall – taller than Sam even – and its tail flicked as if it was resisting the urge to lash out and sting someone. Perhaps it was saving that pleasure for when it got inside.

Pazuzu’s eyes glowed a fierce indescribable color, making the lustrous yellow of Haris’ orbs pale into insignificance.

“He is so pissed.” Dean backed up a little, as if his close proximity to the glass would somehow make him the most vulnerable.

Hank scooted to a cabinet discreetly hidden in the corner of the room and retrieved a well-kept Remington side-by-side. He swallowed down the remnants of the tobacco in his mouth without even noticing the nervous reaction. “Would somebody mind telling me just who or what the heck ‘he’ is?” He blinked, looking nervously to Dean. “And, Sonny? I think that repair bill on your car just doubled.”

Dean resisted the urge to smile. Hank was one crazy coot, he’d give the guy that. “Listen, I know I’m gonna sound whacked outta my gourd, but that thing is a demon. I…we thought maybe you were it. That’s why I tossed the holy water on you.”

“Demon as in ‘I’m from Hell and I’m gonna fry your a…butt?’” Hank broke open his weapon and slid in two shells. Every few seconds, he peered back outside, apparently expecting the creature to have vanished.

“Yeah, basically,” Mia agreed. “It’s from Hell, and it’s gonna burn our asses, big time.” She looked to Dean, not biting back her language just because the mechanic had. “It wants me. I still say we should give it the prize.”

“You’re not being anybody’s prize, and that’s final.” Dean tossed the salt cellar over to the mechanic. “You got any more of this stuff?”

Hank considered it and then opened up the pantry Mia had hidden in. He reappeared seconds later with two tubs of cooking salt that may have been in the cupboard since Nixon had been President.

Blowing dust from the top of the containers he grinned.

“Okay, start pouring it around the window frames, door frames and if there’s enough left make a circle big enough for us to stand in on the floor…” Dean stuffed his .45 back into his waistband and returned to the window ledge.

Pazuzu had disappeared from view and Dean didn‘t think he’d decided to call back later. This was one door-to-door salesman that wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Supposing I believe I’m under siege by a creature from the Twilight Zone; you mind telling me how a line of salt is gonna save my um…butt?” Hank continued to pour with one hand, but kept his trusty shotgun tucked under one arm.

“It’s a long story, but those freaky-eyed suckers can’t cross it. If…when we hook back up with Sammy I’ll get geekboy to give you the Encyclopedia Britannica version, but right now, you just gotta trust me.”

Hank stopped pouring and squirmed. He looked to Mia and then Dean as if what he was about to say may well be dumb, but he just had to say it anyway. “They can’t cross salt, huh? But don’t that mean neither can we or we get to play Dorothy, all scooped up and flung around in that twister?” He cocked a brow. “That thing can just wait us on out until we starve or die of boredom – and people, no offence, but you don’t strike me as the most entertaining couple with all your quibbling…”

Dean wanted to point out that he and Mia were not exactly a “couple” but realized it was a moot point. If he didn’t come up with an idea, they wouldn’t be anything period except a pile of stripped flesh.

“Dude, I hate to say it but you’re probably right. Unless you happen to know Father Merrin, I’d say we’re pretty much full-on screwed.”

“And then some,” Mia added with a wince.

Hank rifled through his pockets for a new chunk of something to chew on, and when he came up empty huffed. He chewed out of habit, and it seemed the habit was better than a bottle of Prozac right now.

“Hell, we haven’t had a preacher in these parts for two summers, boy,” he answered with a strained sigh. “And he was kinda more into the New Age stuff, if you know what I mean…”

Dean shook his head and pressed into his temple with his thumb and forefinger in impatience. “Jeez, haven’t you people ever seen The Exorcist? This is the same friggin’ demon…”

“Merrin,” Mia added, “was the priest who dealt with him in the movie.”

Hank wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pointed his twelve gauge at the door leading into the kitchen. Taking a tentative step forward he joined the hunter and girl in the salt circle he’d made. “I don’t watch those horror flicks too often. Always thought they were stuff and nonsense.”

Dean stuck a hand in his jacket and retrieved two shotgun cartridges. His own weapons, save for the .45, were still in the Impala’s trunk, so he handed the ammunition to the mechanic. “You might wanna load up with these instead of your regulars.”

Hank took the shells, examining them as he changed them over in his Remington. “Salt shells can hurt this thing?”

“Nope,” Dean admitted. “But they can sure as hell piss him off.”

Mia grabbed Dean’s arm, stopping him telling their host that pissing the demon off might not be their best plan. Her fingers dug into his flesh until her nails drew a short line of blood and she began to shake.

Dean didn’t need to ask why.

Mia had dealt with Pazuzu before. She knew him.

She knew he was coming in.

A loud bang followed by a destructive splintering sound suggested the demon had entered via the front screen door, tearing it and its frame away from the rest of the house with just its forward momentum.

The crashing sound was followed by more noise, as if the whirlwind had returned, forming an icy, devastating zephyr that was ripping the farmhouse to shreds.

Chairs where torn into masses of wood, material and stuffing. Ornaments were tossed from their resting places and smashed into the walls until only miniscule porcelain shards remained.

A portrait of Hank’s father was drawn into the center of the demonic tornado, only to be ejected at hundreds of miles an hour, disintegrating with the force with which it was being handled.

Within seconds, the front room of the farmhouse had been rendered into nothing more than a wooden husk stripped bare of life’s essentials.

The crashing sound came again, and with it, the door to the kitchen was blown from its hinges into the modest dining area. Wooden splinters shot through the air like spear-shaped projectiles, searching, needing to harm someone.

Dean quickly put his arm around Mia, turning her, and turning with her to shield her from the spiky onslaught.

Hank faced-off the timber spears, allowing several to slice into his flesh just so he could get a clean shot at the demon. Pulling back on the shotgun’s trigger twice, he emptied both barrels into the deformed and grotesque thing now standing in his kitchen.

Pazuzu hadn’t expected such insolence and his unseemly form was propelled backwards out of the room with a roar of defiance.

Dean, Hank and Mia heard the thing’s heavy, ungainly form landing somewhere in the room it had just destroyed.

They heard its growl as it began to pick up its malformed frame.

And soon, all three knew it would return for them.

And this time, they didn’t even have any more shells to fight with…

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The Winchester Chronicles