Chapter One:
Sam Winchester sat in a cheap motel, at a rickety table with an old computer, waiting for Dean.
Dean was supposed to be back three hours ago. What was he thinking, not even checking in? Sam had called at least five times already, and for all he knew, Dean could be dead. He had been even more reckless than usual lately, and it was really driving Sam up the wall. He was sick of always picking up the pieces after Dean, and Castiel was no help at all either.
Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at the clock, impatiently noting that it was ten at night. Standing quickly, he got a beer out of the refrigerator and popping the top, Sam left the table and sat on his bed. He turned on the television and left it on the first channel.
The latest episode of Casa Erotica was just beginning when the door banged open and Dean burst in. Sam fumbled for the remote and switched it off as the intro played. Dean gave him a sidelong look and commented, "Awkward," before tossing the keys to the Impala on the counter.
"What's up, Sammy?" Dean asked carelessly, kicking off his shoes and sitting on his bed, like he didn't even know he had been gone for three hours later he should have been. Sam turned sideways and glared at Dean, who continued, laughing, "You look like you got a unicorn stuck up your ass."
"That's not funny, Dean."
Dean smirked. "Yeah, it is. Course it is, I said it. So what's wrong with you, Sam?"
Sam snapped. "What's wrong with me? Dean, you were supposed to be back three hours ago! What the hell were you doing? You could have been dead, and I wouldn't have even known because you didn't give enough crap to check in!"
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said, leaning in conspiratorially. "But I met someone I needed to interview, and she needed all my attention, if you know what I mean."
He winked, and Sam shuddered. "You're disgusting."
"It takes one to know one, little brother," Dean said, lying back on his bed. Looking over at the nightstand between the two queen beds, he stared intently at a machine for a few seconds, and then asked in a would-be casual voice, "You got any quarters?"
There was a Magic Fingers Massage Machine on the stand. Dean was oddly addicted to it, ever since he had discovered it a few years before. "Dude," Sam said, "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not enabling your sick habit."
"Dammit," Dean said absently, wishing he had something to do. "You know, I was thinking, Sam. All this credit card fraud and we still stay in crappy motels. Don't you think we work hard enough to stay at a place that actually has room service and frisky maids once in a while?" There was no reply from the other side of the room. "Sammy?"
Sam gasped, a sound that was painful and sharp. Dean hadn't heard him make that kind of sound for three years, not since he'd had one of his visions caused by the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel.
"Sammy!" Dean leaped off his Magic Fingers and rushed to Sam's side. He was clutching his head and sucking in his breath without really releasing it. "Sam, are you okay? Talk to me!"
About fifteen seconds later, Sam blew out his breath and relaxed slightly. "Dean," he gasped, "I know where we need to go."
"What the hell? What are you talking about?"
He looked right into Dean's eyes and said, "Westlake, Texas, Dean. The entrance to Hell is going to open there in three weeks."
Dean looked at his brother's serious face, and even though he believed him, he was kind of pissed. "Dammit. How many freaking apocalypses are we gonna have to stop? I'm getting really tired of these sons of bitches."
Despite himself, Sam smiled at that.