Descent

~*~ THREE: Deceptions ~*~


June 10, 2008 – Monticello, Indiana


Ruby catches Sam by surprise in Monticello, the cherry on the cake of his worst week in recent memory.

He'd botched a simple haunting in Muncie, underestimated the size of a nest of vamps holed up outside of Findlay, nearly getting himself turned. And he'd nearly been nabbed by a nosy Sheriff while following up a blind lead in Morganfield, Kentucky.

His offing of the crossroads demon in Bowling Green had apparently tipped his hand somehow, and the hellspawn are definitely adapting. They're harder to find now, and of those that he does manage to corner, half smoke out before he gets a chance to hold them. The handful that he's been able to hold and interrogate tell him next to nothing, and he's under the definite impression that they're somehow masking their thoughts.

He's snagged a few more scraps of information regarding Lilith's plans for the seals, although not nearly enough to determine her endgame.

On top of all that, Sam's emotional rollercoaster ride seems to intensify by the day. The magnitude between the highs and lows grows wider and wider, his constant struggle to maintain an even keel less and less effective.

He'd had Dean to rely on for the last few years, and without him, Sam feels only half here, incomplete. So much of their success as Hunters had clearly been because of their ability to work so well together, each of them supplying their personal strengths to create a whole stronger than the sum of their parts.

Sam's missing things, not picking up on subtleties and clues that Dean would have scoped out in an instant.

The dreams that intersperse themselves amongst his visions aren't helping, either. He dreams of Dean in The Pit, writhing in the flames. Or of a naked, needy Dean beneath his fingertips.

He doesn't know which is harder to handle.

Sam's taken up with his buddies Johnny and Jack again, to blot out the pain, and that's how Ruby had gotten the jump on him.

He could only imagine what Dean would say about his pathetic sloppiness, about letting himself get so shitfaced that he was cornered in his own hotel room.

He'd been tailspinning when Ruby and her partner had showed up, and couldn't have cared less if she'd killed him or not.

She didn't though, turning the Knife on her henchman and babbling some crap about outsmarting Lilith and coming back to help him out.

Of course he was too drunk to read her thoughts.

Another fuck up, but he'd stopped counting 'em weeks ago.


June 13, 2008 – Dayton, Ohio


Sam stretches out in the most uncomfortable chair ever, hacking into the neighbor's unsecured wireless connection. All the comforts of home, or at least all that could be afforded by the abandoned house he was squatting in. The state of Dayton's east side made Kankakee look like Beverly Hills. It suits his purposes to avoid motels for awhile, and after two days, no one seems to have noticed or cared he'd taken up residence in the decaying neighborhood.

He does sorta miss the Vibra-Beds, but all he really needs for now is a mattress and enough electricity to run his laptop. He's got that covered, as the small solar panel liberated from some interstate emergency call box is more than enough to keep the marine battery fully charged. Add a cheap inverter intended for camping, and it's all good.

And green, too. Which makes him laugh, remembering when recycling and renewable energies actually meant something to him. When such stuff seemed important. Important enough to spar with Dean over, anyway.

He's managed to settle himself a bit after the crap in Indiana, although he's still sipping whiskey at ten in the morning. As long as he drinks to dull the pain and not to get totally blotto, he figures he'll be okay.

Ruby had insisted on tagging along when he'd fled the hotel in Monticello, and after less than an hour on the road, he'd been ready to snuff her just to shut her up. His buzz had degenerated into a killer headache by then, and he still couldn't read a single thought in her borrowed head.

He'd finally booted her out of the Impala, leaving her on the side of some two lane blacktop in the middle of by-god Indiana.

Yesterday, she'd shown up at his front door, bold as brass and wearing a fresh meatsuit. She proudly brandished some hospital bill to prove that her new body was “clean and green” or some such shit. He'd wondered how much trouble it'd been for her to find a young, brain dead patient with perky tits and a tight ass.

He hadn't fully trusted Ruby when she'd first surfaced over a year ago, but she'd proved helpful at precisely the most necessary moments, and she had offered to die for him and Dean back in Colorado.

That was before Lilith had sent Ruby downstairs, hijacking her host body back in New Harmony.

