Descent

~*~ TWO: Revelations ~*~


May 13, 2008 – Kankakee, Illinois


Sam knows he's slipping, losing it, like skidding out of control on black ice in slow motion.

He's got to keep his shit together, because he's the only one that can get the job done.

He's got to stay frosty.

Dean's depending on it.

He huddles in the shadows, keeping a close eye on the alley. It's freezing for the middle of May, and he curses himself for not bringing his flask along. “C'mon, hurry the fuck up,” he says, checking to make sure the Knife is secure in its sheath for like the hundredth time.

His dream...or vision...from last night has brought him to Kankakee. Hopefully demon number five will be the one to break his losing streak.

As soon as Bobby left him alone in Pontiac, Sam had lingered, working on embracing his powers rather than blocking them. The effects had been totally amazing. He'd dreamed like a motherfucker that very first night, and every night after that.

Visions and premonitions, all involving demons.

He'd spent his days on-line or at libraries, studying articles and texts that dealt with mental discipline and directed dreaming, meditation and thought projection, telekinesis and mind reading.

The speed with which his abilities progressed was astounding, and a bit scary. Ava'd been right: the learning curve was crazy.

Within a few days, he found that he could sense demons nearby. There was no shortage of them, especially after Lilith's little dog and pony show.

Another few days, and he could feel the presence of every demon within five miles of him.

And a few days after that, he was able to hear their thoughts, too.

He'd lost a few nights' sleep after that breakthrough, wave after wave of dark, murky thoughts filling his head until he'd felt his brain would melt out of his ears. If nothing else, it'd lit a fire under his ass to figure out how to block them out.

Once he'd had that trick down, it'd been pretty easy to learn how to focus on just one demon's thoughts at a time, sort of like being able to listen to a single person talk in a crowded room.

Unlike Ava, though, he couldn't summon demons. But he sure as hell could track them down.

Less than ten days after Dean's death, Sam set out on his first demon dragnet.

He'd had a rough time tackling the first handful of demons in and around Pontiac, though. Somehow they'd known he was there, so they hadn't been too surprised when he'd shown up with salt and holy water.

The first two encounters went to crap almost instantly, and he'd been forced to use the Kinfe, killing the hosts before being able to extract any useful information from either demon.

The third and fourth demons hadn't known anything of value concerning Lilith's whereabouts. Sam'd been able to exorcise both hellspawn, leaving one host dead and the other nearly comatose.

The four strike-outs did little to lift his spirits. And there was the huge, yawning hole in his gut that wouldn't go away, no matter how much Jack and Johnnie he sucked down.

The absence of Dean is an almost palpable thing, like a semi-solid wall he keeps bumping into when he isn't paying attention.

There were times when he'd been researching in the hotel room that he'd catch a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of his eye: Dean sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning his gun, or leafing through one of his skin mags, or just sitting at the table, watching him. Some mornings he'd wake up, still bleary eyed and groggy, certain that Dean was right there next to him in bed.

He'd chalked the hallucinations up to an overactive imagination and way too much booze.

Rationally, he knows it isn't possible that Dean's spirit is appearing.

Dean's in Hell, end of story.

His dreams aren't helping, either. Peppered in with his visions, the dreams always start out the same, a kind of instant replay of that last night in New Harmony. No matter what he does to change things, no matter how hard he tries, Dean always dies.

Somewhere, the Trickster's probably laughing his ass off.

“Fucker,” Sam breathes, the chill working its way through his thin soled athletic shoes. He stares up and down the empty alley, focusing on the rusted metal exit door smack in the middle of it.

He knows exactly who he's looking for. Louis Kovacs, a cable guy from Kankakee. Late twenties, single, average. And host to a demon, as it happens. The closest one left to Pontiac. Seems word had gotten out that he'd started hunting hellspawn, and they'd apparently moved elsewhere.

Except for this one. Which was a bit off, but Sam wasn't complaining.

He toys with the idea of heading back to the Impala to warm up when the door clicks and opens, a blast of Thirty-Eight Special cracking the silence.

“Bingo.”

Cable Guy Louis stumbles out of the bar, waves to someone inside, and slams the door.

Sam watches as Cable Guy leans against the door and fumbles with his car keys, dropping them and nearly falling over trying to pick them up. The next instant, he's wobbling down the alley, singing to himself.

