Descent

~*~ ~*~ DESCENT ~*~ ~*~


~*~ FOUR: Endgames People Play ~*~


Hurricane, West Virginia


The demon stands there, sipping on his beer. After a minute, its eyes return to normal. “Yo, anybody home?” He wriggles the fingers of his free hand. “Wow. Tough room. So now what?”

“That's up to you,” Sam growls, throwing up his hand and latching onto the thing's energy. It's strong, really strong, but he's got it, holding it relatively easily, at least for now.

The demon shudders, its smile fading as it pushes against Sam for a few moments before offering a noncommittal snort. “Not bad, Sammy boy. You've been busy.”

“I said, what's going on and who the hell are you?”

“If the burgers are overdone, it's all your fault.”

“I'm not in the mood to fuck around.” Sam makes a fist and the demon winces.

“Yeah, fine, skip right on ahead to the point where you torture me for information. But then maybe that's how you get off these days, huh, Sam? Flexing those freaky psychic muscles of yours? Squashing the crap out of demons? Nice. Oh, and we can't forget about drinking blood. I'm sure Dean would be proud of you, especially how you sucked those last two so dry you killed their hosts.”

“How do you know...what do you want?” Sam replies through clenched teeth.

“Let me go, and I'll tell you,” the demon says as though speaking to a two-year old. “You came looking for me, remember?”

“I'm supposed to trust you?”

“You're holding all the cards, Sam. You have questions, I have answers. Sometimes all you have to do is ask.”

Sam's brain whirls, attempting to take it all in. He can't sense another demon for miles. If it had been some kind of trap, he'd probably know about it by now.

The demon sighs and rolls its eyes.

Sam reaches out to read the thing's mind, and can only snag one blazingly clear thought: Hope you like your burgers well-done. He releases the demon and holsters the Knife. “Okay, now talk.”

“Finally.” The demon drains his beer, dumping the empty in a recycling bin. He fishes two fresh bottles from the cooler, tossing one to Sam. “Name's Bishop. Now get over here and grab some grub. I know you haven't eaten since lunch. One shouldn't live on demon blood alone.” He indicates a small table next to the grill. “Buns and extras are right there. Help yourself.”

Sam watches as Bishop assembles a burger, then pops the cap on his beer, a Dos Equis, taking a hearty swallow.

“One of your favorite brands, innit?” Bishop moves past him and takes a seat at the large glass topped patio table at the middle of the deck. He ignites a cluster of candles at the center of the table with a wave of his hand and immediately begins to devour his burger.

“Man, this is too fuckin' weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Bishop replies around a mouthful. “The whole planet's takin' a header. And fast.”

“So I'm guessing that you knew I was coming.”

Bishop taps at his temple. “I'm like you, Sam. A reader, telepath, whatever you wanna call it. I'm the one you tangled with in Dillsboro. After that, I kept tabs on you, and finally led you here.”

“You led me here, even though you knew—”

“Yeah, yeah, even though you wanted to interrogate me, suck down some blood and then send me off to Oblivion. Got all that in the first ten seconds of poking around inside that giant skull of yours.”

“So you know what's up, why I'm here.”

“Yup.”

“And what, you're saying you're willing to help me out? Tell me what I need to know?”

“Yup.”

“What's in it for you then?”

“Sam, do me a favor, huh? Get something to eat and sit your ass down. I'm getting a serious fucking kink in this neck from staring up all the time.”

Sam complies, loading up a plate with two burgers and taking a seat across from Bishop, who merely watches while Sam makes short work of his food. Even though they were almost well-done, the burgers were pretty damn tasty. Better than any fast food, anyway. He sips his Dos Equis, Bishop watching him intently the entire time.

“So, this place.” he nods to Bishop. “That body. One of your deals?”

“Nah. A retired bank exec from Pittsburgh. Wife croaked a few years ago, and he kicked the day before yesterday. Massive heart attack. So I jumped in as he fizzled out.”

“Not exactly the best, um, host to inhabit, though.”

“I've had worse. Not every meatsuit is as nice as yours, ya know. But Harold here suits my needs. Not a prime host, but his spread here is perfect. Decent set-up, secluded, and no other demons for miles. Great place for some suds and a little chat.”

“Tell me what you want. What your price is for this info you want to share.”

“Straight to the point. Okay, fine. It's simple, really. I tell you what I know, and you let me live. Well, so to speak.”