Outwardly, Ruby appeared to be the same. A different body, of course, but inside, Sam saw how she was broken into so many pieces that he couldn't figure out how she still functioned.

Even though he didn't want to, he empathized. He felt the say way about himself.

It hadn't taken long to for him to figure out Ruby's game. Seems being just a bit buzzed enhances his abilities, so he'd no trouble sifting through her thoughts as she sat there, droning on about how sorry she was about Dean and how she wanted to do nothing more than help him find and kill Lilith.

He had to hand it to her, though—she played her role well.

The only problem was, could he do the same?

How long could he go along with her crap when he knew the truth?

Like the fact that Lilith had tortured Ruby downstairs, torn and ripped and flayed her to pieces, only to put her back together and start all over again. Or that Ruby had broken, that she'd begged Lilith for mercy, admitting her transgressions and pledging her eternal allegiance anew?

It was all there, sharp and bright, fresh wounds right on the surface and easy for Sam to see.

Ruby was working for Lilith, nearly every word spewing from her piehole a lie.

He'd almost ganked her right then and there, but he'd somehow managed to retain a shred of self-control.

Ruby definitely had more information buried in the depths of her twisted demon mind, and Sam needed time to root around, to sort things out.

This was the break he'd been waiting for.

Ruby'd talked about training him, teaching him everything she knew. As to that, she wasn't lying.

She'd also mentioned blood.

How blood would make him stronger.

More powerful.

Able to defeat Lilith.

He just had to keep his cool, play along. Pretend to be the wounded little brother, desperate for revenge.

Sam realizes he's feeling a perverse pleasure at the idea of playing someone instead of being played. Fuck it. It's helping to restore some of his confidence, to rebuild a portion of his crumbled and smashed resolve.

He takes a swallow of Jack straight from the bottle as sharp knocks rattle the front door.

Time for his first lesson.

And his first performance.


June 20, 2008


Ruby strings Sam along for over a week before she mentions blood again. She's worked out quite the regimen for him, and it sort of reminds him of the lessons his Dad, and then Dean, used to give him when he was learning about Hunting as a kid.

Every day she shows up with coffee or donuts or subs, all perky and upbeat.

And fake.

Sam hates to admit a growing admiration for her tenacity. Despite being totally fucked over by Lilith, she's just as dedicated to her present course of action as she'd been a year ago. The real kick in the pants is that she'd been genuinely interested in helping him and Dean out back then.

In the here and now, though, she's working him, deceiving him, and no matter what she's done in the past, he's not going to allow that to sway him.

No fucking way.

He's gleaned a few more shreds of information from her over the past week, too.

Again, Sam's amazed at how organized her thoughts are. How controlled she is, focusing completely on whatever task she deems most important at the time.

Calculating, Precise. He's learning a lot from her in that respect.

As for Lilith's plans, all that seems to be kept in the darkest recesses of Ruby's mind, and it's difficult for Sam to probe that deeply without it being obvious. So he works at it, little by little, sweating out every trace of intel that he can pull from her.

He's uncovered that Lilith plans to break sixty-six seals. What'll happen if she's successful, Sam has no idea. Seems Lilith has an endgame of her own percolating, and unlike Azazel's plan, he doesn't play a starring role in it. Dean is mixed up in it somehow too, but all he knows is that his brother will have something to do with one of the seals.

Which one, and exactly how Dean could break a seal while in Hell, remains a mystery.

“Hey, Earth to Sam.”

Sam jerks in his chair, aware that he'd lost himself in thought. “Yeah. I'm listening.”

Ruby pulls a face and folds her arms across her chest. “What'd I just say, then?”

“Uh, something about Lilith,” he guesses.

“Dude, you've got to pay attention.” She jerks her head to an empty bottle of Scotch. “And lay off the sauce. If you're expecting to kill Lilith, you've got to stay sharp.”

“I know. Sorry. I was just thinking—” He stops himself, swallows hard, and adopts what he hopes to be his most hangdog expression. He even throws in a snuffle for good measure.

“Thinking about Dean, huh?”

Sam nods and stares at his hands clasped in his lap.

“Listen, I know how rough this is for you.” Ruby gets up and stands behind him. “It eats me up seeing you like this.” She begins massaging his shoulders. “I remember what it was like to love someone, you know. What it feels like to lose them. So I understand about Dean, I really do.”