Exactly like the vision.

Sam closes the distance between them easily. Cable Guy is totally oblivious, happily slaughtering the lyrics to “Hold On Loosely”. Sam clamps the chloroform soaked rag over Cable Guy's mouth, and he slumps to the wet pavement like a sack of potatoes.

“Man, shut up already.”

The guy couldn't carry a tune if he'd had a bucket.

~*~ * ~*~

Sam double checks the ropes securing Cable Guy to the chair and then his pulse, verifying that all is set. He throws another log into the fireplace, which isn't completely necessary, but it's freakin' chilly in the abandoned house.

For some reason, demon interrogation simply demands a roaring fire.

Sam's a stickler for little details like that.

It's been a bitch to locate a house with a working fireplace, even though there's no shortage of empty places to choose from around town..

The economy may be shit everywhere, but it was especially shitty in Kankakee.

Besides, the house search had taken his mind off of Dean, at least for a little while.

“Wha...where?” Cable Guy mumbles.

“About time.” Sam smacks the guy, hard.

“Where am I? Who—” Cable Guys eyes go wide. Really wide. His mouth works, but nothing comes out.

Sam uncorks his bottle of holy water. “Let's cut the bullshit, okay? I know you're in there, so let's just get this over with. Answer my questions, and I won't have to get all Medieval on your ass.”

Cable Guy squirms in the chair, struggling against the ropes. “No,” he finally manages to splutter. “No!” It thrashes its head from side to side, eyes going black. “Not you!”

Sam steps back in surprise. He's dealt with dozens of demons, and he's never seen one act like this. He'd poured it on a bit thick, but that didn't explain the demon's reaction.

It was...scared.

More than that, it seemed to be terrified. Of him.

“Whoa, hold on,” Sam says. “I just wanna talk.”

The demon stops thrashing, its eyes wide. “Let me go. Let me go!” it wails, staring at the painted Devil's Trap on the ceiling and clearly panicking at being trapped inside its host.

Sam dumps the pretense of a nice conversation and invades the demon's mind. He shifts through the tangled mess of red thoughts, roiling knots of gibberish and nonsense, slashed through and through with sheer, unadulterated terror.

There's nothing of much use that Sam can glean, other than the demon's name and the fact that it's a definite newbie, of the lowest possible pay grade.

The thing begins to scream now, bloodcurdling shrieks that make Sam's skin crawl.

This was so not good. Anyone within a mile radius could hear the damn noise.

The first hints of his own panic welling up inside him, Sam instinctively raises his right hand in a classic calming gesture.

The demon ceases yelling immediately, its mouth falling open, its expression going instantly blank.

Sam steps closer as tendrils of black smoke trickle from the corners of its mouth.

He moves his hand away and the smoke responds. He concentrates on the smoke, on yanking it right the fuck out, curling his fingers as if pulling on something, and the smoke literally showers down and onto the floor. He keeps going, clenching his fist tighter and tighter until the last of the demon puddles around the chair, condensing down further and further, until only ash remains.

Sam unclenches his fist, falling to his knees. His head's about to explode, and he can taste blood in his mouth. “Shit,” he wheezes, wiping more blood from his nose.

What the fuck?

“Oh, man, I'm never doing Jaeger shots again.”

Sam tries to focus on Cable Guy, who's staring right back at him with a pair of bloodshot, but decidedly blue, eyes. “Louis? Louis Kovacs?”

“That's me, but who are you?” Louis replies, more bemused than anything. He glances at the ropes binding him to the chair. “Did Brumley put you up to this? Hey, no offense, but I need to take a rain check. Got an early shift tomorrow.”

Sam slumps to the floor and laughs for the first time in weeks.


May 17, 2008 – Baraboo, Wisconsin


Sam picks up on pulling demons pretty fast. By the time he gets to Baraboo to check out reports of a nasty poltergeist at the Al Ringling Theater, he's successfully yanked five out of their hosts. And all five people survived—more or less.

He hadn't even bothered going through the usual motions with the last one; he'd just walked up behind the woman, put up his hand and turned her around right there on the deserted sidewalk. He'd pulled and zapped her demon in less than a minute, leaving her definitely bewildered but demon-free as he hauled ass back to the Impala.

Really, it was sorta cool. And just the thing he needs.