“That's it?”

“Yup. That's it.” Bishop downs the rest of his beer and frowns. “Damn. Harold definitely fried his taste buds with all the smoking.” He gets up to fetch more beer. “The truth is, I'm happy with the status quo. I like things the way they are.” He sits again, sliding a beer across the table toward Sam. “And I'm not alone, either. Not every demon has delusions of grandeur, ya know.”

“Like Lilith.”

“A total, fucking bitch. Insufferable. Thinks her shit don't stink. And she's definitely out of control. She's been brainwashing every newbie and weak-willed demon she can find, swaying or threatening them to come around to her side. The ones that don't? Curtains.”

“So you don't think that kick-starting the Apocalypse is a grand plan?”

“No way. Hell on Earth? What'd be the point? Can you imagine how boring an eternity like that would be?”

“Can't say I've really thought about it like that,” Sam admits.

“Well, trust me, it'd suck. And there's a lot more just like me. We're organizing ourselves against her, but it's slow work, and we've gotta constantly watch our backs. Her lackeys are everywhere. And we lose some of our resistance forces to Hunters like you. Attrition bites.”

Sam turns that bit of information over in his head. “I can't say I've found many other hellspawn as willing to talk as you seem to be.”

“Yeah. We prefer the term “demon”, if you don't mind. Hellspawn is, well, archaic. Plus sort of offensive.”

“Cut me a break,” Sam snorts, downing some beer.

“No need to be racist. Let's keep it civil, okay?”

“Whatever,” Sam replies. “And Ruby? Was she part of this resistance of yours?”

“Ruby.” Bishop swirls around his bottle, watching the golden liquid for a minute. “Yeah, she was on our side right from the very start. Dedicated. Fearless.”

“And now?”

The demon looks up, his gaze locking onto Sam's. “You already know the answer to that one. Lilith did a serious number on Ruby. Brutal, even for a demon. The Ruby that I knew, the one that tried to help you last year...she's gone, destroyed. It was a huge hit to lose her. Almost worse than losing Azazel.”

“You knew him?”

“Yup. And believe it or not, he hated Lilith's guts as much as anyone else. Too much of a loner, though. Not to mention just a bit full of himself.”

Sam shakes his head. “Whoa, hold up a sec. Are you saying he was working against Lilith too? That he infected all those kids...me...as a way to keep her in check?”

“Something like that. Sam, this thing's been percolating for centuries. Azazel and Lilith used to be tighter than conjoined twins, but they had a serious falling out decades ago. Azazel went his way, and Lilith went hers. The resistance has been seriously compromised ever since Dean took him out.”

“The fucker burned my mother alive,” Sam seethes. “He deserved it.”

Bishop holds up his hands. “Hey, I get it. He certainly wasn't good at winning over hearts and minds, and he pulled some nasty shit. His endgame to knock Lilith down a few notches might have actually worked if he'd been able to play it out. He was great at planning, but execution? Not so much.”

“Okay, so let's talk seals. Lilith intends to break sixty-six of 'em, at which point the Devil's released from The Pit.”

“Yup. Aside from the first and last seals, the remaining sixty-four can be any that she chooses. And she'll handle the last one herself.”

“There's something about a convent, maybe.”

“Dunno. Could be the last seal is in a convent. No way to know for sure. You'll have to work that one out for yourself. The other problem with Azazel was that he was way too paranoid. He didn't share the bulk of his plans with anyone.”

“So taking out Lilith is still a priority.”

“Definitely. And there's no one better suited to do that than you.”

Sam still can't wrap his head around how he's the only option available to defeat Lilith. It just doesn't seem to add up. “If there are so many other demons that feel like you do, can't you all just, I dunno, get together and take her on, all of you at once?”

“Been tried. More times than I can count. Like I said, she's got so many followers running around, it's virtually impossible to get the jump on her. And if you haven't guessed already, demons tend to be really rotten when it comes to working together. We're not built for it, ya know? ” Bishop leans forward, pointing his empty bottle to Sam. “Which is where you come in.”

“Because I'm a freak, right?”

Bishop shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. The simple fact is that you're special, Sam. Unique in all of Creation, as far as I know. Your potential is almost unlimited.”

Sam squirms in his chair, his stomach beginning to twist itself into knots. This is so not what he wants to hear.

“Sorry if you don't like the sound of it,” Bishop continues, “but it's the truth. Hate Azazel all you want, but because of him, because of what he did to you, you've got the power to put a stop to Lilith, once and for all.”