Sam shifts under her skilled hands, and it feels good, way too good. “I don't wanna talk about it.” He jumps up and paces the room, pretending to stare out of one of the dingy windows.

Actually, he'd like to talk about it. Needs to talk about it. But not with her. Not with a lying, skank of a demon.

“You've got to get over this, Sam. If there's any chance at all that we're gonna nuke Lilith, to get Dean back, you've got to man up and get with the program.”

He whirls to face her, genuine anger welling up inside. “I said, I'm not talking about it. Got it?”

She blinks at him as if truly wounded, and for an instant, Sam forgets that he's staring at a dead husk, a demon condo.

“Fine. I won't bring it up again.”

“Good.”

Ruby sighs deeply, planting both hands on her hips. “Anyway, I think it's time to step up your game.”

“Okay. Let's do it.”

Ruby'd started him off slow, cornering low level demons and trussing them up beneath Devil's Traps to test and strengthen his powers. Sam'd played along, feigning difficulty with the first few. He'd grown impatient fast, giving in and pulling last night's demon easily. He's been worried that Ruby might have found his speedy progress suspicious, but it seems she's writing it all off as plain old good fortune.

What a joke.

“You've done really, really well Sam. I'm sure you could keep at it on your own, growing stronger, but there isn't time. Lilith's got her pedal to the metal, and the quicker we get Dean out of The Pit, the better.”

“Okay, great, I get it. Let's go. I'm ready.”

“We'll see,” Ruby says, her brow creasing with apparent worry.

Damn, but she was good.

“It's really extreme, but it's the only way to pump you up really fast.”

“Blood, right?” Sam says, stepping toward her.

“Yeah.”

Sam whips out the Knife, handing it to her, handle first.

She snorts. “Didn't expect you to be such an eager beaver.”

“Just full of surprises, I guess..”

She nods, taking the Knife and dragging the razor sharp edge across her extended forearm. A thick line of crimson blossoms, and she shudders. “Go ahead. Drink.”

Sam stares a moment before grabbing her slim arm with both hands. He tightens his grip purposely, applying increasing pressure until she groans.

“Do it, Sam.”

Sam meets her gaze, her eyes solid black, bottomless and empty.

“For Dean,” she adds, noting his hesitation.

“For Dean,” he repeats, roughly yanking her arm closer to his lips.

The next instant, he's sucking on Ruby's wound, pulling in her blood as if sucking out a snake's venom.

Instead of stopping to spit, he keeps going, pushing aside the initial waves of revulsion at what he's doing.

He suckles and laves at the pulsing wound, swallowing and sucking down more. It's coppery and salty thick, a struggle not to gag. The blood warms its way down his throat, pooling in his belly. The sensation spreads from there, working its way through his entire body. Everything begins to tingle, and for the first time in months, Sam feels whole again.

Solid.

Complete.

He keeps at it, drinking more of Ruby's demon blood, feeling more and more relaxed, yet in control.

Confident.

Able to take on anything.

Ruby's saying something, but he doesn't care. He feels the thrum of blood in his veins, the drumbeat of his heart pounding in his chest.

His ears ring with it, and he wants more.

Needs more.

Ruby's trying to pull her arm away, but Sam just tightens his grip.

That's when she screams, breaking Sam's reverie.

“Damn it, Sam!” She yanks her arm free, stumbling backward and landing ass-first on the dusty floorboards. She's deathly pale, staring back at him with eyes wide as saucers.

Sam knows he's grinning like an idiot but doesn't give a shit. He feels great, invincible, even. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pausing a second to scrutinize the smear of blood there.

He licks his hand clean as Ruby stands up, steadying herself on one of the chairs.

“Fuck, Sam, when I say stop, you need to stop.”

“Sorry,” Sam lies. “Got carried away.”

“No shit, Dracula.” She holds up the wounded arm and the sliced skin knits itself together. “We're gonna need a goddamn safe word or something.”

“I'll do better next time. Promise.”

“You'll have to. Another minute or two, and I'd been trolling coma wards for another body.”

“Wouldn't want that.”

Not yet, anyway, Sam muses.