The accidental breakthrough with Louis buoys him, slows the skidding sensation that's taken up permanent residence in his gut. It doesn't do a thing to plug the hole inside him, but he knows that nothing can take care of that.

Nothing but getting his brother back, that is.

And even though the dreams keep on coming as strong as ever, he can not only direct them, but now he can control them.

Dean never dies anymore.

All he's got to do is to make his dreams a reality.

It eats away at him that his plan to save his brother is so damn thin. All he's got to go on is that Lilith holds Dean's contract. So finding the bitch is top priority. He doubts she'll just release Dean if asked politely, so finding a way to force her to do it also ranks pretty high on his list. Killing her outright is one option, but there's no guarantee that would automatically release Dean.

More damn questions than answers.

He's scoured the net and called in every favor from every hunter and demon expert he knows, and he's come up with nothing that could help him force a demon to do anything against its will.

But as frustrating as that's been, he's still got an ace in his pocket.

He'd never guessed that being a bona fide freak would come in handy.

Sam's researched the phenomenon of pulling demons, and he's not surprised he hasn't heard of it before. There's precious little to be found about it, except for a few oblique references in some obscure texts from the Middle Ages. What strikes him about the passages are the lines that clearly refer to blood as part of the process.

Demon blood. As in the drinking of.

He's found nothing to support that assertion, anywhere.

Even his Dad's journal proves useless.

He stares at his new cell phone, the urge to call Bobby almost impossible to ignore.

Sure, Bobby might be able to help, but he can't draw anyone else into this. Especially Bobby.

He'd ditched his old cell and gotten the new one, with a new identity to boot. He'd buried his tracks to make sure no one could find him. Only one person could track down Wedge Antilles, and that person is trapped in The Pit at the moment.

What the hell would he say, even if he did make the call?

Hey, Bobby, it's me, Sam. So I've found that I can pull demons from their hosts just by using my freaky mind powers, and, well, not just that, because Azazel bled in my mouth when I was a baby, so I've got demon blood in me. Anyway, I read something in this old text that indicates that drinking demon blood enhances the demon pulling process. What do you think?

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Wimping out and crying for help isn't an option.

This is something he has to do on his own. He'll work things through.

He has to.


~*~ * ~*~


The poltergeist in the theater turns out to be nothing more than a particularly vocal Death Echo.

After a bit of digging through the archives of the local newspaper, Sam easily identifies the spirit, makes contact, and sends it off to the Great Beyond.

He's slipping out of the theater when he senses it. A demon. Really close by.

He focuses on it, scoping out its exact location, barely two blocks away.

Its thoughts are clear, easy to read.

Sam quickens his pace when he hears Lilith's name and something about seals.

He rounds a corner and senses a second demon.

An empty storefront looms before him, yellowed newspapers plastered all over the inside of the plate glass windows.

Both of them are inside.

He inches his way to the back of the building, pressing against the damp brick wall. Peering around a corner, he finds the back door ajar, its cheap padlock blasted open. The first demon's going on and on about seals and Lilith and changes in plans, but Sam can't quite lock onto the thoughts of the second. They're like the ones the demon in Louis had, all red and tangled, barely readable.

Sam's heart thuds in his chest. He knows he's got to get in there. But two demons at once? Can he hold both of them?

“Only one way to find out,” he says, creeping through the entry door.

The two demons are still going at it, the echo of their voices leading him through the back rooms. The first one, a woman, is clearly agitated and she's the one with the red thoughts. The other, a guy, is definitely the alpha, relaying orders. They seem so caught up in their argument that they haven't noticed him yet.

Cool.

Sam takes deep breaths, struggling to concentrate, to center himself. But he's riddled with adrenaline, nearly ready to jump out of his skin.

Literally aching to wring some intel from the dark sons of bitches.

He draws the Knife with his left hand and pauses at the doorway leading to the front of the vacant store.

The demons are still carping at each other like an old married couple.

“I don't understand,” the woman says. “I'm Lilith's, not yours. She should be the one giving the orders.”

“You don't need to understand,” the guy drawls, clearly annoyed. “Just do as you're told.”

“But—”

“You haven't been topside nearly long enough to question. Lilith is attending to far more important matters than relaying orders to the likes of you.”

Sam chances a glimpse around the door frame, just as the male demon backs the female into the wall.

