Season Three

Episode Sixteen: One Way Ticket

By irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Four

Dean could feel the blood pulsing in his head so hard he thought his eyeballs were about to explode and his ears were going to join them in some gory matrimony. It was like having Haris’ kid inside him all over again, except this wasn’t any kind of demon trying to get out.

He blinked, trying to figure out why his brain felt like Vesuvius before the great eruption.

Any why were the trees in his peripheral vision all upside down as the 66 flew past them? Surely trees weren’t defying gravity these days?

Then it hit him – there was nothing wrong with his head, or his brain, save for the fact that he was hanging limply from the train in an inverted position like some skinned victim in a Predator movie.

Dean blinked again, trying to focus despite the amount of blood now being forced into his skull by Mother Nature. Managing to crane his neck slightly, he got a bird’s eye view of the ground beneath him as the Amtrak loco sped along the rails.

The gravel that lined the tracks was nothing but a grey blur that made the hunter’s stomach churn. If he were to fall at this speed onto the unwelcoming surface, it wouldn’t be pretty.

Heart pounding, Dean moved his body cautiously until he could look upwards. Even in the darkness, he could see a silhouetted figure above him on the train roof, one blackened hand gripping his ankle as if the Slayer was actually considering letting him live.

The freak pushes me off the friggin’ roof and then doesn’t let me fall? What the hell?

Dean squirmed, the sudden urge to kick at the bastard holding his ankle only outweighed by the fact that it would guarantee his own death. Not that Dean feared the Other Side, but right now he’d like to know Sam and the rest of the train’s passengers were safe before he got to making niceties with Ferinacci and his hellish throng.

Great, so what do you do when your ass is hanging off a train and there’s nowhere to go but down…as in way down…?

Dean felt the fingers holding him begin to move, as if the killer’s grip on him was loosening. Maybe I should just kick the asshole anyway…

“Dean! Over here!”

Dean twisted sideways, managing to follow the direction of the voice even though it meant risking falling. He felt cold air slamming into his face as he stretched forwards, the train’s momentum and a slight breeze combining to almost take his breath.

The risk was worth it.

Warwick’s wrinkled face was looking back at him from one of the windows, and he was beckoning the hunter to try and swing over to him. Behind Warwick, Stringer was latched onto the conductor like he was in a scrum with the old man. The look of determination on the football player’s face said he had no intention of letting Warwick or Dean fall.

“C’mon!” Warwick’s spindly fingers stretched outwards and he motioned for Dean to try and rock his body enough to reach them. It wasn’t a great distance, but if the killer realized what was going on, he was sure to let go.

Dean weighed up his options and made a choice in two seconds flat. Using his arms as a lever he pushed his body backwards and then struck out for Warwick’s position. What the hell, I can’t hang around here all night…

The first swing fell short, and his back slammed into the car’s metal side with a bone-jarring thud. Above, the killer moved and Dean felt his body bump downwards with a jolt.

Wasting no time, the hunter swung again, like a grandfather clock’s pendulum gone wild.

This time, he felt hands grab at his arms and the firm grip of the Cornerback taking his weight. Okay, so I’m never criticizing the NY Giants again….

As the conductor and Stringer tugged at his arms, Dean lashed out with one last defiant kick at his tormentor above. He felt the tip of his CAT boot impact with something soft, and a warm satisfying glow filled the pit of his stomach. Bet that’s gonna bruise, bucko…

The next minute, his legs were free and he was being dragged through the small window opening back inside a carriage. Hitting the floor with a grunt, the hunter realized he’d landed face to face with the cop Guevara.

Now that he was conscious, the cop didn’t look one bit happier than he had earlier – his eyes searing into Dean as if he could make an arrest just by sheer willpower and train of thought.

Dean ignored the look and pushed up off his elbows breathlessly. There was no time to mess around with ticked off cops while Sam could be lying on the tracks bleeding. He glanced to Warwick first, a pleading, almost panicked expression invading his features. “We thought we had the bastard up there, but he pushed Sam off the train. We gotta stop this thing, go back. He could be hurt or…”

Warwick’s stony features softened and he held up a hand, stopping Dean before he could ramble on any further. “Did you call him?” He pointed to the hunter’s jacket pocket where he stowed his cell earlier.

The question was so obvious the panic seemed to drain from Dean’s face, replaced by a sheepish expression he tended not to wear very often. Damn, Warwick was good.

Sticking a hand inside his jacket, he was surprised and relieved to find the cell right where he’d left it, despite his recent attempt at flying. Scrolling down to Sam’s number, he was about to hit “Dial” when the phone began to warble and vibrate in his palm.

Reading the incoming caller ID, Dean let out a calming breath and jammed the cell to his ear. “Sam, you fell off the train! I hate to break this to you, but you’re so not Gene Wilder, dude. You just don’t have the hair…”

“Jeez, thanks for asking me if I’m still in one piece. Nice to know you care, bro,” Sam shot back, a hint of relief in his tone at hearing the sound of his brother’s voice. “What about the Slayer?”

Dean huffed. “Sonofabitch got away without me getting one good look at his face. I could sure use your sorry butt back on the train instead of out playing hitchhiker in the boonies.”

The line grew silent and Dean guessed his brother was thinking. It was the one thing Sam did best, and he’d undoubtedly come up with a solution to their recent separation when Dean had not.

“The 66 stops in New York for over an hour.” Sam eventually offered. “I’ll find a way to catch up with you there…”

“What, you suddenly turned into Superboy when I wasn’t looking? Dude, there’s no way…”

“I’ll find a way…”

Dean’s scowl reshaped into a smirk. “Dude, if you’re gonna steal something, at least don’t steal a Honda this time. You’re gonna need something with a little more than a clockwork engine to make that distance.”

“I’ll be there, Dean, you just be careful.” Sam’s voice changed, becoming tinged with uncertainty. “The killer is still on the train with you, and don’t forget he could be after Kim…”

Kim, Dean’s mind raced. Somehow I’m thinking this freak isn’t after Kim anymore. Why else wouldn’t our boy let me fall? He pushed away the unhappy thought. “I hear you, little brother. Just make sure I don’t have to come bail your butt outta jail for grand theft auto, okay?”

“Deal,” Sam agreed. “Just as long as you promise not to make any moves on the Slayer until I get back. If the roof is anything to go by, I don’t think we should try tackling him one on one.”