Ruby straightens her t-shirt and hair, taking deep breaths. “Let's see how you do with something a bit more powerful. Say, a crossroads demon?”

“Sounds great.” Sam grabs his keys and follows her to the Impala.


June 23, 2008


“I'm ready to take on a yellow-eyed demon,” Sam says nonchalantly, sipping on his Amstel as Ruby nearly chokes on a mouthful of french fries.

“You're not ready,” she replies, barely missing a beat.

“I am. And you're the one who keeps saying we don't have time to waste.”

“We don't. But we've got to take it easy, Sam. I'm not willing to throw away all the progress we've made. Are you?”

She's stalling. Sam would know it even if he couldn't read her thoughts.

The sandbagging started right after Sam'd offed two red-eyed demons in as many days. He knows its because he's far stronger than he should be, and Ruby recognizes that. She doesn't suspect that he's been flexing his freaky psychic muscles for months.

Actually, she's scared. Things aren't going according to plan, and it's definitely freaking her out.

There's a timetable to Lilith's endgame, and he's not supposed to be acing every little test Ruby sets up for him.

Lilith doesn't have all her ducks in a row yet. Something's holding things up, and it's fallen on Ruby to stall.

“The best thing to do is to keep pushing myself. Going after bigger and bigger game. How many crossroads demons do you want me to nuke before you decide I'm ready to move up the food chain?”

Ruby folds her arms, her lips a thin line.

Sam's been pushing her hard for the last few days, and she clearly doesn't like his boot up her ass.

Too bad.

He needs her to help him track down the upper echelons of hellspawn, as he can't seem to locate them on his own. At least not yet.

Sam's gathered that yellow-eyed demons are pretty rare, and white-eyed demons, like Lilith, are rarer still. Both types tend to be the oldest and most twisted of souls, having shuffled off their mortal coils several hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. Seriously dark things, with absolutely no memory left of their human lives.

Things that exist without feeling or emotion, without remorse.

Pure evil incarnate.

Sam's itching to use his supercharged powers on them, to wring out any information he can and send them packing.

Aside from helping to restore his confidence, the blood's also sharpened his mind sifting abilities immensely.

He'd have thought that by now he could easily pluck anything he wanted from Ruby, but the stronger and bolder he becomes, the more Ruby seems to throw up barriers. Sam's pretty sure it's just reflex, a defensive response on her part, a by product of existing as a tortured soul amongst vicious, traitorous kindred for hundreds of years.

“You're not ready,” she repeats finally, twirling a fry in a pool of ketchup.

It reminds Sam of blood.

And how he hungers for it now, needs it. Wants it. Not just for the blood itself, but for the power he'll get from it.

The power and strength he'll need to save Dean.

Ruby says the hunger will subside eventually, but she's vague on the details. She's definitely stringing him out on that front too, as she's only let him feed from her once in the last ten days.

Sam's not sure how much longer he can keep up his false front. It's frustrating him to no end, but killing her now won't get him anywhere. His desire for blood is making him jumpy and impatient, sometimes so much that he feels ready to leap out of his own skin. But Sam's channeling all of that angst toward Ruby, keeping her under constant pressure.

“Fine. If you won't help, I'll find one myself.” He gulps down the rest of his beer and stands, defying her to stop him.

“You're fucking serious.”

“Yeah, I'm fucking serious.” Sam watches her intently, and she averts his gaze.

“Okay, Rambo. It's your party.” She shoves her chair back and crosses to him, her expression grim. “But if things go south, and I give the word, we book, get it?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm gonna regret this.”

And Sam's absolutely positive that she will.


June 30, 2008


“Hey, it's me again. Give me a call. It's important.”

Sam kills his cell, leaving Ruby another voice message. She's not returning his calls or texts, which is fine, because he'd just as soon yank and zap her than stare at her lying face.

He hasn't seen or heard from her for four days, ever since their failed hunt for a yellow-eyed demon.

Sam's positive that she'd totally screwed him on the hunt, doing nothing but dragging his ass through every backwoods shithole in eastern Kentucky and Tennessee. She'd tacked on an additional day for good measure, wasting more time in southern Illinois and Indiana before finally throwing up her hands and calling it quits.