“I'm sure Lilith's busy,” the woman stutters. “Sure she is. But what you're saying...it's so—”

“Don't question. Don't think. Just follow instructions. If that's too bothersome, I can send you back downstairs right now. Alastair will have no problem at all creating an opening in his schedule.”

Even in the dim light, Sam can see the woman's eyes go wide.

“No, no, that won't be...I'll do it, no problem.”

Sam doesn't wait for the guy to gloat over his underling. He walks into the room, right hand in front of him, palm open. He concentrates on holding both demons in place, keeping them still. He feels them, caresses their energies, grabbing onto them and holding on.

For an instant he thinks he's succeeded.

The male demon senses him first. With a snarl, he jerks his head to glare at Sam, eyes ablaze.

Red eyes.

The female demon's mouth merely drops open.

Sam attempts to tighten his hold on them, but the force working against him doubles. Then doubles again. His head begins to throb, his fingers tingling as if they're too close to fire. He sees stars as he strains to hold the demons, certain that its Red Eyes doing most of the work.

“You can't hold me,” Red Eyes says through clenched teeth.

The firepain shoots up Sam's arm and his head feels like it'll shatter at any second. He moves a few steps toward Red Eyes, who's now facing him.

Sam loses his grip bit by bit. He can't hold them. He's not strong enough. He's out of time and options.

He lunges for Red Eyes, taking the demon by surprise. He aims the Knife for the center of the demon's chest, but the thing partially blocks his attack. He feels the blade find home, but it barely penetrates an inch of flesh at most.

The pain and throbbing in Sam's head ceases instantly.

Red Eyes rips the Knife from his host's chest before throwing back his head and smoking out.

The Knife clatters to the floor and Sam whirls on the female demon, easily holding her in place as Red Eye's host body crumples.

Unlike the demon in Louis, this one doesn't scream. It just stares back at him through a pair of fathomless black eyes. It's calm now, a complete one-eighty from just a few seconds ago. Sam probes through its chaotic jumble of a mind, unable to grab anything other than a few isolated words.

Seals. Lilith. Rack. Sixty-Six. Plans. Alastair. Lilith. Seals.

He's about to give up when one more thing emerges from the maelstrom:

Father

Sam tightens his grip on the demon. “Father? Whose father?”

The demon smiles. “Sorry, but I'm not programmed to respond in that area.”

“So not funny.”

“Go fuck yourself.” The demon laughs. “Now that big brother's gone, that's all you can do, anyway.” It laughs again, clearly pleased with itself.

White hot rage wells up from deep within Sam's gut. “Wrong. I can still fuck you.” He harnesses his rage, channels it, clenching his fist and digging his fingernails into his palm.

The demon screams then, visible bolts of pain shooting through its body.

Sam squeezes still harder, sending the demon into agony.

It writhes in Sam's grip, limbs shaking, sweat pouring from every pore.

Sam leans in close. “Fuck you,” he breathes in its ear. A final pull, and the demon smokes out, pooling onto the floor. He watches as it roils around in its death throes, dim flickers of orange and crimson slowly fading until only a pile of ash remains.

The woman slumps down in a jumbled heap.

Sam lays his fingers on the side of her neck, her pulse steady but weak.

She'll live.

He collects his Knife, wiping the blade on his t-shirt.

Sam verifies that the guy's dead. Whether the body was already dead before Sam stabbed it, it was definitely worm food now. No telling how long the demon had been riding him. He checks the body for ID and isn't surprised that he finds none. Maybe the local PD will figure out who he was.

And there's something definitely off about a red-eyed demon doing anything other than making deals. From what Sam's learned over the years, that's pretty much their sole function. Why one was playing messenger for Lilith puts a new wrinkle on things.

The woman groans and Sam's about to make the necessary anonymous phone tip when he hears the telltale sound of a safety being flicked.

“Don't move or I'll blow your head clean off.”

Sam freezes. Shit, it can'tbe the cops already. Cops are noisy, and there hadn't been any sirens or even lights. Had a cop seen him enter the building? Damn, but he's been sloppy.

“Don't shoot! I was passing by and heard something—”

“Save it. Put your hands up where I can see 'em. Stay on your knees and turn around. Slow. I got a real itchy trigger finger, if ya get my meaning.”

Sam complies, his mind racing. He takes in the guy holding a sawed off on him.