Sam jumps up and paces the deck. “And all I've got to do is go dark side, right? Turn myself into something just as bad as what I'm trying to kill.” He hears the sound of a chair sliding across the decking.

“I'm not tryin' to blow sunshine up your ass, Sam. I'm tryin' to help by giving you the facts as I see 'em. You've gotta cut the drama and the self-pity crap right now. You've gotta put a cap on that anger eating away at you, to channel and control it. If you don't, then you've left open the quickest, easiest path to becoming exactly what you're afraid of becoming.”

Sam whirls around, throwing his arms wide. “Fine. So let's assume I manage to off Lilith. What's to stop some other demon from taking her place?”

“Nothing. But that's not my point.”

“Well, Yoda, how about telling me what the point is then?”

Bishop nods slightly. “Okay. If destroying Lilith and saving the world from Armageddon aren't motivational enough for you, how does saving your brother from Hell sound?”

“Of course I'm getting Dean back. Once I kill Lilith, her contract on him is dust, and he'll be free.”

Bishop shakes his head. “Uh, not exactly. If I understand correctly, you want Dean back as he was. Living and breathing in his own restored meatsuit, right?”

“Well, yeah. Lilith can restore Dean, can't she?”

“Sure she can. But she won't.”

“You don't know that.”

“I've been around the block more than a few times. I've got feelers out downstairs, not to mention the rest of the resistance keeping an eye on things. So when I say she'll never do it, it's the truth. Look, Lilith's the oldest demon there is. The very first, twisted into existence by Lucifer himself. Dean's contract is the stuff of legend downstairs. It's unbreakable.”

“So you're saying that I can't get Dean back? That I've got to leave him to rot down there?”

“Hang on, slow down. Let me finish, okay? Whether or not Dean's contract can be broken is irrelevant. He's in The Pit because Lilith needs him there.”

“He's the righteous soul that'll somehow open the first seal.”

“Bright boy.”

“But Dean would never knowingly do anything to bring on the Apocalypse.”

“Not the Dean that you knew, no. Your brother's been downstairs for what, two months?”

Sam nods.

“Time has no meaning down there, Sam. For Dean, it's already been like twenty years.”

Bishop's words sear themselves into Sam's brain. The thought of Dean in Hell for two months was horrible enough, but this? Twenty years in The Pit? It's unimaginable.

“And Dean's not in gen-pop, either. From the instant Lilith's Hellhounds sent him down, he's been on the rack, receiving the full attentions of Hell's own version of a chief inquisitor, a demon named Alastair.”

Sam's heard that name before, back in Baraboo. “They're torturing him,” is all he can think to say.

“Worse. There's no way I can really explain what's happening to your brother. Alastair's taking him apart, piece by piece, slicing and cutting and chopping until there's nothing left, then putting him back together and starting all over again.”

“To break him. To get him to open that first seal.”

“In a way. Of course they're not telling Dean any of this. He's totally oblivious to how he's being used. The first seal will be broken when Dean agrees to step off the rack and mutilate his first soul. And he won't even know what he's done.”

“He won't,” Sam protests. “No way. He'll hold out.”

“He can't hold out forever, Sam. What Alastair's doing to him...like I said, there aren't words.”

Sam's throat goes dry. He backs up, bumping into the deck rail. “What am I gonna do?”

“Time's running out. Dean's in Hell for eternity, and the only way he'll ever get out is if you get him out yourself. Before he breaks and steps off that rack.”

Sam's mind reels. “That's crazy. There's no way I could ever get him out myself. It's impossible.”

“Sam, Sam, Sam. You've got to open yourself to every possibility.” Bishop sets his empty bottle down on the table and folds his arms across his chest. The next instant, he disappears.

Sam blinks, stepping to where Bishop had just been standing.

“And if you take that leap of faith, there's nothing you can't do.”

Sam slowly turns around to find Bishop smirking back at him. “You just went—”

Bishop nods. “To Hell and back. The oldest trick in the book. Not exactly easy or pleasant, but possible.”

“And I can learn how to do that?”

“Don't see why not. There's some differences between us, obviously, but I'm sure you'll have no problem working through 'em. I'm pretty sure you're not gonna take that sweet meatsuit of yours downstairs, and I just don't have the mojo to be of any help there. You've definitely got the potential, though. It's all up to you.”