There just hadn't been any yellow-eyed demons around, she'd said. “They're tricky, Sam. Even I have trouble finding one,” she'd said.

Bullshit.

More lies.

He'd caught onto her before they'd even left Ohio, certain that she intended to avoid their prey rather than actually find it. She'd tried to give up almost immediately, which came as no surprise. But he'd stuck to his guns, insisting that they keep at it.

Which they did for three long days, Ruby bitching and moaning the entire fucking time.

The wild goose chase hadn't been a total loss, though. Sam noted a definite pattern to the wide, vaguely circular route that Ruby charted for them, as if there was something at the center of the circle that she didn't want him to find.

He'd probed her relentlessly, using her agitated state to his advantage.

He'd been right: she'd known exactly where a yellow had been holed up. Dillsboro, Indiana, smack in the middle of their circle.

So he'd headed straight for the place, despite Ruby's protests.

He'd been able to finally sense the thing, to lock onto its demonic signature and etch the pattern into his brain for future reference. Once he'd had it down, he'd backed off and let Ruby direct them away from Dillsboro again.

He'd kept at her all the way back to his flop house, able to pull out a few more important tidbits before Ruby had reestablished her mental disciplines.

Somehow, Dean would smash the first of the sixty-six seals. His brother was key to this end, and Sam also knew that Dean hadn't done it yet. Dean hadn't broken, hadn't succumbed to whatever they were doing to him in order to enable him to down that first seal. He'd gotten a bit more too, disjointed snippets concerning angels, some convent somewhere, and more about a “father”.

More puzzle pieces, every new one adding to the whole and helping to clarify the true scope of Lilith's endgame.

Ruby'd bolted as soon as they'd made it back to Dayton, and Sam was more than grateful to see her go. He'd been itching to integrate the new intel and settle down with his laptop for some heavy duty research.

And he's uncovered plenty.

He's intensified his searches, grouping the keywords in various new sequences. He hit the jackpot with the combination angels, seals, father, leading him to a set of tenth century manuscripts recently added to some Russian museum's on-line collection.

After translation, the manuscripts describe how the “father of all evil” could be liberated from exile by the breaking of sixty-six seals, a tiny percentage of the hundreds of seals in all of Creation. Such a feat was highly discounted and seen as virtually impossible, as the seals were guarded by the “armies of the heavenly host”.

The cracking of the first seal entailed special handling, which the text referred to as requiring a “righteous and just soul” performing an act of “pure evil”.

The manuscript didn't detail which seals out of the hundreds were to be broken, but it did specify that the final seal could only be broken by the oldest and “most tortured of souls”.

An incredible find, yet one from which Sam drew little, if any, comfort from. Lilith's plans were now much clearer, if not totally transparent.

Dean was the righteous soul. Lilith was working to somehow twist Dean into performing some horrible act, thus opening the first seal. She probably intended to break the last seal herself—which fit, as she was certainly one twisted bitch.

And the father of all evil? Another no brainer. Lilith intended to raise the Devil, to release him from Hell.

Armageddon was her endgame. The freakin' Apocalypse. Setting Lucifer free to walk the Earth.

Dean's role was now pretty clear, but Sam still hadn't much to go on as to what part he would play in the festivities.

The next step was crystal, though. Find a yellow-eyed demon. Test his powers. Hold it, interrogate it and pull it.

And if possible, sample its blood.

He's got a little prep work beforehand, though.

Sam tries Ruby's cell again, and it flips directly over to voice mail.

“Call me, Ruby. I think I've got it all figured out.”

He hopes that'll pique her interest enough to get her to show her face, as their collaboration has definitely reached the end of the road.

Sam takes a long swallow of Jack and douses the camping lantern. He sits there for a long time in the dark, savoring the quiet, enjoying the silence in his mind that now comes only when Ruby's not around.

He relaxes, focusing on the sound of leaves rustling in the cool night breeze.

The house is silent, dead, entirely his.

He stretches out with his mind, scanning the ether for that elusive, new thing that he'd touched on during the road trip.

He searches in ever widening circles, passing over the signatures of dozens of black-eyed demons. He finds several reds, too, but not the signature he's looking for. He's reaching the limits of his abilities, but he pushes himself, straining to see just a little bit further.