Stocky build, maybe mid-thirties, flannel shirt, down vest, jeans and cycle boots. Pretty scary looking knife in a sheath on his belt. The butt of what's probably a handgun in a shoulder holster peeks out from under his vest. The guy's wearing three necklaces: a crucifix, a pentagram, and what looks to be a tiny leather pouch the size of a peach pit. Definitely not a cop.

A Hunter.

“I can explain,” Sam says, knowing how lame it sounds.

“Shut up!” the hunter says, advancing a few steps. “I don't need to hear none of your cooked up bullshit.”

“Wait, listen, I tracked these two demons here and—”

“And what? I saw what you did, so don't waste your breath.”

Sam's heart jumps into his throat. Just how much did the actually see? By the sound of it, way too much. He'd be able to rush the guy if he weren't stuck on his knees. “My name's Sam, and I'm a Hunter, just like you. It's not what you think.”

“Yeah? A Hunter, just like me, huh?” He chuckles as he reaches into his vest with his free hand, extracting a flat, glass bottle. He pulls the cork with his teeth and spits it out. “I didn't fall off the hay wagon yesterday, ya know. I've been huntin' demons for fifteen years, and I've never seen anyone do what you just did.” He nods to the dead guy's body. “You stabbed that one there with some knife and it smoked out.” He jerks his head toward the woman, who's rapidly regaining consciousness. “And that one? You done pulled it out yourself. Somehow. Not before you made it suffer, though.”

“Of course I did it myself,” Sam says, his heart thudding away. “A new method of exorcism I've been working on. I'll share it with you.”

“Somethin' new, huh? That don't need no Devil's Trap or incantation? Sure. And I've got this bridge I can sell you real cheap.” He flicks the bottle, spraying its contents across Sam's face. When nothing happens, he actually steps backward.

“See? I'm no demon,” Sam splutters, his patience wearing thin.

“I don't know what the hell you are,” the Hunter says, clearly agitated. “I always try to save the body a demon's been ridin', but since holy water don't work on you, there's always old reliable.” He aims his sawed off at Sam's head.

“You're making a mistake,” Sam yells, losing control. “I'm human.” He rises to his feet. “We're on the same side.”

The Hunter backs up another step. “I saw you. No human being has red eyes. Say hello to the devil for me, you son of a bitch.”

Sam lunges for the Hunter in a desperate attempt to grab the shotgun, or at least knock it sideways. He barely starts to move when the sawed off flies directly into his right hand. He's stunned, pausing only a half-second.

The Hunter recovers just as fast, drawing his handgun and flicking off its safety in a single, fluid motion.

“No!” Sam yells, lashing out as the handgun sails off into the darkness. The next instant, the Hunter's thrown against the nearest wall, a sickening crack signaling snapping bone. He collapses to the floor, his head at an impossible angle.

Sam knows he's dead without bothering to check for a pulse. “Fuck!”

Whipping a rag from his jacket pocket, he goes into overdrive. He wraps the rag around the hilt of the Hunter's knife and removes it from its sheath. He plunges it onto the chest wound of Red Eye's dead host, leaving it there.

As the woman's moans turn to disjointed mumbles, Sam grabs the Hunter's sawed off and hightails it back to his motel.

Time to get the hell out of Baraboo.


May 30, 2008 – Bowling Green, Ohio


“Another double, neat.”

The muscled bartender nods and struts off to fetch the whiskey.

Sam watches the kid a minute before swiveling around on his bar stool.

All university watering holes were the same, and this one was about as generic as they come. Loud jukebox, ratty tables, and a painted concrete floor so sticky you could lose your shoes. The stench of stale beer hangs heavy in the air with just a touch of dope, most likely wafting from the restrooms.

He gathers that he's arrived smack in the middle of exam week, mostly based on overheard snippets of conversations from the kids filling the place. They're either getting smashed to celebrate or moan over finished exams, or getting smashed in anticipation of one. He remembers this atmosphere of quiet desperation coupled with outright hopelessness all too well.

But Sam's not here to reminisce about his own university days.

Nope, Stanford is far behind him now, a relic of his past. A misstep. A curious error in judgment from a time when he thought he could pass for normal.

He swallows the bit of whiskey left in his glass as the juke revs up some Foreigner.