“Are you sure it's the only way to save Dean?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I still don't get why you even give a shit.”

Bishop shrugs. “Hey, demon here. Just lookin' out for myself, really. I tell you everything I know and I get to keep on keepin' on. You save your brother and rub out Lilith. Everybody wins.”

Sam considers Bishop's offer. The concept of actually going to Hell to rescue Dean does seem initially ludicrous, but theoretically, it was possible if even a tiny shred of the information concerning astral projection is true. What did he have to lose? On a hunch, he reaches outward to touch Bishop's mind. Unlike before, the demon's thoughts are calm, almost glacial. Sam has no problem navigating them, and it barely takes him five seconds to determine that Bishop's intentions are genuine, if more than a little self-serving.

Bishop snorts, obviously amused at Sam's probing. “See? Told ya I'm on the level. You're gonna need to learn how to cloud your own thoughts, plus a few other tricks. And whatever we do, we've only got a few days to do it before Lilith's goons discover us and the entire place is crawling with demons.”

“All right. So where do we start?”

“We've got a deal, then?”

“Yeah."

“Great.” Bishop crosses the deck and presses against Sam. He tilts his head up, his eyes gone yellow.

“Ahh, what the fuck?”

“We've got to seal the deal, big guy.”

“You mean—”

“Yup. Lay it on me, baby,” Bishop says, closing his eyes and puckering up.


July 13, 2008 – Dayton, Ohio


Sam's cell phone beeps, and he checks the screen. He scrolls through the text message, marks his place in the book he's reading, and sets the tome down on the table.

He paces the first floor of his trusty flop house, glancing at his watch the whole time. He shouldn't be nervous at all. He's planned out exactly what he's going to do, and there's little doubt he'll have any trouble doing it.

It's time, and it can't be any simpler than that.

Another ten minutes, and it'll be done.

He centers himself, concentrating on relaxing his body while ordering his mind. He raises his mental barriers, whipping up an impenetrable wall around himself.

Occluding his thoughts from others had been the first new skill he'd mastered. He'd also tightened up his mind sifting abilities, finally managing to break through Bishop's considerable mental defenses.

Sam'd spent hours probing the demon's mind, collecting vast amounts of information concerning Lilith in particular and demonkind in general. One of the basic tenets of Hunting involved getting to know the enemy, their habits and patterns, and Sam now had that intel in spades. Bishop's memories had helped Sam assemble an extensive profile on Lilith, giving him much needed insight into her deformed psyche.

One of the last things Sam'd picked up had been how to find other yellow-eyed demons without fail. He'd been amazed at how blind he'd been before, how he'd refused to see what'd been right in front of him. He'd opened himself up, and just like Bishop had indicated, the possibilities suddenly appeared endless.

Tracking down Lilith remained something that he hadn't quite mastered yet, but he felt close to a breakthrough.

As to the blood, he'd even managed to control his hunger for it, to reduce his near constant need to a mere pang that surfaced only rarely.

He also had Bishop to thank for that. As the final part of their deal to be consummated, the demon had offered his blood to Sam as a sort of a parting gift. The effect of that blood had been profound, stupefying and overwhelming all at once. He'd passed out from the sheer magnitude of the experience, waking up an hour later, sprawled on the living room floor of Harold Campbell's split-level.

Bishop had vacated Harold's body by then, smoking out to who knew where.

He'd had to leave Hurricane in a hurry after that, as he'd sensed a host of demon signatures closing in.

Despite all of the recent successes, one thing hangs heavy over Sam, casting a pall over everything he's accomplished.

The image of Dean's soul being maimed and mutilated haunts him, at times distracting him so completely that he can't think straight. The fact that every passing day translates into another one hundred thirty odd days that Dean has to endure the rack at Alastair's hands alternately spurs his progress or brings it to a grinding halt.

He hasn't yet found some middle ground between the two extremes, and only his anger seems able to snap him out of his deepest bouts of depression. His rage easily buoys him, the idea of exacting his revenge upon Lilith and Alastair perversely satisfying.

Sam's had no luck figuring out exactly how he'll get to Dean in The Pit.

He understands the process on an empirical level, easily grasping how disembodied souls accomplish the feat and pass through the membrane separating the living and the dead.

The solution is there, somewhere, and he needs to find it, fast.

Sam peers out between a gap in one of the boarded up windows.

