Welcome back! This is the third installment in my Sue-Pernatural season 8 Ficisode series. If you haven't read the first two, Still They Ride and Kevin Isn't Too Far Away, I would suggest you do so this one makes sense. The Winchesters are on a quest to find 6 ingredients to fulfill a spell to expel all demons from earth, they're halfway there, but their quest is complicated by unexpected circumstances. As always, my wonderful beta Sharlot gets credit for making this a better story, you'd be drowning in adverbs without her. I would love to hear what you think of my 're-imagining' of Season 8 so far! Without further ado…

Living Legacy

Act I

"Does it hurt?" Dean thrust his chin toward the bandaged tip of Castiel's left index finger. The angel had insisted on donating a small portion of his Grace now, arguing he would need time to regain full strength in case they needed him when they cast the spell to expel the demons from the earth.

Kevin had sat on the floor, watching open mouthed, fascinated as the angel carefully pricked his hand with the tip of the angel sword he carried in the folds of his coat. The Prophet's eyes had widened in wonder as the bright, pure Grace had surged from the cut. Cas had uttered a few syllables in Enochian that sounded suspiciously to Dean like 'Don Quixote', and the wisp of light had flowed into a vial that was capped tightly with a cork. The Grace ebbed and flowed within the confines of the bottle, sparkling and glowing, as if alive.

It was all very impressive.

And unsettling.

Castiel studied the Disney 'Cars' band-aid Kevin had placed over the cut, holding the finger up before him as if the answer to the ultimate question of the universe was written on it.

For all Dean knew, maybe it was. He held back a grin as he felt an irrepressible urge to write '42' on the side of Lightning McQueen.

"No," the angel intoned in answer to the hunter's question. He shifted his penetrating blue gaze to Dean. "Does yours?"

Dean self-consciously wrapped an arm across his chest, leaning for the t-shirt he'd discarded earlier across the back of the couch. Sam had insisted on pulling the stitches in his chest, pleased with how the wounds the Hellhound had inflicted the previous week had healed. The cuts had left puckered pink scars running from armpit to navel and Dean had grimaced at the sensation of the dental floss sliding from his skin as Sam removed his handiwork. As painful as stitches were going in, to Dean, the feeling of them slithering out had always been equally disturbing.

He pulled on the t-shirt, ignoring the angel's stare, feeling exposed even with the shirt on. "No. It's fine."

Sam's impromptu medical session had been interrupted by the angel's arrival earlier. Cas had appeared without warning – as usual – in close proximity to the brothers, startling them both. Sam's surgical scissors, already hovering near Dean's chest, had almost added a new gash, while Dean, shirtless and propped on one of the rickety kitchen chairs, had toppled backwards, saved at the last minute by the angel's celestial reflexes.

Castiel had been returning to the cabin, the mission they had sent him on only moments before complete, bearing the 'Myrrh from a Holy tree', one of the six ingredients needed for the spell. Dean wasn't sure if Castiel had merely popped over to the Middle East, or transported himself back to the time of Moses to find the myrrh – and he wasn't inclined to ask. It was hard keeping track of timelines when angels were involved. While the time travel ability Angel Airways offered had come in handy more than once, it was still a bit mind-boggling that it was possible. To be able to jump to an era before he was even born and interact with people – real people – he should only know about from history books, was something he'd tried – and failed – to wrap his head around. Sometimes it was better to just accept things as they came instead of trying to bend them to fit his more limited understanding.

Although, meeting Elliot Ness had been awesome. So, yeah, bewildering, but kind of cool.

Sam placed the vial containing Castiel's Grace in the warded lock box with the Hellhound blood and Myrrh, closing it and locking it with a key for added security. With the angel's contributions, they had half the ingredients for the spell, and had formulated a plan for a fourth, wanting to run it by Cas, at Sam's insistence, before implementing.