He's about to reel himself back in when he nearly blows right by it.

It's vague, but Sam swings the full force of his powers on it.

He zeros in, and like tuning a radio, he finally locks onto the thing's signature, its demonic scent.

It's powerful, more powerful than he'd imagined it might be. It thrums with energy, pulses with it, a swirling mass of darkness shot through with vivid slashes of yellows and golds.

He circles it as closely as he dares, for fear that it might somehow be able to sense him.

After several minutes with no apparent change, Sam takes a chance and reaches directly into the center of the thing, hoping to tap into its thoughts.

Nothing much happens at first, and Sam can't pick out anything intelligible.

He pokes a little deeper, and then a tad deeper still, but is unable to sense a thing. He can't read its swirling express train mind, so he tries to pull back, momentarily puzzled when he can't. He doubles his efforts, but rather than pulling away he feels himself dragged closer into the roiling cloud of demonthought.

Sam panics then, marshaling the whole of his energies to rip himself away. Instead, he falls headlong into the thing, spiraling out of control, flung around in the maelstrom like a rag doll. He struggles to focus on his flop house, the room, the chair...his body...in a desperate attempt to free himself.

He's spun faster and faster until something snaps, and like a slingshot, he crashes back to himself.

Sam opens his eyes to find himself sprawled on the floor, his head pounding and the room spinning. He curls himself into a into a ball, gasping for breath until the house finally comes to a stop.

Sometime later, he sits up, feeling like ten miles of bad road.

He rights his chair and clambers into it, his head clearing steadily.

“Gotcha,” Sam says to the dark room, reaching for his bottle and a celebratory shot of whiskey.


July 2, 2008 – Hurricane, West Virginia


Sam locks the door to his room, heading down the hall toward the stairs and parking lot.

He hates holing up in chain motels, but despite its somewhat picturesque moniker, Hurricane had been totally invaded by corporate America. The fact that I-64 literally cut the town in half probably has something to do with it, but Sam's still annoyed that a Super 8 is the least offensive of the lodging alternatives available to him.

The place didn't even have a bar, let alone Vibra-Beds. Dean would be totally pissed.

He points the Impala north on County Road 19 as the sun dips below the treeline on his right.

His quarry hasn't moved since he'd left Dayton, for the most part holding its position ever since he'd locked onto it two days ago. Sam's not entirely certain if it's the same demon that'd thrown him for a loop, but it's clearly a yellow. The thing's signature is nearly identical as far as he can tell, but it's not as if he's an expert, either.

He's close now, really close, and the yellow's energy is so palpable that Sam imagines that he can feel it on his skin, like static electricity.

He passes a McDonald's and a Pizza Hut, and shortly after that traffic thins out considerably, the trappings of suburbia subsiding as the road narrows and winds through stands of pine with the occasional house set far back from the roadway.

Ruby hadn't responded to his bait, not so much as a text message. Sam wonders if he'll ever see her again. If he's successful tonight, the chances are good. If not, well, its all academic, then. He sure as hell hopes to cross paths with her at least one more time, as he's got a score to settle with the bitch.

The midsummer evening is totally awesome, perfectly temperate with just the right amount of breeze to keep things comfortable. Sam's rolled all the Impala's windows down, and he flicks on the headlights as the gloaming slips into twilight.

He wishes he could just keep on driving, enjoying the fresh air and the tunes, following the road and seeing where it leads.

He imagines Dean riding shotgun, covertly sipping from a beer that he's stashed between his legs.

Sam can almost see his brother sitting there, almost smell Dean's aftershave whipping around the Impala's interior...

A diesel pick-up barreling in the opposite direction snaps Sam back to reality as the Impala's radio starts to fritz out, static overwhelming Bad Company's “Ready For Love”.

The radio blares fuzz for a few seconds longer before Bad Company returns full force.

Sam whips the Impala into the next driveway, turning around and heading back the way he'd come. Bad Company fades out again, and Sam cruises to a stop at the head of a narrow drive that disappears into a thick stand of trees. He can barely make out a pinpoint of light some distance back from the road, obviously from a house.

He extends himself the slightest bit, confirming that he's arrived at his destination.