A vintage yellow Mustang pulls into the drive and Sam takes a seat at the table, pouring some Jack into a shot glass. He opens his book as the front door opens and closes, footfalls echoing through the house.

“Long time no see.”

Sam looks over the top of his book. “Hey, Ruby. I was beginning to think I'd never see you again.”

“I've been trying to tail Lilith.”

“Yeah?” Sam probes her. Of course she's lying. She's been with Lilith nearly the entire time. “So?”

Ruby shrugs and sits in the chair next to him. “No joy. Couldn't get close enough without tipping her off.”

“I left you a buttload of messages.” Sam stares at her, watching as she forces an indignant expression onto her host's face.

“Hey, I was concentrating on not getting caught, so sorry if I didn't have time to pick up the phone.”

“Okay, sure. Did you manage to uncover anything else?”

“Not much. Lilith's got everyone so worked up, they're not talking.”

“That sucks.”

“Are you okay?” Ruby gets up and leans on the tabletop, her leg brushing against his thigh.

“Fine. A little stressed, maybe.” He snaps his book closed and drops it on the tabletop.

“Look, I'm really sorry time got away from me. I shoulda called, at least once.” She moves her leg against his. “But I do have something that might lift your spirits.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says silkily. “Actually, two things. One, I know where a yellow-eyed demon's holed up. Cottonwood, Idaho.”

“Idaho, huh? Take us awhile to get there.”

“Maybe, but the intel's solid on this one.”

“Okay. Sounds great. At this point, I'm desperate enough to drive to Nome if we have to.” Of course it'll take some time to get all the way to bumfuck Idaho. And once they get there, more wasted time searching, eventually coming up empty. Still more time wasted slogging all the way back to Ohio.

It's all clear in Ruby's mind. More stalling. Desperate stalling. The only good thing Sam gets out of it is that Dean's holding his own, apparently showing no sign of giving in.

“So, what's the other thing?”

“Well, I'm guessing that you're pretty thirsty by now.” She picks up the poured shot and downs it. “And not for whiskey, either.”

Sam watches as she takes off her jacket and carefully places it over the back of a chair. She draws a small knife from her boot and straddles Sam's lap, rolling her shoulders and pushing her breasts into his face. She trails the fingers of her free hand through his tangled bangs and down his cheek.

“Yeah, you're definitely thirsty for something better. And I've got just the thing.”

She leans in, brushing her lips to Sam's. She draws the knife across her upturned forearm and breaks the kiss.

“Go on, Sam. Do it,” she breathes, nodding to the line of blood welling up on her arm.

Her breath is warm and sickly sweet on his face. “Thought you'd never ask,” Sam replies.

The table skids away across the floor.

Ruby lifts up and sails across the room, slamming into the wall and kicking up a billowing cloud of dust. Her impact loosens large chunks of plaster which crash down from the wall and nearby ceiling.

“What the fuck!” she screams, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. “Are you fucking crazy?” She strains against Sam's hold on her, but it's useless.

Sam brushes plaster dust from his jeans and stands up. He walks over to her, staring into her eyes, deep pools of pure obsidian. “Game's up, Ruby. You can cut the crap. I've been onto you for awhile now.”

“I don't know what's going on, but—”

Sam closes the fingers of his right hand together, cutting her off. Her eyes bulge in their sockets, and she gags, hacking up blood and spittle. Sam relaxes his hand, stepping closer. “It's over. I know everything.” He taps his temple. “Freak Boy's finally got his game on. That is what you call me behind my back, isn't it?”

“Sam, you don't understand. I don't have a choice. Lilith's on my ass twenty four seven. She's got moles everywhere, tracking me, watching me. One wrong move, and I'm dead meat. You can't imagine what she's capable of. What she did to me downstairs. I...I was just stringing her along, waiting for you to get powerful enough and then—”

“And then what? You'd come clean with me and we'd take on Lilith together?”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly. Sam, you've got to believe me.”

Sam shakes his head. “Actually, I don't. I can see for myself.” He dives into her mind, ripping his way through her orderly walls and barriers. He topples them in an instant, slicing through everything, crashing through her thoughts and splitting her wide open.

He finds what he's looking for and Ruby screams.

He slams her mouth shut until they subside.

“Nope, sorry, but I'm just not seeing any of this supposed sincerity on your part. None at all.”

She coughs some more, spitting blood to the floor. “You know, I was wrong about you. You're not a freak. You're a fucking monster.”