"So," Dean prompted as soon as Sam had pocketed the key and joined them back in the living area. The taller hunter balanced on the arm of the couch, his eyes locked onto Dean until the older man relented with a roll of his eyes and took a seat on the couch cushion. Sam had taken to hovering since they'd been back from Shoshone, making a bigger deal than normal about Dean's wounds and forcing the older hunter to 'take it easy' until the stitches were ready to be removed. Dean wasn't sure if it was the enforced down time or the fact that his brother kept looking at him like he was going to break any moment that annoyed him the most. Either way, he was eager to get to the next part of the program, and a demon hunt seemed like just the ticket.

"The Knights of Hell," Sam turned his attention to the angel seated across from them as soon as his brother was situated. "You said they're all dead?"

Castiel nodded once, patiently repeating what he had told them when they had first mentioned what they had in mind to collect the next component for the spell. "They were eliminated long ago by the Archangels, with one exception."

"Our intended target," Dean interjected.

"Abaddon," Castiel confirmed. "Yes. Abaddon disappeared many of your centuries ago, presumably to avoid the fate that befell the rest of its kind."

"But you believe Abaddon is still alive?"

"I do not know," Castiel responded to Sam's question honestly. "Abaddon was a lower demon, not as powerful as some of the other Knights, therefore not as prominent a target to Michael's forces. There have been rumors of its continued existence, some as late as the last century. But whether it was able to completely evade the Archangels or not is unclear."

Dean exchanged a look of consideration with his brother, then shrugged, and dead-panned, "That was helpful."

Sam smirked in return. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to try to summon it then. If Michael did gank it, nothing will happen."

"And if not, you will bring one of the most powerful demons you have ever encountered into this world."

"I thought you said Abaddon wasn't at the top of the Knights of Hell food chain?"

Castiel tilted his head in confusion at Dean's question. "If you are referring to the demon's power in scale with the other Knights, no, it is not at the 'top of the food chain' as you put it. But the Knights were formidable, much more powerful than regular demons. They were Lucifer's chosen army. Even the weakest of them was stronger than any you've come across."

"Awesome."

Sam ignored his brother's sarcasm. "But it's still a demon, right? A Devil's Trap will hold it?"

Castiel contemplated the inquiry, finally nodding his head affirmatively. "With a few modifications, I believe so, yes."

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes. "Well that was all sorts of comforting." A headache was building behind his eyes, one he had become familiar with of late when the angel was around. Sam would probably tell him it was psychosomatic or something Freudian like that, but he knew it was simple frustration and suppressed anger that fueled it. He was still angry with Cas, and he was not having much luck trying to forgive and forget. He wanted to. He wanted things to go back to the way they were – one big, happy, dysfunctional family – but there was too much water under the bridge for that to happen. The water was a torrent, and the bridge was in danger of being swept away.

He'd heard all the excuses, all the apologies, and he believed Cas was sorry for everything he'd done over the last few years. But the actions – the betrayals – were adding up and Dean was having a hard time getting past it all. If he could believe the angel had learned from his mistakes it would be easier, but something told Dean that Castiel, while remorseful for hurting the people who had accepted him as family, didn't truly understand the depth of his errors.

And that was the crux of it.

They had become so familiar with the angel, letting him into their little circle, allowing him behind their walls, they had somehow forgotten that he wasn't really one of them… that he wasn't human at all. They expected – or more precisely, Dean expected – Cas to understand how friends behaved, how people interacted in good times and bad, but the truth of the matter was, Castiel was not a person.

He was an angel.

A supernatural being who had watched humanity evolve but had not interfered or interacted for millennia. It was unfair to expect Cas to react as a human, simply because he was not. And that was what Dean had been trying to come to terms with.

He was angry at Castiel for what would be considered betrayals of trust for normal people, but Castiel had been following a path that Dean could never even hope to understand. The fact Cas turned out to be wrong and Dean right was beside the point. Cas had eons of training and observations of the way the angels, demons, and the world itself worked, that guided him in his decisions… and Dean had expected him to stand down because of the opinion of one man. Of course, the fact that he hadn't stood down – hadn't listened - still pissed Dean off.