It's been a lackluster span of days, and he's no closer to finding Lilith that he was at the get go. He's pulled a handful of demons, but not a single one possessed any useful information that he didn't already have. The same old crap: sixty-six seals, some new plan. There were hundreds of seals, and without a clue as to which sixty-six the demons were talking about, the intel was basically useless.

Offing a Hunter's done nothing for lifting his spirits either, even though he knows he didn't have a choice. It was self defense, kill or be killed, wasn't it? Just like Gordon. But that damned little voice inside keeps nattering away, telling him that knocking the guy out probably would've worked, too.

“Shut up,” he breathes, lifting his empty glass to his lips.

What's really eating at him is that he got sloppy back in Baraboo. He'd focused entirely on the two demons without taking an few extra minutes to hang out and assess the situation. If he had, he'd have probably noticed the Hunter's truck parked in the alleyway. If he'd just slowed down a little, he might have figured out that someone else was tracking the very same demons.

It was all elementary shit. Hunting 101. And he'd fucked it up.

The fact that he's saving people after snapping their demons out of them should be some comfort, but it's not.

“There ya go.”

The bartender sets down a fresh glass of Jack and Sam slides a ten across the bartop. “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” the guy says, an odd expression on his face.

Sam takes a deep swallow of the golden liquid, savoring the slow burn that penetrates all the way down into his belly.

The Baraboo cops had blamed a drug deal gone bad for the mess he'd left behind there. The apparent lack of any illegal substances at the scene didn't seem to be important.

The woman turned out to be a hairstylist missing from Topeka, Kansas since February. Red Eye's host hadn't been identified yet, but they'd ID'd the Hunter as Jason Tyrell of Saginaw, Michigan. Since he was a Hunter, and therefore unemployed with no apparent means of income, the cops had no problem labeling Tyrell a drug dealer and laying all the blame on him.

There'd been the expected outcry on the Hunter's network, and Sam hoped to hell that he'd covered his tracks well enough. The last thing he needed was for another Hunter to figure out he'd been in Baraboo when he'd killed Tyrell. The chances were slim, but the way his luck's been running lately...

“Here. Looks like you could use it.” The bartender sets the bottle of Jack next to Sam's glass. It's two-thirds empty, but there's more than a few shots left in it.

“Hey, man, that's cool,” Sam protests.

“Forget it. If you need anything else, well, just let me know.” The bartender pauses a moment, starts to turn away, and leans in toward Sam. “Uh, I'm Randy, by the way.”

“Jeff,” Sam lies, smiling. “Thanks, man.”

“Sure.” Randy saunters off to the other end of the bar to take care of some chunky kid who could barely stand.

Sam's fake smile fades almost instantly.

He's not bothered by Randy's apparent interest. He's used to being hit on from time to time, mostly women, but a fair number of guys, too. Dean always blamed it on what he referred to as Sam being cursed with “doe eyes syndrome”.

Whatever.

It's all so mystifying, the whole sex thing. He'd fooled around with a couple of guys in junior high, the usual experimentation. He'd had one or two girlfriends during his high school years, but never anything serious. Not until Jess. After her murder, hooking up just to get off seemed more of a luxury, a distraction from the job at hand.

He snorts at his unintentional pun.

He's always managed to satisfy himself, and if it's only his own right hand, it's better than nothing.

Once he'd hit the road with Dean though, everything changed. He'd never realized how much he'd blocked off when he'd left home for Stanford. Somehow, he'd managed to brick up that part of himself that needed Dean, that loved him.

Must've been the focus on his studies, or maybe the freedom from his Dad, or maybe Jess.

Maybe all of it.

Back with Dean though, Sam's interior walls came crashing down. He gladly fell into the old, familiar rhythm of Dean. The comforting feel of his brother's confidence, of his determination and loyalty.

He's not sure when the final switch flipped, when he realized that his love for Dean had crossed the line from brotherly love into...well, love. It'd been so gradual a shift that Sam can't even put a finger on the when.

And the how?

That was easy.

Sam knew exactly what lay beneath the surface of Dean's gruff, carefully crafted macho exterior. Over the years, Sam had snatched glimpses of the real Dean, assembling the disjointed pieces one at a time. And when he'd finally solved the puzzle that was his big brother, he couldn't help but be blown away by it.

It was far more than Dean's attractive outer packaging, too. Sure, he'd seen his brother naked all the time, from way back when they were kids. They were brothers, after all.