“Anything else? Because you were right about one thing, though. I am sorta thirsty.”

“Lilith's gonna flay you alive.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Whatever happens, you won't be around to see it.”

“Fuck you!”

“Not a chance in Hell.” Sam takes her bleeding arm and raises it to his mouth. He pulls on the wound, sucking in her blood in huge gulps.

“You're never gonna get Dean back! Never! And even if you do, you won't be able to hide what you've become from him. Think of that, Sam! He'll hate you, and that's if he even recognizes you after Alastair's done with him.”

Sam keeps at it, drawing in the blood, tuning out her raving until it's barely a low buzz, like insects on a lazy summer's day.

He bleeds her host nearly dry before he crushes her down, reducing her to ash, leaving her remains amongst the plaster and trash, a dead husk in a dead house.

He collects his things and drives away, her blood coursing through his body, strengthening him, her thoughts now carefully stowed away in a quiet corner of his mind for future reference.

Sam slips his new iPod into the dock and heads for I-75, turning up the volume as R.E.M. goes on about the end of the world.


July 22, 2008 – Booneville, Alabama


“Well, well, I finally get to meet Freak Boy in the flesh.” The demon's eyes shine yellow as it grunts against Sam's hold on it. All it manages to accomplish is to jiggle the chair the slightest bit. “You're a lot taller than I thought you'd be.”

Sam opens a new document on his laptop, naming and readying it for some new data.

Lightning flashes and lights up every window, followed almost instantly by rumbling thunder as rain pounds the tin roof of the old farmhouse.

Sam throws another log onto the fire and hunkers down before it, studying the flames as they consume the wood.

“You're making quite the name for yourself, Sam,” the demon says, her voice calm and silky smooth. “The only one of Azazel's kids still breathing. He'd be proud of you. And an amazing family resemblance, too. Especially the eyes.”

More lightning, more thunder, and Sam rises up, moving to the table to riffle through his duffel.

“I'm positive he'd be absolutely amazed at your progress. Thrilled at just how much you've embraced your true nature. I can say all this because I knew him well, Sam. Very well, if you get my meaning.” She chuckles to herself. “And you know something? I doubt that even he envisioned your true potential. Just how much you'd evolve.”

Sam sets a jug of water on the table, twisting off the cap and dropping a rosary inside. He silently blesses the water as the demon laughs some more.

“All it took was a little shove, a tiny push, and you dove in head first. All your mumbo jumbo about choices just flew out the window, didn't it, Sam? How many of my brothers and sisters have you killed? Countless blacks, dozens of reds, and what, two other yellows? And just how many of those hosts did you suck dry without bothering to save them? Half? More? Oh, yeah, and we can't forget about those two hunters unlucky enough to cross your path. And that deputy in Tennessee. Busy, busy boy.”

Sam pours holy water over the blade of the Knife.

“You know, I wouldn't be surprised if word of your deeds hasn't made it all the way downstairs. Maybe even Alastair's heard whispers, vague murmurs about Freak Boy Sammy Winchester. It'd be a cryin' shame if Dean caught wind of any of this. Yes, a real shame.”

Sam approaches her, his wet blade catching and reflecting glints of the firelight.

She looks up, her eyes reverting to their natural brown. “It would be just awful if your dear big brother ever learned about you, Sam. Can you imagine it? What Dean would think if he found out just what kind of monster you'd become? Not that you'll ever manage to—”

“Quiet.” Sam cuts her off and her mouth clamps shut.

He plunges into her mind, sifting through centuries of warped demonthought in seconds. He nods, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He settles down before her, positioning the Knife over the creamy brown skin of her forearm. Such beautiful coloration, and a real shame to have to mark it up.

Sam applies pressure and draws the blade across her flesh. “You can scream, now.”

And she does.

~*~ * ~*~

Sam finishes wrapping the body in a fresh, white sheet. Once the rain quits, he'll salt and burn her remains properly.

His research indicated that she'd disappeared from Portland, Oregon over three years ago. A helluva long time for a demon to ride a body. Her family had finally been able to officially declare her dead eighteen months after she'd been possessed. Her husband had even re-married. So there'd definitely been no point in returning her to the world, especially when she'd most likely have been totally fucked in the head after hosting a demon for so long.

He sits down and stares at his laptop for a long while before typing in everything of value that he'd seen in her mind. More of the usual stuff concerning Lilith and the seals, Dean and Alastair in The Pit, the Resistance and the Apocalypse.