But Dean had been right and Cas had been wrong. And the world had ended up circling the drain again. The fact that an angel, a being that was supposed to be superior, supposed to be doing God's work, had failed to see what a lowly human had easily understood was difficult to come to terms with. That fact, coupled with what he had done to Sam in the name of that work, was why he couldn't see the angel in the same light as before.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe the fault didn't lie with Castiel at all, but with them. Maybe it was time to stop trying to expect Cas to understand how to be human, and simply accept that he wasn't.

His mind registered the silence in the room and he opened his eyes to find Castiel watching him, blue eyes unwavering. Sam had disappeared, low murmuring from the back room indicating the younger hunter had excused himself and joined Kevin, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

The traitor.

Castiel noticed Dean's eyes dart around the vacant room. "Your brother and the prophet are giving us 'space'." He used the word tentatively, his unrelenting stare making Dean uncomfortable.

Sam had been trying, none to subtly, to get Dean to talk about his problems with Cas for the last few weeks. Dean had been able to deflect the conversation, reminding Sam he had only agreed to the angel's involvement on the condition that Cas was Sam's responsibility. He told his brother he'd work through things at his own pace and Sam had seemed to accept that.

But it wasn't a surprise that Sam had seized a golden opportunity.

"Dean," Cas began, but the hunter held up a hand, not needing – or wanting - to hear another apology.

"No, Cas, you don't owe me an apology. You don't owe me anything. Hell, I probably owe you." He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the couch and leaned forward, forearms resting across his thighs, hands clasped tightly.

"I've done things I am ashamed of," Cas admitted.

Dean snorted a soft laugh. "We've all done things we regret. Trust me. All we can do is move on and not make the same mistakes again." He sighed, shrugging a shoulder wearily. "Can't change the past, man. You told me that."

"I am still sorry."

Dean nodded, letting his head hang, his eyes focused on the floor. "I know. Me, too."

"You have done nothing to be sorry for, Dean." Cas tilted his head in a familiar sign of confusion.

"Actually, I have." Dean took a breath, trying to put his thoughts into words. "I've expected you to be something you're not. Human. I've held you to standards like any other friend, like family, and it wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

"But I am your friend."

"I know you are, Cas. But you're an angel, too. I guess…" He raised a hand, kneading the spot between his brows that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. "I guess I've just expected you to get it, you know? To be something you're not simply because I wanted you to be. It… it wasn't your fault. I mean you were working without a playbook, right? You did what you believed you had to do – big picture stuff. " He shrugged again, not knowing how else to explain what he was feeling. "You see too much, a hell of a lot more than we do. It's not fair for me to expect you to see – to understand – what's going on closer to the ground." He finally looked up, catching the angel's eyes. "Does that make sense?"

Castiel dropped his gaze as he thought about what Dean had said. The expression on his face didn't change, but Dean thought he could detect a touch of something… regret? in his eyes. "I think I understand."

Dean pursed his lips, letting his gaze fall once again to the floor. "Good."

The awkward silence returned, and Dean fervently wished he'd had the forethought to bring the unopened bottle of Jack over with him. Before he could voice the sentiment out loud, simply to bridge the silence, the flutter of wings told Dean the angel had gone, and he sank back into the cushion, rubbing his hands over his face. After a moment to compose himself, he dropped his hands to his lap and laid his head back, once more closing his eyes.

"You can come out now, Dr. Phil. He's gone."

The soft sounds of footsteps relayed Sam's return to the room, but the younger man didn't speak.

Dean rolled his head on the back of the couch and opened his eyes, easily finding Sam's towering form in the small room, hovering behind the chair, looking guilty for his ploy.

"You get all that?" Dean asked, an edge to his voice letting his brother know he didn't appreciate the younger man's attempt at intervention.