“Yes, Mom,” Dean snarked back, hitting “End Call” before Sam could argue his case further.

“So what happens now?” Warwick’s intelligent features creased in doubt. “We can’t just stand around and wait for this man to try something else…”

Dean agreed. Looking at the towering Stringer as if he was the perfect demolition man, he jerked a thumb towards the other cars. “We tear this tub of metal apart until we find the bad guy.”

“May I suggest we play this somewhat more subtly this time?” Warwick raised a brow. “We don’t want to panic any more people than we have to.”

Dean took down a breath, feeling the motion of the train beneath him again like a taunt from Ferinacci himself. Damned if he didn’t hate trains and damned if he didn’t hate subtle.

Sensing Guevara’s eyes on him again, he whirled around. The cop ought to trust him by now. He ought to see through all the reports and realize the Winchesters were the good guys.

But since when did anything ever happen to the brothers that actually made sense?

Kneeling beside the trussed up cop, Dean looked into his face and wondered just what was going on behind the man’s distrustful eyes. “You wanna help or you wanna sit there?”

Guevara didn’t answer, but his scowl let the hunter know he was still public enemy number one in the cop’s estimation.

Dean shrugged. Oh, my feelings are so hurt…"Fine, dude, you just sit there while everyone else saves the day…”

Bristol, PA

Sam glanced around the gloomy streets of Bristol and wondered if he would ever find a suitable mode of transport to catch up with his brother. So far, all he’d come across was a beat up pickup that’s gas needle said it had been running on fumes for the past several miles. Add to that the thing was so old and decrepit, Sam could hobble faster, and things weren’t looking so good.

Dammit, there has to be someone around here with a set of wheels that actually move. Where is everyone, in church?

The thought was a comical one at this time of night, but Sam was just plain antsy and he didn’t mind admitting it. He hated stealing, period. He also hated the fact that Dean was out in the night somewhere with no one to watch his back because Sam had gotten careless.

Sam felt the muscles in his injured ankle twinge and he winced, not at the pain, but at the fact that time was running out. He glanced at his watch as he limped under the illumination of a street light. He needed to make it back to New York before the 66 departed at 3.15am or he wouldn’t be getting back onboard.

And if he didn’t, that meant someone was going to die minutes later when the train reached Hell Gate Bridge.

And what if that someone happens to be Dean? His mind nagged.

Sam scowled, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was going to find a car and soon.

Across the main street he spotted a small convenience store, and decided that maybe, just maybe, there might be customers’ cars parked in the adjoining alley.

Picking up his pace, his ankle stung as he stretched the burning sinew when it needed rest. Still, a simple sprain from falling off a train? Wasn’t that more than lucky?

Sam wanted to deliberate further, to know for sure that all it had been was dumb luck rather than his freakish gifts that had saved him. But tonight, there was no time for thinking about his own selfish problems. He had fallen, the train hadn’t been going all that fast, he’d hit the ground at just the right angle – that’s all there could be to it.

After all, there had been no one around to leech any healing gifts from this time – not like with Mia.

No, for once, he’d been lucky, just really lucky.

Sam hit the other side of the sidewalk and headed for the alley hidden in shadows.

He hoped that luck was still with him now.

Turning the corner, he audibly sighed and closed his eyes in disappointment, letting his back lean against the brickwork of the store as he cursed inside. Not one car, not even one Honda…

Sam turned to leave the gloom when something glinted in at the edges of his field of vision. It looked like chromework – the kind you found on the more expensive Harleys.

Hobbling back, Sam blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, running his hand over the Harley’s pristine bodywork before checking out the big bike’s gas gauge.

It was too good to be true. The big old bird was almost full.

Climbing onto the mean machine, Sam suddenly felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger stealing his Harley from the biker bar in T2. And just like Arnie, he was doing this to save lives.

Sam tried to justify his actions by telling himself that over and over as he hotwired some poor schmuck’s pride and joy.

As the Harley roared to life and he sped from the alley, all that Sam could think of was that he hadn’t expected to take up a career in auto-theft when he’d signed up for Stanford.

Jeez, thanks, Dean…

Amtrak 66
Approaching Newark, NJ

Dean looked from the window of the train and actually sensed where he was.

This was Lucifer’s domain, and the air, the whole atmosphere, seemed to resonate with his presence. New Jersey was the freak’s home from home, and even though it wasn’t exactly a fiery pit, to Dean, it felt like one.

The hunter felt the tiny hairs on his skin begin to stand to attention as if they too were acknowledging Satan’s presence.

Freakin’ Ferinacci and his damn hoards probably all over this sardine can on rails already…

Dean continued to cuss under his breath as he trudged down the sleeper car’s corridor. He was trying his best to concentrate on the search for the Slayer, trying his hardest to prevent another needless death, but thing’s just weren’t going his way.

Sam was AWOL, and even though he knew his little brother was on his way, it just felt “off” – especially now they were in Lucifer’s territory. If he wanted to, Ferinacci could easily make sure Sammy never made it back onboard the 66.

And that was just one of their problems. They had Guevara all tied up and pissed off just waiting to cream their asses if and when he got free, they had a dead cop stashed in the train’s freezer, and oh yeah, they had no freakin’ clue who the bad guy was.

Oh, and did I mention I think this Slayer freak has me on his ten most wanted list…? the hunter grumbled under his breath. Freak knows good white meat when he sees it, I’ll give him that…

The only upside to the current predicament was that Kim and Carter were still in one piece. Well, Dean wasn’t sure saving someone who made such really bad TV was actually an upside, but it was definitely good not to have any more bodies at this point.

He’d been checking in on the two lovebirds most of the night, and although they were obviously scared, they seemed safe enough.

Warwick had managed to quietly have the occult symbols cleaned from Kim’s room, and the towering Stringer was playing bodyguard rather than Cornerback for the rest of the evening.

Now all Dean had to do was scope out the real killer and they were home and dry.

Yeah, right, why don’t I just whip out my magic ouija board and ask the spirits which one of their Serial Killers Anonymous club has gone AWOL?

Of course, the ever-helpful Warwick was proving invaluable as a partner in crime, but even with the conductor’s assistance they weren’t getting anymore answers than before.

For a night train, the 66 was packed – and packed meant more possible suspects – and worse still, more possible victims.

Dean unknowingly mimicked his brother’s early action and glanced at his watch. Time was running out, and he would be damned if he was going to let another innocent die when the 66 hit Devil Gate Bridge.