Sam guides the Impala into the drive, noting the name on the battered mailbox: Campbell. He kills the headlights, slowly moving about a hundred yards before coming to a halt. He flicks off the ignition and waits in the darkness, the ticking of the Impala's cooling engine an odd counterpoint to the gentle summer wind wafting through the densely packed trees.

He's not sure how long he sits there, probing, listening, preparing.

The thing's just ahead.

A yellow-eyed demon in all its glory.

It's full-on dark as Sam gets out of the car as quietly as he can, hoping that he hasn't been sensed. There's no indication that he has been, but once more, he's totally on his own, way out in the rough. Sweat trickles down the center of his back, and Sam unbuttons and shrugs out of his shirt, tossing it into the back seat.

The air feels good on his sweat-slicked skin, and he lifts the hem of his tank top to allow more air to cool him down. His heart pounds in his chest, and the realization hits that he's nervous.

“C'mon, man, calm down,” he mutters to himself.

He pauses a few moments, some deep breathing seeming to do the trick. He's as ready as he's ever going to be.

He's done his research, memorized incantations, practiced his holding powers.

He'd scoured the east end of Dayton, trapping and pulling every demon he could find. Not only that, but draining them all, too. Five of them. He'd sucked down so much blood that he'd made himself sick, bloated and nauseous for hours after each feeding.

He'd managed to save the first three hosts. The last two, well, they hadn't been so lucky.

But it'd been worth it, as he now felt more powerful than ever, ready to tackle whatever lay ahead.

He reaches out one last time, confirming that a seriously powerful demon is close by.

Sam makes his way along the winding drive, finally reaching the point where it opens into a large clearing. He's vaguely surprised to find a modest split-level house in the center of it all, complete with a two-car garage and a huge Toyota SUV squatting on the concrete driveway pad.

A gas lantern marks the boundary of the concrete drive, clearly the light source Sam had seen from the road.

All of the house's windows are dark, so he circles around the side of it, the chirrup of crickets more than covering the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots. Rounding the rear corner of the garage, Sam picks up on some music playing softly.

Something from the forties, big band stuff, maybe.

A large deck spans the rear of the house, attached to the top level.

The music is more clear now, and Sam can hear something else, the definite sounds of someone whistling along with the tune. Whomever it is, they're up on the deck.

He slides along the rear wall of the garage, moving closer to the deck. The whistler is almost directly over his head now, clearly enjoying himself.

Sam sniffs the air, the far too enticing aroma of grilling meat riding on the warm breeze.

He takes another step toward the deck when a battery of outdoor flood lights snap on. He's momentarily blinded, instinctively throwing his arm across his eyes.

“For Christ's sakes, Sam. Ever hear of ringing the doorbell? You coulda broken your neck creeping around down there in the dark.”

Sam looks up, blinking furiously to adjust to the near daylight thrown by the floods. He can make out the silhouette of someone peering down at him.

Someone waving a spatula as if it were a weapon.

“Get on up here. I'm good, but even I can't keep these burgers medium rare forever. The steps are just around the corner to your right. And don't break you neck on that pair of gnomes.”

Sam blinks some more, totally confused. Whomever it was, they sounded a lot like Joe Pesci from “My Cousin Vinny”. Not exactly threatening, but not completely benign, either. He steps carefully, finding the indicated gnomes flanking the base of the stairs leading up to the deck.

Sam reaches the top step and finds a short bald guy wearing a gaudy Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts tending a gigantic gas grill. The guy's back's to him, and Sam notes that he's swaying his hips in time with the music. The guy waves his left hand and the floodlights go out, the only illumination now being thrown by a half dozen tiki torches spaced around the perimeter of the deck.

“There's cold beer in the cooler by the sliding doors. Help yourself,” he says without turning around.

Sam draws himself up, slowly pulling the Knife from the holster on his left hip.

The guy snorts. “Oh, c'mon, Sam. I went to all this trouble just for you. Don't screw it up by waving that thing around.”

Sam advances a few steps. “What the fuck's going on here?”

The guy flicks off all the grill's burners and sets his spatula down. He grabs a half-empty bottle of beer and turns around, taking a huge swallow of the liquid.

“Ain't it obvious, Poindexter?” He smiles, his eyes going yellow. “I'm waiting for you.”