Sam had the decency to blush, uncomfortable at being found out. "Most of it."

"Happy now?" Dean rolled his head back and let his lids drop, not needing to see his brother to know he was, at the least, satisfied Dean had aired some of his feelings.

"For now," Sam admitted. "Did you really mean that? What you said about not holding Cas to the same expectations?"

Dean sighed and rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand, suddenly very tired. Apparently baring your soul like a girl was exhausting. "Yeah. We've tried to make him one of us, Sam. He's just not. Maybe it's time to accept it."

"So now what?"

Dean wasn't sure. He just knew that things couldn't go back to the way they were even though that was exactly what he had hoped for. He could easily forgive Sam for all the things he'd done over the years, but, if he was being honest with himself, he would never forget. Cas was different. And he knew he couldn't trust the angel the way he did before. It just wasn't possible. Castiel's priorities were different – maybe more enlightened, maybe not – but he had to accept Cas for who and what he was. An Angel of the Lord. Not the brother he'd expected him to be.

"Now we move on."

….

Lebanon, Kansas – 1972

The demon struggled, its foul curses ignored by the robed man standing before it. He thrust his arm out repeatedly, sprinkling holy water from an aspergillum as he recited a Latin ritual in a calm voice. The demon screamed obscenities as the water met its borrowed flesh, burning rivets into the soft tissue. Smoke rose as more blessed water fell upon the demon's meat-suit, its pain fueling its anger, its captivity fueling its frustration.

The demon was a Knight of Hell, one of the most powerful forces of evil imaginable. It couldn't believe it had been captured by these inconsequential humans, trapped in this place, subjected to their paltry rituals after evading Michael and the forces of Heaven for millennia. It had finally come to conclude that these were not normal humans. They had known exactly how to subdue a Knight, nullify his powers. He was chained inside a devil's trap – one with added sigils to contain his extraordinary powers. The manacles around the wrists of the human he was possessing were pure iron, inscribed with powerful symbols he had thought lost through time.

But these humans knew them. Knew their power. The fact that these contemptible bags of flesh and bone had the intelligence – let alone the audacity – to confront a Knight of Hell, told him he had grievously underestimated them. A mistake he would not make again. Because when he escaped their bonds, he would wipe them from the face of the earth.

The followers of the Order bowed their heads, knees to the ground, as their leader continued to recite the chant. This was their shining moment, decades of research and knowledge, culminating in this one glorious act.

The last Knight of Hell.

Driven from this world forever.

The ritual had been tried before, with varying degrees of success, but never on one so powerful, so evil. The Knights of Hell were known to be Lucifer's handpicked army. The most vile, malevolent creatures known to man. The Order had recovered the ritual, lost long ago, by the lifetime perseverance and dedication of its brothers. They had built a vast library of knowledge, weapons, rituals – everything man would find necessary to win this battle against the evil forces that had invaded this world. It had all been painstakingly catalogued, housed in the most protected place they could build.

Man had learned the hard way he could not rely on the forces of Heaven to protect him. It was humanity's duty to protect itself.

It was their duty to give them the means.

The demon continued to scream, the blackness in its eyes flickering like shadows over a frozen landscape. They had never succeeded on so large a scale, but their leader had assured them it was possible.

So long as they believed.

The chant rose in volume, the acrid smoke of burned flash mixing with the sulfurous stench of the demon's essence as it filtered through its skin. The small room was stifling, closed off from the rest of the bunker, the air still and thick. The room was heavily warded, as was the rest of the bunker, safely containing the demon from the world outside.

The ritual, in its 16th hour, was difficult. Some had succumbed to the heat and intense exhaustion born of constant vigilance in the oppressive atmosphere of the room, but they persevered, knowing they must succeed for the sake those who had preceded them, who had sacrificed to make this day possible.

For the sake of those yet to come.