A few new bits of intel on all the important fronts, which is fine.

What he's really after, though, is information far more general in nature. Standard demon operating procedure. All the little details, the stuff they do on a daily basis just to get by. Their unconscious workings, like the autonomic nervous system in humans.

Sam's convinced that the solution to his most annoying problem lies in that area.

He's surprised and disappointed that so little information exists as to just how demons manage to pierce the veil at will.

There's no shortage of summoning rituals, the existence of which substantiates the generally accepted phenomenon of demons suddenly appearing somewhere, almost always complete with a host body. Pretty heavy stuff, and seemingly magical to anyone without all the details.

The time discontinuity between topside and Hell certainly explains what appears to be the nearly instantaneous appearance of a demon when summoned. Sam's summoned several demons, and though he's never actually timed how long it took for any of them to show up, it was no longer than a minute and more like thirty seconds. He accepts Bishop's ratio of one month topside being equivalent to ten years downstairs as a given, and more than a few demons he's trapped since then seem to confirm the figure, too.

Crunching the numbers, if it takes a full minute for a summoned demon to appear, said demon has actually had one hundred thirty minutes of Hell time to recognize the summoning, grab a host and pop up wherever they need to be.

Shitloads of time.

It definitely removes some of the magical, supernatural fascination from the process, although it doesn't do much to explain the actual mechanics of it.

Sam finishes entering his notes and closes his laptop.

The fire's nearly burned out and the rain's stopped.

He hoists the body over his shoulder and heads outside to find a good spot for digging a grave.


July 29, 2008 – Russelville, Arkansas


Sam rolls his window down as the trooper walks up to the Impala and shines his maglite into Sam's face.

“What's the trouble, officer? I'm pretty positive I wasn't speeding.”

“License and registration, please. And proof of insurance.”

Sam hands over the papers, careful to place his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

“Your rear license plate light is burned out,” the trooper says flatly. “Remain in your vehicle, Mr. Riker while I call this in. Gotta justify my time, you know.”

“Sure, no problem.” Sam watches in his rear-view as the trooper walks around the Impala and toggling his mike, obviously calling in the details.

He can't believe the guy pulled him over for a freakin' license plate light. Must be one helluva slow night. He turns off the Impala's radio, which is nothing but static.

The trooper returns to his unit, leans in the driver's window, and walks back to the Impala. “Uh, Mr. Riker? I'm going to have to ask you to step from your vehicle, please.”

“What's up?” Sam asks.

“Just routine, sir. Please, step from the vehicle, and keep you hands in plain view.”

“I haven't been drinking, if that's what you're thinking,” Sam says, climbing out of the Impala.

“Come around the back of your vehicle, please. Mind the oncoming traffic.”

Sam complies, backing up against the Impala's rear end.

“Steubenville, Ohio, huh? You're a long way from home, Mr. Riker.”

“Just a road trip. Taking some time off from school to spend with my brother in Arizona.”

The trooper doesn't respond, clearly distracted

“Something wrong?”

“No sir. A little radio trouble, that's all.”

Sam nods toward the patrol car. “Still have your computer link, at least.”

“Server problems tonight.” The trooper's radio beeps. He toggles the mike mounted next to the collar of his uniform shirt. “This is Alpha 3223, go ahead.”

Sam pretends to be more interested in his boots than what's coming over the trooper's radio.

Nothing but static comes back, with only one word barely audible: repeat.

“Damn outdated equipment,” the trooper mutters. “Query on Ohio tag Charlie November Kilo eight zero Quebec three. Repeat, Ohio, Charlie November Kilo eight zero Quebec three. Over.” He listens intently for a few moments, but there's no response from his dispatcher.

Only more static.

“I read that sunspots can affect radio transmissions,” Sam offers.

The trooper glares at him. “All right, I need you to lift your arms up, in line with your shoulders.”

“Oh, man.”

“Do it, now, please.”

Sam complies.

“Close your eyes. Now bring in your right arm and touch the end of your nose with your right index finger.”

Sam does as he's told, but just misses his nose.

“Return your arm to its previous position. Now, I want you to walk in a straight line, heel to toe, without looking at your feet.”

It's far more difficult than it sounds, and even though he hasn't had any booze for hours, he only makes it a few steps before loosing his balance.