“C’mon, Sammy, haul ass…”

I-95 approaching
East Brunswick, NJ

Sam felt the wind burning at his face and his shaggy hair billowing out behind him as he gunned the gas on the Harley. Bikes weren’t his thing, never had been, but luckily he’d gotten around enough to know how to ride one this size half-decently.

On any other day, he might have thought the sensation was exhilarating, almost like he’d been freed from the confines of the Impala and let run wild.

Some part of him finally understood why Joe Bearwalker chose a classic Indian over a car, but that didn’t matter right now.

Nothing did, only reaching New York before the 66 departed.

Sam twisted his wrist just enough to see the time without letting go of the handlebars.

Dean’s already in Newark if the train is running to schedule…

Sam blinked as his eyes began to stream from the breeze in his face, pouring on more gas even though he’d hit a patch of hairpin bends that warranted less, not more speed.

“Hang on, Dean, I’ll be there. I swear, I‘ll be there…”

Amtrak 66
Penn Station
New York, NY

Dean had decided some twenty minutes previous that the corridor just wasn’t big enough. It was like being in a sardine can with a thousand other stinkin’ sardines, and he hated it.

Still, that hadn’t stopped him pacing back and forth until he’d almost worn a hole through the flooring.

It was 3.05am and he needed coffee – no, he needed a beer, and he needed Sam here to share it with him. But Sammy had yet to show, and the train would be leaving the station in just ten more minutes.

The fact that he and Warwick had narrowed down their list of suspects to – well, most of the people who got on at Penn, along with about twenty-five of the original passengers – well that was helping no end.

Why didn’t they just invite the rest of New York to the gig and be done with it? Roll up and join the Satanic Mystery Tour, one body a night guaranteed…Dean slapped a hand against the car’s wall in frustration and only calmed when a small wiry looking passenger began to stare at him.

Suddenly, Dean wished he was fighting Haris again, or Mia, or any damn demon he could at least identify. It was one thing to know your enemy, but to not know, well, that was fighting blind, and it wasn’t something he was good at.

Was the Slayer a pure spirit? Was the freak possessing an innocent? Hell, was he even jumping bodies? Maybe that was why he was so elusive? And then there was the whole electrical vibe the killer had going on.

Dean shuddered as he recalled what had gone down on the roof.

Way to go Winchesters, you really screwed that little barbecue royally…

He let a hand stray inside his pocket and could feel the cold steel of his Colt through the material. Leaving the gun behind, he pulled out his cell and hovered over the quick dial number for Sam.

But then, calling might slow Sam down more. If Ferinacci hasn’t already gotten to him…

Doubts and fears welled in Dean’s mind like invading predators sent by the Dark One. He tried to push them out, unsure if it was his imagination or something more.

“C’mon, Sammy, you’re the punctual one, remember? Don’t make me have to add tardiness to your wuss ass resume…”

Approaching Penn Station
New York, NY

Sam watched as the Harley’s speedo needle crept over the legal limit for what must have been the tenth time, some part of him admitting he got a buzz out of feeling the air rushing past his face, even if he did expect the blue lights of a police cruiser at every turn.

It was times like these that he understood his brother’s love of the fast lane.

Dean…

Sam hated being separated like this.

Hated the not knowing.

Every time the Winchesters ended up apart, they ended up in trouble.

He glanced at the speedo again, wishing he could urge just a little more from the bike, but knowing he was pushing his luck – especially when the gas needle was heading dangerously into the red right along with the engine’s revs.

Five minutes – that’s all he had left if the 66 was on time, but at least the Harley was easier to navigate down the narrow New York backstreets than their usual mode of transport.

Dean had always hated that about the Big Apple, as did their father. It was just too damn narrow for a big old bird like the Impala to park. And more recently, there was the Ferinacci connection haunting them here too.

Sam tried not to think about Lucifer, or what his connection to this gig might be. Just think about getting back on the train…one thing at a time…

The bike beneath him began to sputter and Sam heaved a sigh of relief when it finally succumbed to lack of gasoline just a few short strides from the station entrance.

He clambered off quickly, leaving the Harley in a no parking zone that would surely have earned him a serious talking to had there been any security present. Not that the station was devoid of cameras.

In fact, as Sam barreled inside, he felt sure he caught one of the higher security units angle his way.

It was usual Winchester practice to evade such close scrutiny at all costs, but tonight, Sam just didn’t care. The only priority was the 66…and Dean.

Slowing to a more reasonable “hobble,” Sam scanned the boards above his head until he spotted the right train.

The 66 was on time. Trains are never on time in New York, what is this, some conspiracy against the good guys or what?!

Suddenly hating trains, Sam darted across the station, his recent thigh injury abruptly joining the profusion of pain from his twisted ankle.

He used it, letting the burning in the still-healing knife wound spur him on until he reached the escalators. Leaping down the moving steps three, sometimes four at a time, Sam pushed through the crowds with all the finesse of a Sumo wrestler gone wild, but still he managed to avoid security’s attention.

No wonder terrorists just love the US, he noted as he knocked a bumbling vagrant sideways to get onto the right platform. I could be some lunatic rampaging down here. He thought about his job description and smiled as he saw the 66 still stationary. Okay, so maybe I am some lunatic, but I’m a needed lunatic right now…

A whistle sounded from some unseen Amtrak worker and Sam’s heart sank. The 66 was leaving and he wasn’t on it.

Giving an extra burst of speed he didn’t know he had in him, Sam forced his legs to go faster even though it made his heart want to explode in his chest.

He reached out with one hand just as the train began to pull away from the platform.

It was do or die time – no second chances.

Sam jumped, wanting to close his eyes, but knowing he couldn’t. His hand caught on something solid and he locked his fingers around it, hauling his lanky body aboard just as the 66 began to pick up speed.

The instant he felt solid train beneath his boots, Sam almost doubled over in an attempt to gain his breath and slow his rampant heart.

“’Bout time you showed up, you slacker!”

Sam looked up to see his brother smirking at him. He was tempted to shoot Dean the bird and save his heaving chest the effort of talking, but he just couldn’t manage it. “Bite me, jerk,” he panted, scowling.

“Bite yourself, bitch,” Dean countered happily. “Or should I say Gene? Dude, we so gotta get you a perm. A ginger perm...it’s so you…”

Sam didn’t grace that little idea with an answer. “Dean, did you find the Slayer while I was gone? Any clues even?”