…

Dean sprayed the last sigil on the floor of the abandoned church and stepped back to admire his handiwork. At Castiel's suggestion, they had added several sigils to the standard devil's trap as precaution against the expectedly augmented powers of a Knight of Hell. Abaddon may be just a demon, but if the angel was expecting it to be something out of the ordinary, there was no harm in taking a few extra steps to increase their chances of success.

They had set up shop in an abandoned country church about a half hour drive from the cabin. The church was isolated, run over by roots and grass, it's foundation crumbling on one side. But it was sturdy, its angled roof was still intact and, despite having to evict some of the critters that had made the dilapidated building their home, they'd decided the church would suit their needs nicely. Even in its present state, it was still considered Holy ground - another plus when it came to dealing with the forces of evil.

Sam had procured one of those wand things priests use to splash holy water over the congregation from Ebay, believing it would make a more effective weapon against the demon than splashing the liquid from a flask. Dean had caught him dancing around, shaking the thing like a maraca, grunting out a beat that could have been something from a Bob Marley skat song. The older hunter had pulled out his phone, covertly recording his brother slithering across the floor, eyes closed, lower lip sucked in, hips gyrating to the beat in his head. Dean had filmed as long as he could before it became impossible to suppress his laughter, alerting the younger man of his presence. Sam had flushed deep crimson, Threatening bodily harm if the video should ever surface.

Dean would have to get Kevin to upload it to YouTube.

Sam, still embarrassed at being caught in a moment of reckless abandon, finished the sigils he had been painting on the doors and walls, joining his brother in the center of the small room. He let his eyes roam across the elaborate devil's trap Dean had just completed, nodding his head in critical appreciation.

"Nice job," he threw his brother a rare verbal compliment. "Think it's enough?"

Dean smiled at the praise then shrugged in response. "No idea. Cas thinks it'll work, so I guess we go for it and find out."

Sam glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye. "So… you and Cas… you okay?"

Dean sighed, not wanting to keep rehashing what was going on between him and the angel. "It is what it is, Sam. Leave it alone, huh?" He doubted it would be that easy. Sam had been paying close attention to him since their return from Purgatory – a little too close. It was starting to get on Dean's nerves. He couldn't blame the guy for it – he was sure he'd be hovering if the roles were reversed – but he was still feeling a bit out of sorts and having Sam watching him 24/7 wasn't helping. He just wanted things to get back to normal… well, their kind of normal anyway. This spell – whether it worked or not, was their kind of normal. It gave him a focus, something to hold on to while he glued the pieces of himself back together. He didn't want to let Sam know just how much Purgatory had taken from him, but apparently his brother wasn't as easy to fool anymore.

Or maybe he just wasn't as good at hiding things.

The younger hunter nodded, knowing from his brother's tone the subject was closed. "So, we good to go then?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

"As ready as we'll ever be." Dean stepped back and tossed the spray can into the corner of the church. "Let's get this done."

…

Lebanon, Kansas – 1972

The chanting was reaching its climax. Soon the demon would be gone, the world a safer place. It would be their first true victory. Henry could barely contain himself, allowing his excitement to show in the crescendo of his voice. He tried to keep the timber steady, allowing himself to feel the power of the Order flowing through him. This was the apex of their plans. Everything the Men of Letters had prepared for culminated with this. If they could effectively 'cure' a demon, turn the evil back into something resembling humanity, all their sacrificed will have been worth it.

And it would work. He knew it. He could see the demon was succumbing to the spell. It was desperately trying to hold on, fighting against him, but he could not let go. He had shed the heavy cloak, the oppressive heat in the windowless room making him light headed. His throat was raw from the hours of chanting it had taken to get them to this point, but he persevered, buoyed by the changes he could see in the demon. It was still fighting, but the verbal spewing had ceased, saving its strength to combat the effects of the spell.

Henry knew it was working. Some of the other more influential brothers had expressed their doubts that such an undertaking was wise. That the spell would not work on one so powerful, but Henry had been adamant. He believed. And that belief would be rewarded.