And he'd recognized early on that Dean was pretty damned handsome. He recalls entertaining more than a handful of unsavory thoughts concerning his brother back in junior high. Later on, he'd just attributed it to raging teenage hormones.

He never really understood the taboo that surrounded guys saying another guy was good looking, either. It didn't make sense, especially since it seemed acceptable for women to engage in the same thing. He'd finally given up on that particular form of self-expression by the time he was twelve, mostly because he grew tired of kicking someone else's ass every time it came up.

Growing up a freak in a family of Hunters had a few advantages.

He'd been witness to Dean's adult sexual exploits, of course, spending far too many hours banished to the Impala so Dean could bed his latest conquest. He'd known, too, that Dean wasn't above slipping into a gas station restroom for a quick blow job from another guy if time was short and didn't permit a trip to the local dive bar or strip club.

Did getting blown by another guy make Dean queer? Or just easy?

Fuckin' labels.

Sam hates labels.

He downs some more Jack as the juke blares Beck's “Nausea”. Kinda fitting, especially considering the sounds emanating from the nearby restroom.

To his mind, people were far too unique, too complex to be summed up in a word or two.

He really admired the concept that many first nations of the Americas had subscribed to, the notion that there were several genders, and that certain people carried multiple genders at the same time. And they were generally held in high regard by their particular tribes, most often seen as special individuals sent to them by the gods. Definitely cool, not to mention open-minded. These days, it was too frickin' easy to label someone as gay or lesbian or bisexual, to pigeonhole them.

Dean did that a lot, but Sam knew it was all bluster, over compensation. Dean was all about deflection.

Sam had his number, though.

If anything, he likes the idea of pansexuality the most. The concept of loving the person inside regardless of the exterior packaging. Sure, he appreciates a good looking body as much as anyone, but for him, it's what's inside that really counts.

Loving someone based on the beauty of their soul.

And Dean's soul is a fucking stunner.

Blinding and beautiful.

Most folks never bother to get past Dean's alpha male exterior, to dig a little, to pry open a tiny crack and catch a glimpse of the true Dean. Of course Dean works overtime to keep people at a distance, so hardly anyone ever gets close enough to even try. And on those ultra rare occasions when someone manages to get too close for Dean's tastes, he just shoves them away.

After Dean had made the deal to bring him back, though, all bets had been off. He'd been blindsided by Dean's neediness, the hungry way Dean'd thrown himself at him. Sam hadn't complained, of course, but the intensity of it had definitely been a little unnerving.

There'd been no words, just Dean holding him, then kissing him, the slow burn igniting like a wild fire between them. That'd been the first time Dean had taken him, but certainly not the last.

Sam'd been sure of where he was coming from, but Dean never offered a single word of explanation. A final barrier had been busted down, and that was that. They didn't really talk about it.

They just were.

If...no, when...he gets Dean back, he's definitely gonna spill his guts. Say all the things he should of said already. Make sure Dean knows everything.

Sam's lonely enough to almost consider flirting with Randy, but he squashes the notion. He can't afford to let his guard down just to screw around with some young college kid, no matter how horny he is.

Anything could happen, and the last thing Sam wants is to endanger another innocent life.

Besides, he's got work to do here, and he needs to get it done and get out.

He sips on his Jack, catching Randy staring at him with a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“Geez.” Sam smiles back again, unable to stop himself.

Must be the booze.

He'd come to Bowling Green because he'd noted a pattern surrounding a handful of bizarre deaths. All successful individuals. All odd circumstances. A bit of digging, and Sam found that all three people in question had become remarkably successful ten years earlier, a sure sign of a deal making demon.

Looking back through city and county death records, he'd uncovered a similar set of deaths every year during the last week of May. Sometimes only one, sometimes three, but all fitting the pattern.

A red-eyed demon had set up shop in Bowling Green, and Sam was going to summon it. Hopefully to wring some information from it, and just as much to flex his psychic muscles.

He'd hit the bar intending to have just a drink or two, to lend a bit of credibility to the drunken, depressed and hopeless façade that he'd planned to present to the demon. The more pathetic and broken he appeared, the easier it'd be to get the jump on the thing.

That'd had been his plan, anyway.

Now, he was well on the way to getting shitfaced, thanks mostly to Randy's super-sized double shots.