His brother’s sheepish, somewhat disgruntled expression told him the answer. “Nada,” Dean conceded. “Not one friggin’ clue.”

Sam shook his head and patted his brother on the shoulder with just enough of a smile to let Dean know he was about to be ribbed. “Don’t worry, I’m here now. I’m sure it won’t take ‘geekboy’ long to find our bad guy. I mean, I couldn’t expect you to find our man all by yourself…might have strained your brain cell…Oh, or broken a nail maybe…”

Dean’s returning grunt told Sam his little feather ruffling session had hit the mark and they were now equal in their little snark war. Now it was time to get down to business.

Time was wasting, and the bridge was looming fast.

Dean obviously shared his sibling’s concerns. “Kim and our soap boy are pretty much being guarded by Stringer. Unless our guy feels like tackling a pretty pissed off gorilla I think they’re safe. Our cop buddy is all tied up and no place to go, but he’s creeping me out. He stares at me like I’m some kinda monster.” He rolled his eyes at the thought. “Warwick is still checking on a couple of the cars, but we haven’t found squat since we were up on the roof. You don’t think our guy is toast after his little grilling session up there?” He thumbed towards the ceiling.

Sam shook his head. “He’s still out there, and we both know it. We should fan out and search again. If Guevara freaks you so much, wuss, I’ll head in his direction. You can take the front. Sound good?”

Dean grunted again but didn’t argue.

There was no time left for that.

* * * *

Sam padded down the sleeper car corridor, all too aware that there was probably less than ten minutes left before they reached the infamous bridge. It was quiet here, perhaps too quiet save for a stray giggle from Kim and Carter’s room.

At least they’re okay, he thought as he pressed further to the rear of the train. Which is more than someone will be anytime now…

It was harsh to keep having to think it, but the truth was, the Winchesters had never been so clueless – and in their game, that was more than bad news.

Pressing onwards, he realized the ache in his thigh had dulled to a mild cramp. He hoped it would stay that way if he had to do any more running. Ducking his tall frame, he passed from the sleeper car into the luggage car just as the lights began to sputter again.

Sam guessed something was interfering with the electrical supply, or rather someone was interfering with the electrical supply, as the car plummeted into darkness.

With the black void came an inexplicable chill, like he had stepped into a freezer compartment or meat locker. Sam supposed if he could see, his breath would have been clearly visible as pure white vapor.

Instinctively, he rubbed his hands together, trying to resist the urge to reach inside his jacket for his Glock.

As the darkness remained, the desire for the weapon intensified and Sam’s hands began to itch towards the concealed automatic.

At the last moment, the fluorescent tubes in the car’s ceiling seemed to vibrate with released energy and they sputtered back into life.

Sam glanced quickly around, regaining his bearings in the confined space.

Guevara was tied where they had left him, and just as Dean had described, the fettered officer was staring wildly at his captor. The cop’s eyes were wide like dinner plates, a strange, almost terrified expression splashed across his features.

Sam balked, realizing Guevara wasn’t staring at him, but rather past him, to the walls, and to the makeshift altar that had been erected in the corner.

As he looked upon the dais, the black candles placed there abruptly sparked and burst into life, their flames burning with a bizarre afterglow that’s life-force seemed almost electrical in origin rather than tallow-fuelled.

Butcher…Sam’s mind echoed the name just as he whirled around, sensing a presence behind him.

Except it wasn’t Butcher’s ethereal form that had stalked him here to the luggage car – it was the very mortal body of Luke the Amtrak attendant.

“You should have left it alone,” Luke hissed through clenched teeth. “Now you’re in my way. I only need one, and while I’m sure my Master would welcome you into Hell, I’ve set my heart on your brother…”

Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly so dry the motion was almost impossible to complete. The Slayer couldn’t be Luke, could it? He let his eyes cast downwards to the kid’s hands, a wince of recognition marring his normally jovial features when he spotted the charred and blackened flesh of Fraser’s palms.

He’s the Service 66 Slayer? Sam’s mind exploded with the agonizing realization. “Luke, I can help you…I’m sure we can work something out…”

Luke chuckled and the dry laughter stung the air like a venomous snakebite. “Oh, Luke’s left the building. You’re talking to Elliot now…”

Sam stepped forwards, his mind already changing up a gear as he tried to work out all the possible scenarios that could come next and plan for them. So it‘s possession we’re dealing with… “Luke,” he chose the kid’s name over Butcher’s carefully, hoping to appeal to some spark of the young attendant that might still be hanging on inside the conquered body. “Luke, listen to me…”

The side of the carriage grated open as if Sam’s plea was some magical ”Open Sesame,” the wind howling through the opening like the scream of some nocturnal creature.

Sam swayed on his feet as the air rushed in, already understanding that this show of force was meant for him.

Luke looked pleased that the hunter recognized his plan, and cocked his head towards the doorway with a shrug. “Bye, Sam Winchester…”

Sam didn’t see Luke move, he didn’t see anything. All he knew was that he had suddenly joined in the blur that was the passing countryside, and he was falling, falling off the train.

Falling away from his brother and the Slayer.

Sam hit the track with a yelp as the wood and steel beneath him knocked the air from his lungs. He’d gotten away lucky last time, but right now he wasn’t feeling so blessed. The train was moving faster, and he’d hit the track with all the force of a sledgehammer.

He coughed, probing the side where he’d landed to check for cracked ribs. It was difficult to be sure, but he didn’t think anything was broken – he’d just have a string of purple-black bruises in the morning to show for his nighttime stunts.

Quickly glancing around, it looked like he’d been ejected at a junction of several different lines that converged on the bridge.

“This is getting so old,” he groused as he shakily clambered to his feet, only then realizing that his foot had become wedged between the track and the sleeper. “Old and painful…”

The abrupt sound of another train’s engine behind him made Sam whirl just in time to be blinded by the lights set in the front of the loco. The ground under his feet began to vibrate with its oncoming motion.

It was a few feet away at best, its whistle screaming a high pitched wail that almost deafened the hunter with its resonance. I’m going to die here…not even on the bridge…not even by the killer’s hands…

Sam tried to pull his foot free, but there was no time now to even jump clear. Closing his eyes, he waited for tons of iron and steel to slam into his body reducing it to pulp. I’ve let Dean down…I’ve left him alone with Butcher…

The noise from the train’s engine and whistle changed, the eerie metallic song fading into the distance as if the loco had been eaten by a deep mountain tunnel.