He took a step forward, his eyes locked with the black, swirling orbs of the demon. He could feel the hairs on his arms rise as he began the final chant, a low humming building in his ears as his foot inadvertently made contact with the circle surrounding the trap. His voice faltered as a blinding light appeared in the room, a crash of sound. He swore he heard the demon laugh…

….

Sam finished the final words of the summoning spell, taking a step back as the sigils on the floor began to glow. An electric current filled the air and he unconsciously rubbed at his arms as they began to tingle. A quick look at his brother showed the older man's eyes narrowed, his attention riveted to the devil's trap on the floor. The room began to shake, a roar of sound filling the small space. Both hunters shielded their eyes as a blinding light filled the room, accompanied by a rush of wind that scattered the leaves and detritus that littered the empty church.

A loud bang assaulted their ears, then sound and light disappeared. They lowered their arms and watched in surprise as an older man fell at their feet, scuffing the lines of the devil's trap. A second man, in the center of the trap, stood straight, black eyes flashing at the Winchesters, its face twisting into an insidious grin.

Dean instinctively pulled his gun, taking two quick shots at the demon, knowing they would be ineffectual but hoping to at least slow it down. Sam made a move toward the circle, stooping toward the downed man, only to be thrown across the room into the wall as the demon held out its hand. Dean was given the same treatment, ending up on the opposite side of the room as his brother.

Ignoring the dazed man that had come with it through the portal, Abaddon glanced at Dean, still slumped on the floor, reeling from his abrupt meeting with the wall, then turned and moved toward Sam, who was somewhat unsteadily regaining his feet. Watching as the demon forced his brother up against the wall, its arm extended, hand wrapped around the younger hunter's throat, Dean switched the gun to his left hand and pulled Ruby's knife from his belt. Pushing off from the floor, he charged, stabbing the blade into the demon's back, holding it while the familiar light show danced inside the meat-suit. When he pulled the knife back, the demon fell to its knees, the orange sparkle under its skin flashing. After a moment, the light ceased and the demon pushed itself to its feet, nowhere near dead. Sam scrambled off to the side, stumbling in a wide circle to join his brother as they backed up, wide eyes locked onto the demon.

Abaddon grunted, lifted a hand toward its back, eyeing the knife in Dean's hand with malevolence. Its black eyes shifted to the hunters, glaring at them as they crouched into guarded positions, ready to defend an attack. It made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, then, without a word, turned and crashed through the wall, between Sam's carefully drawn sigils, disappearing from view.

Breathing hard, Sam moved to the outer wall of the church, his head peering through the large hole left in the demon's wake.

"What the hell?"

Dean's question went unanswered as the younger man turned his head in every direction, trying to see through the thick trees to get a bearing on where the demon could've gone. It was no use.

Abaddon had vanished.

Sam turned back to his brother, shaking his head to let him know the demon was gone. Movement behind Dean caught his eye and he redirected his attention to the man on the ground. His focus was enough to remind his brother of the more immediate danger still in the room. Dean swung around, lightning fast, bringing the silver gun up, trained on the man who had appeared with the demon. The man was staring at the gun, shock clearly written across his face. He pushed himself off the floor to his knees, raising his arms, swallowing hard.

He was older, Sam assumed somewhere in his mid to late 50's, about the age their father had been when he… The hunter shook himself, unsure why thoughts of John Winchester had popped into his head. The man before them had the same dark hair, graying at the temples, but was much thinner, almost wiry, and wore his hair in a slicked back style. His clothing was old fashioned, his white, tailored shirt opened at the neck, the collar a bit too broad for current times. He was clean-shaven—a look his dad hadn't sported since Sam was a child – but it was something in his eyes. There was something familiar in them that Sam couldn't put a finger on.

He stepped forward, putting him just behind his brother's left shoulder.

"Who are you?"