Sam downs the rest of the Jack and fills his glass again. Of course Randy's staring at him, and Sam returns the gesture before taking a huge swallow.

“Fuck it.”

He decides to finish the bottle.

It'd be rude not to.

Besides, Randy's got a great smile.

Not to mention a sweet ass.


~*~ * ~*~


Sam nearly falls out of the Impala, finally finding the crossroads after more than a few wrong turns.

He smiles to himself as he grabs his summoning box and a shovel from the Impala's trunk. It's a good thing he'd put the box together earlier in the day, because he's way too wasted to handle such a task now.

He stumbles to the middle of the crossroads, the shovel seeming to have developed a mind of its own.

As it happened, he'd not only polished off the bottle of Jack, but three more shots, all on the house from Randy.

Or was it four?

They'd all had names, but he sure as hell can't remember any of them. He's also sure that he'd made a complete buttface of himself, but Randy didn't seem to mind.

After the last foofy shot, he'd shambled into the grimy restroom to let out some of the Jack. He'd barely zipped up when the door creaked and a pair of hands snaked their way inside his jacket and under his t-shirt. Randy'd turned him around and backed him into the handicap stall, his tongue invading Sam's mouth, his hand slipping down and inside the back of Sam's jeans. Sam had ripped open Randy's tight Levi's, stroking him off in less than a minute. The next thing Sam knew, the kid was on his knees taking the whole of Sam's erect dick into his mouth.

Randy certainly knew his way around cock, and it was the best blow job Sam's had in weeks.

Of course the kid had wanted his number, so Sam had given him one.

Who knew what the phone number actually went to, but Randy seemed happy with it.

A win-win scenario. For a change.

Sam finally manges to bury his summoning box and return the shovel to the trunk without tripping over it. He shuffles back to the center of the crossroads, almost forgetting to wipe the smile off his face.

“Supposed to be depressed,” he mutters, struggling not to laugh out loud.

“All right, where are you?” he roars, hoping to sound pissed off. “C'mon!”

He whirls around, arms outstretched, feeling a decidedly cool draft wafting through the front of his jeans.

“Oh, shit.” He yanks up his zipper just as a voice calls out from behind him.

“Sammy Winchester. I've gotta tell you, I almost didn't come, especially after how you treated one of my co-workers.”

Sam approaches the demon, who's wearing a guy this time. “Yeah? Well, she ticked me off.”

“Which is why I'm here, Sammy boy.” The demon loosens his tie. “Maybe if the meat's more appealing, you'll be less likely to do something stupid.”

“I wanna deal,” Sam says, face to face with the demon.

“Man, you don't look so good.” The thing leans in, sniffing Sam's breath. “Drowning your sorrows in cheap booze. Understandable, since your entire family's dead and you're all alone.”

Sam reaches out to probe the demon's thoughts. After a few seconds of nothing, he curses himself for getting so sauced. “Cut the crap. I wanna deal. My soul for Dean's.”

“Oh, I don't think so, Sammy.” The demon draws a finger along Sam's jawline. “Not that I wouldn't mind sealing a deal with you.” He shrugs. “But my hands are tied. Dean's deal is unbreakable.”

Sam doesn't really expect a deal; it's all pretense, an excuse to get close to a red-eyed demon. And tonight must be his lucky night.

“Everything's negotiable,” Sam replies, allowing some anger to creep into his voice. Which isn't difficult, as the demon's smug expression is really torquing him off.

“This deal isn't. We've got everything the way we want it. So, if there's nothing else I can do for you...or to you, I'll be off.” He pauses a moment, his eyes drifting down to the hilt of the Knife poking out from the inside of Sam's jacket. “Unless you plan on using that pig sticker on me.”

“No need to dirty the blade,” Sam breathes, reaching out and snagging the demon's energy.

The satisfied expression fades from the demon's features. “Well, well. Look who's been working their mojo.”

“I want to know where Lilith is. I want to know about these sixty-six seals.”

“You're a lot cuter when you're pretending to be drunk, Sam.”

Sam tightens his grip, and the demon shudders. “Talk, or else.”

“Go ahead. Send me back,” it says through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I'm gonna send you a lot farther than that, you fucker.”

Sam squeezes his fist with all his might, and the demon's screams echo across the empty fields.