Sam dared to open his eyes to find the mystery train had vanished.

The legends…It was a ghost train!!

Maybe there is such a thing as Winchester luck after all…

Sam tugged at his boot, instantly pushing aside his ghostly near miss in favor of the very real Amtrak 66. Yanking at the soft leather, the boot eventually gave way to his persuasions and he teetered for a second off balance.

Regaining his footing on the track, Sam launched into a lop-sided sprint after the train he’d just been tossed from. His ankle was throbbing, his thigh was screaming, and his ribs were pulsing better than an LA party’s laser lighting, but they were small fry problems compared to what might be about to happen.

Dean could easily be the Slayer’s next kill, and he wasn’t there for his brother.

Sam felt the anger burn in his gut, the fury at himself for being so careless. In his mind, he began to see washed out images that might be a vision of things to come.

Images that might be his brother’s last minutes on earth.

The Slayer, savoring the moment as he slit Dean’s throat, stabbing him through the heart and tossing his lifeless shell from the bridge once the all-important organs had been harvested.

Hazel green eyes, their mirthful spark lost once they had been gouged from Dean’s body and tossed upon the waiting altar…

“NO!” Sam screamed as the imagery overtook his mind. He couldn’t let this happen, wouldn’t let this happen.

But there was no way to catch the train.

His heart began to beat faster and faster as he sprinted across the sleepers, a familiar tingle beginning to creep into his fingertips.

Sam wasn’t just angry – he was angry for Dean – and sometimes that gained him an unearthly advantage.

The sensation in his hands grew, like a million ants were crawling along his nerve endings, awakening some hidden ember – something hidden in his DNA that had been buried and lost to most mortals for centuries. Or something placed there by Haris…

Sam ignored his subconscious mind’s taunt. He knew his gifts weren’t demonic. He knew they had been bestowed by Mother Nature, not some would-be king of Hades.

And if those gifts were online now, then why not utilize them before it was too late?

Looking ahead, he realized the 66 was approaching a set of signals. It was now or never.

Setting his sights on the signals be began to concentrate on their controls. If he could change them just for a few seconds and stop the train, he had a chance.

In his mind, he let his memory float back to the rooftop fight. He focused on how the discharge of electricity had felt against his skin when he’d pushed the Slayer against the power line.

His heart beat even faster, adrenalin flooding his system as he recalled the Slayer’s fingers crackling with current – the same way his fingers had sparked when Mia had held Dean prisoner.

Sam was drawing the Slayer’s power, mirroring it into himself like he had become a human conductor. If the Slayer could control electricity, then Sam could leech it and use it too.

He focused again on the signals, finally feeling the power of his adversary flowing through his blood, his limbs, his mind.

Red, red…change to red…

Amtrak 66
Hell Gate Bridge,
Astoria, NY

Dean looked up to see the overhead lights flare and then almost die. Then, just as he expected to be pitched into complete darkness, they sputtered back on in all their glory.

It had been happening this way for a couple of minutes, and no one on the train’s staff had any explanation apart from the obvious half-truth that it was a momentary power fluctuation.

Power fluctuation my ass…it’s a whack job spirit who likes to screw around with some seriously bad mojo…

Of course, right now, the only person the passengers thought was a whack job, was Dean. Asking weird questions all night had eventually meant half the people onboard thought he’d been hitting the bottle a little too early in the evening.

Oh, I so wish…

Still, there was no time to be thinking about beer yet. Unless Sam had found the killer they were about to be in serious trouble.

Dean hunkered over and peered from a side window as he saw the bridge looming head. They’d already begun to pass under the first huge metal arches that were part of the behemoth viaduct’s construction. How long now before blood began to flow?

Dean turned, hurriedly making his way back towards the luggage car. He’d not heard from Sam in awhile, and absence definitely made his heart consider having a coronary. If anything bad could happen, it usually did to the Winchesters.

Gah, he’s probably feeling sorry for that wise-ass Guevara. I bet those two are having some freakin’ emo chat while I’m worrying my butt off up here… He continued to cuss at Sam, but inside as he moved along the cars, a lump began to form in his throat.

They were on the bridge, and Sammy was distinctly missing…

* * *

The lights in the back of the train were just as erratic as those at the front and they were making Dean feel dizzy. He slammed a fist into a flickering emergency light and then grunted when it blinked out, shortly followed by all its sporadic brethren.

Stupid electricity.

Stupid freakin’ train…

The cursing continued until a hand slammed over his mouth from behind, effectively gagging the hunter.

Dean kicked back with his right CAT boot, needing to feel it impact with his assailant’s soft flesh, but instead he was rammed hard against the side of the carriage until the air was pressed from his lungs.

The sensation of cold steel against the flesh of his throat made his Adam’s apple bob and he waited expectantly for the blade to dig deep into his carotid.

Instead, the dagger remained static, its owner murmuring a language not dissimilar to Latin under his breath.

A satanic incantation that had only one ending.

Dean pulled against the hands that held him until the tip of the blade at his neck nicked his flesh. He ignored the slow dribble of blood that ebbed down his throat and onto his t-shirt, still yanking at the impossibly strong grip that held him until something began to happen.

The same electrical activity that had been plaguing the train seemed to fill the air, like the carriage was thick with it.

The killer’s body was alive with the energy, perhaps even creating it as well as conducting it. Whatever the electric chair had done to his spirit, it had remained with him in the afterlife.

Dean flinched from the stinging shocks that oozed from the Slayer’s touch, but was mesmerized by the way the energy seemed to be building in the tips of his hair, like a perfect blue fiber optic display that grew and grew in intensity until for a moment the man’s features were bathed in its light.

Dean almost gasped in disbelief. Of all the people he’d suspected, the young attendant had never been one of them.

Luke?

The carriage lights hissed and winked, a soft glow returning to them as the surge of electricity passed.

And with the new illumination, came a new revelation.

Dean’s wide, disbelieving eyes scanned the carriage walls, taking in the symbols that had been daubed there. They were clearly satanic, just like from all the other kill sites.

On the floor, Guevara just stared at him and then back to the disheveled markings, his deep eyes intense, and so very terrified.