“All right, I'm afraid I'm going to have ask you to come with me, Mr. Riker.”

“I haven't been drinking.”

“Suspicion of driving while under the influence. The breathalyzer back at the post will sort it all out. I need you to lace your fingers behind your head and walk around the passenger side of the patrol car, please.”

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry officer, but I just don't have time for this.” He takes a step forward.

The trooper's fast, instantly drawing his sidearm. “Hands behind your head and drop to your knees, now!”

“Don't think so.” Sam takes another step.

“Last warning! On your knees!”

“Just imagine the paperwork if you fire that thing.”

The trooper hesitates a split second and discharges his weapon.

Sam counts two shots.

Both bullets hover in mid-air, twirling harmlessly a few inches from Sam's chest. They plink to the asphalt and Sam waves the gun into the tall switchgrass bordering the highway.

The trooper instinctively glances toward where his gun lands, astonished. He recovers fast, but Sam's right there in front of him, touching his index finger to the officer's forehead.

“Okay, now listen carefully.”

The trooper's posture relaxes and his face goes slack.

Sam backs away and watches as the trooper climbs into his car and drives away, crossing the nearby westbound lanes, fishtailing through the grassy median and merging into the eastbound lanes, hauling ass back toward Russelville and Lake Dardanelle.

Sam bends down and taps the housing of the rear license plate light. It flickers twice, and then burns strong.

“Son of a bitch,” Sam mutters, climbing into the driver's seat. Dean would certainly have plenty to say about lax maintenance of his baby.

At least he'd been able to jam the radio and computer in the patrol car.

He watches for a break in traffic before accelerating into the flow of I-40, resuming his course west.


August 3, 2008 – Brownsville, Texas


“Sam! Sam, help me!”

He stumbles through the darkness, the thick smoke and sulfur burning his throat and lungs.

The air is dense and heavy, oppressive, the heat unbearable.

“Sam!”

Other voices call out, tortured screams, hopeless wails, a multitude of cries for help, for redemption, for release.

He focuses on only the one voice, concentrating on it, straining to reconcile the bouncing echoes with the true source.

“Sammy, please!”

Bursts of flame erupt on all sides of him, a twisted chorus of bloodcurdling screams rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the fires.

He pushes forward, his lungs raw, his eyes watering, each step a new chapter in his book of pain.

More smoke, more flame, and still he presses on.

“Sam!”

He stumbles, crashing to the ground, the sharp points of heated rock tearing into the flesh of his hands and knees. He wants to cry out but can't.

He crawls for a few feet, hanging his head and gulping in the relatively untainted air that hovers close to the tortured earth.

He looks up, and just ahead he sees it, a point of lesser darkness surrounded by the Abyss.

He summons the last meager shreds of his remaining strength to hoist himself to his feet and slog forward.

He keeps going, pushing ahead, the pinpoint of light growing stronger with every step.

“Sam!”

The ground rises up before him and he loses his balance, falling forward. The putrid air scorches his nose, his mouth, yet he pulls himself to the top of the outcropping.

He peers over the edge, blinking uncontrollably at the sudden brightness.

He's made it, he's found what he's searching for, but he can't move any more.

His muscles won't respond, they refuse and betray him, no matter how much he rails at them to do so.

He gazes down into The Pit, the light nearly blinding.

“Sam!”

And then the Darkness turns its visage upon him, all roiling anger and hate and rage.

Slitted eyes and a slash of a mouth, pure malevolence, misery and pain incarnate.

It bursts from The Pit toward him, its frigid barbs clawing and ripping, tearing him asunder.

“Sam, no!”

“Dean!”

Sam sits bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. He glances around wildly, sucking in deep breaths of stale, motel room air.

He scoots back against the headboard as the air conditioner whirs away, and an eighteen wheeler air-brakes on the nearby highway.

He throws back the paper thin sheet and rips open the heavy curtains, washing his motel room in harsh mercury vapor light from the parking lot.

He crawls back into bed and curls into a ball, closing his hand around Dean's amulet.

After a long time, his breathing smooths out and his heartbeat returns to normal.

He's had the same nightmare many times. He turns the imagery over and over in his head, and something clicks.

The light.

The blinding light that even the black despair of The Pit couldn't extinguish or hide.

Finally, it made sense.

How could he have missed it?

It was so simple, so plain, anyone could see it.

“Hang on, Dean,” he whispers to the empty room. “I'll get you out. Just hang on.”