The man's eyes drifted nervously from the gun to Dean's face, his eyes finally coming to rest on Sam – his strangely familiar, very human eyes. The newcomer took a deep breath through his nose, cleared his throat, and spoke in a trembling voice.

"I dare say I should be asking you that question." The man squared his shoulder, which was quite a feat with his arms still raised toward the ceiling, and he spoke with an air of authority that impressed neither hunter.

Dean wiggled the gun. "I've got the gun," he reminded the man.

"Yes, you do. And I'm sure you know how to use it, young man."

"Then answer my brother's question."

Instead, the man huffed and dropped his hands, "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

Dean's eyes widened and he lowered the gun a bit. "What we've just done? We're not the ones who beamed in and let a demon loose."

"That wasn't just a demon," he stated, his cheeks turning red with anger. "That was a Knight —"

"A Knight of Hell," Sam finished for him. "Abaddon. We know."

"Then you should know this is not the thing amateurs should be playing around with."

"Amateurs?" Dean scoffed, not liking the accusation in the man's voice. "You're calling us amateurs?"

The man took a deep breath, and rolled his eyes. "Look, my Neanderthal friend, I'm sure you think you know what you're doing, but I've been researching and preparing most of my life…"

Dean took a moment to turn to his brother and mouth the word 'Neanderthal' before interrupting the older man's tirade. "And we've been hunting all of ours. Trust me, we know what we're doing."

"Hunters?" The contempt was thinly veiled. "I doubt you have the first clue how much danger you've just unleashed upon the world."

"We unleashed?"

"Dean," Sam laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, stopping him from advancing on the man, knowing he was one more insult away from wringing the poor guy's neck.

"Let's all just take a breath here," he said in his best voice of reason. Dean reluctantly stood down but kept his gun trained on their guest. Sam turned his attention to the man, squaring his shoulders, letting his height add a layer of intimidation to his brother's gun and glare. "What were you doing with Abaddon?"

The man focused on Sam, his gaze still drifting intermittently to Dean's steady gun.

"I – or rather we, my constituents and I – were attempting a ritual which would cure the demon of its evil nature."

Dean couldn't help but scoff. "Cure it? Seriously? Being a demon isn't some disease you can throw a telethon for. You exorcize it or kill it. Not a lot of options, Professor."

"And which were you doing?" the man shot back.

Sam sighed, resigning himself to playing the peacemaker. "Neither," he admitted. "We were going to use it for a spell."

"A spell?" The man's interest was piqued. "What kind of spell?"

"A spell that will send all demons back to Hell."

The man's brows rose in surprise. He looked dutifully impressed. "Permanently?"

Sam shrugged. "We're not sure."

"It doesn't matter," Dean interrupted. "However long it takes those sons-a-bitches to claw their way topside again, it's time the world can breathe a little easier." He tilted his head toward his brother. "And maybe lighten our load a little, too."

"Well as long as you're doing it for such altruistic reasons," the man snapped, his voice laced with condescension.

"Excuse me?"

"Altruistic. It means –"

"I know what it means!" Dean stepped forward menacingly, causing the thin man to jump back in fear.

"Dean!" Sam reached out and tugged his brother's sleeve. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold his brother back if the man kept antagonizing him. He held a hand out to calm the man, knowing Dean's outstretched arm that still held the Desert Eagle garnered much more attention. "Look, my name is Sam, this is my brother Dean. As we've already stated, were hunters. You seem to know what that means."

The man nodded.

"So why don't we all calm down and talk about this rationally." Sam squeezed his brother's arm, sighing in relief when the older hunter slowly lowered the gun. "Why don't we start with your name?"

The man, relieved at no longer being on the wrong end of the gun, ran a trembling hand down his chest, straightening the wrinkles that had pressed themselves into his starched shirt. He took a deep breath then cautiously offered his hand in greeting.

"You can call me Henry. Henry Winchester."

TBC…