I friggin’ told you so! Dean wanted to yell at the cop, to grab him by the neck and shake him, but Luke held the hunter fast, the ceremonial dagger still jammed against Dean’s throat so hard it continued to draw a thin film of blood.

But blood wasn’t going to satiate this killer.

Luke/Butcher was poised, his wild, manic eyes peering through the nearest window until they were at just the right spot on the bridge.

As the 66 passed under the wide central arc, the carriage door flew open with just a look from the young rail worker. Outside, metal hissed on metal as the train braked and slowed, finally grinding to a sudden and unexpected halt.

Dean couldn’t help but look at the only doorway – the only way off the train – and it led to a sheer drop into the heady waters below.

He felt the contents of his stomach lurch. I knew all that junk food was gonna come back and bite me in the ass…

The whistling early morning wind seemed to rock the carriage slightly, and as the first gust was followed by a second, Dean felt its unholy breath across his skin.

This was the Slayer’s place.

Maybe, it was Lucifer’s too.

And right now, the only escape he had from either was out the carriage door and straight off of Hell Gate Bridge.

Hell Gate Bridge
Astoria, NY

Sam couldn’t take his gaze from the rear of the train as its screaming brakes ground it to a halt.

The signal had turned red.

The Amtrak 66 was at a dead stop.

And all because he’d willed it to happen using the Slayer’s powers.

I did it. How the hell did I do it?

Hesitating only a second at his own handiwork, Sam launched into a sprint despite every muscle in his body yowling in protest. As the rear of the last carriage loomed, almost in the grasp of his outstretched hand, the signal light flickered, changing colors back and forth until finally it let the loco be on its way.

Sam screamed mentally as wheels slowly began to turn, carrying the 66 away from him again. No! Wait! No! Dammit!

Lunging forward with one last push of his tired, aching limbs, Sam made a grab for the car and exhaled in relief when his hand grabbed metal. Hauling himself aboard, there was no time to even take a breath before a thump from somewhere forward made him crane his neck for a clearer view.

The door to the car ahead had been slammed open and was rattling like a tin cacophony against the side of the train. In the opening, Sam could clearly see the silhouettes of two figures struggling to keep their balance as they fought.

“Sam!”

The sound of his brother’s voice cut clear into the early morning gloom and Sam was galvanized into action. Dodging along the train’s corridors, his heart began to pulse like a jackhammer.

Dean had been teetering on the edge of the doorframe, and Sam had seen the distinct gleam of metal in his attacker’s hand as he’d watched them tussle for victory.

While Dean was a strong fighter, Sam knew the Slayer would always have the upper hand. He had an unearthly strength that no mortal could match thanks to the way he absorbed electricity.

Sam grabbed at the door to the luggage car and was surprised when it opened freely. Wrenching it back, he saw a brief glimmer of light, and then the carriage was plummeted into darkness.

It was if his presence was somehow the catalyst for the shadows – as if the killer wanted him to be uncertain just what he was seeing.

Sam blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dark just enough to make out the two figures fighting by the swinging outer door, their profiles backlit by the lights from the bridge and the city beyond.

“Dean!”

Sam’s cry was wasted – a pitiful whimper that neither his brother nor the killer could hear. The whistle from an approaching train drowned out the yelp, replacing it with the high-pitched scream and the blinding wash of oncoming lights.

It’s another ghost train, Sam concluded. But it didn’t matter where the loco had come from, or where it was going.

The phantom loco’s lights on the adjacent track washed over the open cabin like a tsunami of glowing radiance, illuminating the car in a bright strobing light.

What Sam saw in the afterglow of the ghost train made his aching legs turn numb and his pounding heart turn cold.

Luke had the ceremonial dagger pressed hard against Dean’s throat, his ridiculously strong forearms holding the hunter, legs dangling out of the open doorway.

Somehow, Dean’s hand had latched onto the metal rail at the side of the opening, but even as Sam watched, Luke was prizing it free, finger by finger.

Sam saw the dagger being slowly raised above Dean’s heart and there was nothing he could do about it. If he launched forwards now, all three of them would probably be pushed from the open doorway by his momentum alone.

The ghost train grew louder, the shriek from its whistle deafening Sam as it sped by, an inrush of air blasting through the car as if the loco really existed and was passing too close for comfort.

As the gust and the noise dissipated, so did the illumination from the phantom’s lights, leaving only a bizarre afterimage on Sam’s retinas.

The 66 was plunged back into a grim darkness that could hide a thousand sins, and probably would. To exacerbate the macabre reality of what was about to happen, Dean screamed.

And then, Sam flinched at the unmistakable sound of human flesh being torn into.

A flash of blue electricity erupted from the doorway and the stench of searing flesh burned its way up his nose and into his lungs.

“Dean!”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat as the luggage carriage lights gradually began to glow, dim at first, and then brighter as a full current surged back into the system.

By the doorway, he could make out the shape of two bodies slumped together, and he darted forwards, not caring if Luke decided to attack him next.

What had happened in that split second of darkness?

Blood pooled beneath the tangle of limbs, spreading wider and wider until Sam slipped in the edges of the scarlet gloop. He dropped to his knees as his feet slid from beneath him.

There was no sign of the dagger, but no sign that either man still drew breath, either.

Sam leaned closer, noting Dean’s closed eyes and ashen features. No way, no way, man…

“Dean?”

At the sound of his brother’s shaking voice, Dean’s eyelids snapped open. He stared for a minute, not believing what had just happened.

Sucking down a breath, the hunter began to push away the dead weight that pressed against his chest. With a little help from Sam, he finally managed the task, the Slayer’s limp form lolling away from him and coming to rest precariously close to the still-open doorway.

Sam hunkered over the corpse, rolling it a little to see the blade sticking deep in Luke’s heart, a crimson trickle ebbing down the hilt and onto the floor. The kid’s face was blackened and marred as if he had just been hit by lightning or worse, and his piercing eyes stared sightlessly at nothing.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, still panting from the exertion of the fight. “Sammy, the dude killed himself. He stabbed himself, Sam. I didn’t do a thing…”

Sam nodded bleakly and let the body roll back, face down on the floor. It was better not to have to look at what remained of a once happy, innocent young man. “I think he fought it somehow,” Sam guessed. “I don’t know how, but he sacrificed himself to save you and everyone else on the train.”

“And it finished off Butcher too?” Dean asked as he clambered to his feet and brushed at his jacket. “I mean, all that electricity didn’t touch the freak, but the kid and the dagger could can his ass?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe Luke’s offering wasn’t just himself. Maybe he sent Butcher’s soul through the conduit to Hell, just as Butcher thought he had all his victims this whole time…Maybe Butcher got what he wanted – to join his Master.”

Dean huffed and glanced at the unmoving body. For good measure, he tapped it with his boot toe. “Dude, did I ever mention how much I hate the word maybe?”

The outer door clattered on the train as if a stronger breeze had picked up at the very mention of the word “Master.”

Perhaps it was just the brothers’ imagination, but as Warwick scurried into the car as if from nowhere, Dean decided it was time to close up. Hanging precariously out on the edge, he grabbed the inner handle and tugged.

The door fought back, the wind and tide of air flowing over it making it hard to close. Eventually, the mechanism gave in to the hunter’s persuasions and he rounded on the inside of the carriage just in time to face the distraught conductor.

Warwick was standing over Luke’s body as if he was already in mourning. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, and the glint of tears was already present in his fatherly eyes. “Not Luke too…he was such a good kid. So…so innocent.”

Sam put a hand on the elder man’s arm. “Levi, Luke was the Slayer…”

Warwick’s gaze locked on the hunter with something akin to contempt. “Impossible!”

“Sir,” Sam continued. “I know it’s hard to accept, but the Slayer – Butcher – he possessed Luke. In the end Luke managed to get control back just for a few seconds and saved my brother. He was a hero Levi. He caught the Slayer.”

Warwick’s frame trembled, but he held back the rage, the hate for a man long since dead.

He held back the tears for a friend.

But most of all, he held back the urge to crumble in front of two strangers.

A sad smile crept across his features and he slowly nodded as if the brothers shared some strange secret with him. Eventually, he explained. “Like father, like grandson.” He peered at Sam. “I bet you didn’t know Luke’s last name is…was Fraser? He’s the grandson of Ed Fraser.”

“The attendant who caught Butcher back in ’55?” Dean realized, both eyebrows shooting up at the news.

“That’s right,” Warwick concluded. “Ironic, isn’t it, two members of that family have tussled with that psycho, and both have lost their lives…”

“Luke was the reason Butcher waited. He returned at this point in time just so he could still have the revenge he promised all those years ago,” Sam concluded. “The opportunity was just too good to miss. Fraser’s grandson working on a train that took the very same route where Butcher had done his original killings…”

“And Kim was gonna be his first victim this trip until Butcher met us – I’m guessing he thought he needed to divert some attention ’cause he thought we were cops – that’s why he tried to set Stringer up with all that satanic crap.” Dean looked across to the body and then back to his brother. “Until the real cop, if you could ever call Wozniak that, showed.”

Warwick cleared his throat, eyes straying to the man still bound and gagged at their feet. “I think you boys are forgetting our other officer of the law here…”

Dean winced. Guevara had seen everything, but would he still be unwilling to believe?

The hunter kneeled, pulling away the handkerchief he’d used to gag the cop. “So, you still think I’m a whack job?”

Guevara opened his mouth but found he didn’t immediately have words to answer. He coughed, then looked to Sam first as if the younger hunter seemed more grounded in reality than his sibling.

“I saw it all – watched that lunatic daubing those symbols all over the walls, making his altar…” The cop’s eyes wandered to Luke’s still form. “He was talking, murmuring under his breath the whole time he worked on that crap. Said the girl wasn’t good enough anymore. He knew who it had to be instead and that the Master would approve…”

Dean glanced to Sam knowingly but didn’t make his usual wisecrack comment. Instead he remained silent, his mind painfully flashing back to a sinkhole, and the demon that had wanted to drag their asses down it.

Guevara didn’t see or understand the look that passed between the brothers and continued, as if he needed to talk, to get what he had seen out of his system before it consumed him. “Luke was the one who pointed me in your direction. He told me you two had been arguing with Wozniak, got my suspicions aroused. I guess I know why now…”

“And you know enough now not to want to can our asses, right?” Dean asked, raising one brow warily.

The cop let his chin fall so it was almost sitting on his chest. “I’ve seen enough,” he admitted. “But there’s no way I can sell it to my bosses back at the precinct. No way would they buy that Fraser was possessed by the spirit of a 1950’s serial killer.” Guevara looked apologetically at Dean. “Either you take the fall for this, or the dead kid does…”

Dean smirked, but not because he found the idea amusing – no, it was more ironic. “Story of my life,” he declared, tiredness seeping into his features. “I guess you may as well stick this one on me too. It’s not right the kid gets remembered as the villain when he was pretty much the hero at the end there.”

“Dean!”

Sam began to protest, but Guevara was already ahead of him. As Dean uncuffed the cop, he rubbed absently at his wrists as he spoke to both brothers. “I saw what you two do. You caught my cousin’s killer and you risked your own necks to do it. If I write this off as another Dean Winchester killing spree, you’ll have every Fed in the country on your tail. No. Better the kid takes the fall. You’re needed out there on the streets, not locked up in some jail cell.” He smiled at Dean. “Although I kind of get the impression you’d fit right on in, in that kinda place…”

Dean shook his head but smiled. “No thanks, orange jumpsuits are so not my color.” He offered a hand to Guevara and the cop took it, his grip as firm as his unwavering determination to do the right thing.

“See you around, Shaft,” Dean teased.

Guevara laughed for the first time since they’d met him. “Oh, somehow I think I can count on that. You two don’t look for trouble, I think it hunts you…”

Forest Hills Cemetery,
Boston, MS

Dean and Sam watched from a short distance as the priest said his final closing words over Luke Fraser’s open grave.

It was a cold day, with just a light sprinkling of rain that had settled and formed into tiny globules on Luke’s white casket.

Sam remembered the old proverb “Happy is the corpse that it rains on” and he wondered if there really was any truth to the maxim. If there was, it wasn’t bringing any comfort to the kid’s family.

Luke’s mother was standing by her son’s grave, her arm wrapped tightly around her husband’s as tears flowed freely down her face.

Few other mourners had come to pay their respects – this was a lonely goodbye to the world. Sam guessed when his and Dean’s time came, it would be that way for them too.

Who would be left to know what they’d done for the world, unseen and unnoticed?

At least it didn’t have to be that way for Luke.

Someone had to know.

As the priest and the small gathering began to move away, Sam nodded to Dean and the pair moved forwards to approach Fraser’s distraught parents.

Dean hated this side of their job – hated having to see the grieving that he’d never allow himself to do. But Sam was thankful his brother had agreed to come with him today. It was something they needed to do together.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fraser?” Sam took the lead. He was so much better at this kind of thing. He knew all the right words, the right comforting speeches. Or so Dean had convinced him, but right now, he didn’t feel like he knew anything. “We’re so sorry for your loss, so sorry for what happened to Luke…”

Sam expected the kid’s mother to burst into more tears, but instead she simply looked at him for the longest time and then nodded as if she had been reading his mind. “You know what happened, the truth, I mean?”

Dean cleared his throat. “We know your son died a hero, not a killer Mrs. Fraser. He saved a lot of lives – no matter what the police or the newspapers say…” He swallowed hard, remembering the look on the dead kid’s face after he’d sacrificed himself. “He saved my life…”

The grieving mother looked at the thick carpet of grass beneath her feet and closed her eyes, taking a long, bitter breath before exhaling. “I knew my boy could never have done those horrid things, not ever.” She reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it so hard his flesh began to turn white.

He shook his head, a small nervous tick in his jaw suggesting he too was close to breaking point. “For Luke to die like that, on the train…it’s just as if the Hell Gate Bridge Butcher made good on his promise to avenge himself on my father…”

Both Winchesters simply nodded.

There were no more words to give.

No comfort they could offer other than the truth.

Mrs. Fraser seemed to sense their unease and she smiled wanly. She tugged at her husband’s almost numb hand, ushering him to head for their awaiting limousine. With one last glance at the brothers she mouthed the words “thank you” and then turned to leave.

“It’s not fair.” Sam watched as the small procession of cars exited the cemetery.

“It never is,” Dean agreed. “But hey, death is the only certain thing in life, Sasquatch. Gonna come to us all one day…”

“Not yet I hope,” a gritty, knowing voice grumbled. “I kind of think you boys have too much work to do yet…”

Dean and Sam turned to see Warwick smiling at them expectantly as if he knew the day, month and year of their future demises. Both brothers shuddered simultaneously.

“Dude, are you sure you’re batting on our side? ’Cause for a man your age, you’ve sure got some creepy-assed stealth moves going on.” Dean peered at the conductor who peered right on back.

“I’m glad you two came here,” Warwick finally answered.

“Why, so you can thank us for our kick-ass ghostbusting?”

The conductor’s face creased into another more craggy smile, and he produced a small envelope like he was pulling a rabbit from a hat. “No, so I can give you the bill for the damages to loco 66…”

“You gotta be friggin’ kidding me, right?” Dean snatched the envelope anyway, inviting a small chuckle from Warwick.

“It’s a little thank you from some of the more…affluent passengers onboard that night. Stringer and your soap opera lovers seemed to think you deserved it.”

Dean tore off the edge of the envelope and discovered a folded check inside. He whistled as he read the amount it was made out for. “Whoa, Samantha, looks like we won’t need any more credit card scams for a few months…”

“Which is very good news,” another voice chimed in. “That means I won’t have to come and arrest your worthless butts for fraud…” Guevara stood at the edge of the cemetery driveway, leaning on the Impala’s roof, fingers interlocked.

“I’d say nice to see you, Detective, but…” Dean squirmed as Guevara actually “touched” his baby. Cop’s fingers all over his paintwork was like blasphemy. “Can’t say as I expected to see you again this soon. Thought you’d be out busting some other poor schmuck’s chops for something they didn’t do…”

Guevara smiled and walked around the car to join them, sliding his hands into his overcoat pockets as he parked himself next to Warwick. “Nah, I was too busy saving your butt. Let’s just say my superiors think I was the one Luke had chosen as his last victim, and that he got stabbed during the fight I had with him. Forensics confirmed the dagger was the blade that killed Wozniak and all the other victims of the Slayer.” He shrugged. “Open and shut case.”

“What about Luke?” Sam asked, thinking of the kid’s parents.

Guevara’s face saddened. “His reputation is pretty much the casualty in all of this. It’s gone down on file that Fraser was obsessed with the Hell Gate Butcher – the evil serial killer unmasked by his grandfather – and had pretty much become so enamored by the story that he’d decided to re-enact it.”

“But with himself in the Butcher’s role rather than the grandfather’s,” Sam concluded.

The cop nodded. “Pretty much. I’m sorry it had to go down that way, but I had to keep you boys out of the picture.” He winked. “Given your brother’s reputation and all.”

“Yeah, yeah, bite me.”

Guevara pulled a face that said he’d rather not. “Anyway, the way I see it, you two boys actually owe me a favor.”

Dean instantly squirmed. “Dude, we so don’t swing that way…”

The cop ignored him and looked at Sam. “If anything spooky happens in Baltimore, I expect payment in full. Deal?”

“If you can take another visit from my brother, yeah, deal,” Sam chuckled. “And…thanks for covering for us. The kind of cops we usually meet aren’t always so…understanding.”

Guevara nodded and checked his watch. “Time I was elsewhere. See you around, guys.” He paused and his brow wrinkled in thought. “And if not, maybe see you on the other side someday.” He cocked his head and continued walking back to his beat up Ford without turning again.

“I think we just made a new friend,” Sam noted.

“You made a new friend,” Dean corrected. “Sammy got Shaft in his back pocket.”

“Better than Miss Marple, dude.” Sam looked at Warwick as his brother scowled. “Need a lift back to the station?”

Before Warwick could answer, Dean’s scowl had turned into an expression of full-blown facial torture. “Station? Man, I am so not going within half a mile of a friggin’ train. No sir, no more trains for this Winchester…ever!” He jangled the Impala’s keys and jumped behind the wheel.

As the engine cranked into life, Sam and Warwick could still hear Dean’s protests over the top of the Chevy’s mechanical growl.

“Trains are right on up there with planes…cramped and full of nutjobs…”

“…I’m telling you, they’re overgrown cans on wheels, dude…”

“And have you seen the news? They crash, a lot…”

“And let’s not forget, whacked out serial killing spooks with big knives and even bigger egos LOVE trains…”

Warwick put a hand on Sam’s shoulder from the backseat. “Son, maybe I should get a taxi…”

But Dean didn’t even hear the suggestion.

He was on a roll, and nothing short of a miracle was going to shut him up now.

The End

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The Winchester Chronicles