When Sam Winchester awoke, an intense, bright light shone into his right eye. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but his right eyelid was clamped open by a plastic, gloved hand. Straining against the light, he saw a black silhouette hunched over his prone body, one hand holding the flashlight that burned like the sun, the other hand holding his right eye open. In the lower left corner of his vision, he saw another silhouette standing against a white background.

"Finally, a response," said the figure hunched over him, who then moved the flashlight over to Sam's left eye and applied the same vice-like grip. "You chose a good facility, but next time, try to keep it in-house."

"We weren't fast enough, I admit," said one of the shadows in the corner. "The father was too far gone by the time we recovered them. Shipping him to Chicago would have taken too long. Here was our best bet to make sure the whole package got better."

The light clicked off and the hand was removed. Sam immediately shut his eyes, stars dancing like he had just stared into the sun. He heard footsteps as the two silhouettes walked away, echoing in his eardrums like a gentle drumbeat.

"I suppose you did make the right call. Right now, that room is one of the safest in the world…" he heard the first figure say before he drifted back to sleep.


The voice of his brother pulled Sam back from the black void of a dreamless sleep. "Sam… Sam… SAM!"

"What?" gasped Sam as he awoke to find Dean's face inches away. "What is it?"

Dean released Sam's shoulders and slumped back into a cheap plastic chair, a smile of relief spread across his face. He had stitches above his left eye and was wearing a hospital gown. "I've been trying to wake you for ten minutes. I'm glad you're alright."

"Where are we?" asked Sam. "And what happened?"

"I'm not sure," said Dean. "All I remember is the car getting smashed. But it looks like we're stuck in another freak show."

Their room was windowless, the only lighting provided by harsh overhead fluorescent bulbs. The walls were a plain, sterile white and the whole place smelled like disinfectant and plastic. And placed around the room were tools of supernatural protection.

An iron horseshoe and a jeweled hamsa were mounted above the doorway. Hanging from the ceiling between the two beds was a glass nazar, a silver crucifix, and a gilded Eye of Horus amulet. Dreamcatchers were suspended above both Sam and Dean's beds. And on the end table between them sat a black maneki-neko, a small clay pot overflowing with four-leaf clovers, and a half-dozen bulbs of garlic. An envelope and a small white box, decorated with a red ribbon and bow, were next to them.

"What the hell is this?" said Sam, wide-eyed. And then it dawned on him. "And where the hell is dad?"

Dean grimaced and looked at the floor. "I don't know." He turned his gaze towards the envelope. "But I'm sure that whoever left that does."

Sam picked the envelope up. It was a plain, white, letter-size envelope with a red wax seal; stamped into the wax was the silhouette of a howling wolf outlined against the full moon.

"Have you ever seen this symbol?" Sam asked.

"No," said Dean. "But I hope it doesn't mean werewolves. I hate those furry bastards."

Sam broke the seal. He examined the inside of the envelope, frowned, and turned it upside down. A fine white powder spilled from it and landed like snow on the table.

"I hope someone didn't just try to poison us," he said.

Dean ran his index finger through the clump of powder and, before Sam could stop him, stuck it in his mouth.

"Dean!" exclaimed Sam. "What if it's poison?"

Dean withdrew his finger. "It's not," he said, wiping his finger on the hem of his hospital gown. "It's salt."

Sam looked at Dean, then at the salt, then at the charms placed around the room. "Who are these people?"

He examined the envelope again and withdrew a small, white card. "Get Well Soon!" was printed in sharp, black Gothic font across the front. He opened it and found a message printed in 12-pt Baskerville:

May 7th, 2006

Samuel and Dean Winchester

University of Missouri Hospital

Room 213

One Hospital Drive

Columbia, MO 65212

Mr. and Mr. Winchester,

I hope that you are both doing well. My organization has always had a passing interest in you two, but since this unfortunate incident, you have both moved up to 'Priority One', so to speak. You are sharp and brave men, so I will be curt. At approximately 11:30PM on May 6th, your vehicle was struck by a truck whose driver was possessed by a lower-level demon, and you two and your father were knocked unconscious. Your vehicle was discovered by a passing civilian police officer, who immediately called for emergency medical personnel. Naturally, as soon your rather unique vehicle was called-in, we sent our own agents to the scene, and they took command. All three of you were immediately transported via helicopter to the nearest Level I trauma center.

Normally, we would prefer for cases such as yours to be handled by our own medical team, but your father's condition warranted a more immediate response. Given such circumstances, you were transported to the nearest hospital and guarded by our agents.

Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of the surgery team, your father succumbed to his injuries and passed away within hours. We immediately took custody of his body and took the liberty of burying him next to your mother. We apologize for not consulting you two, but you were unconscious and rapid action was needed.

The entire hospital bill will be covered by our organization. The hospital staff have been given notice to let you leave at any time you wish, with no paperwork or questioning. Please destroy this note when you are through with it.

Yours,

Captain Wilkerson

Below the signature was stamped the same symbol that was embedded into the wax seal. But this time, a Latin phrase bordered the symbol: lux in tenebris lucet.

"Light that shines in the darkness," Sam translated, muttering aloud.

"What the hell does this all mean?!" said Dean. He grabbed the card from Sam, shaking with anger. He reread it, eyes scanning furiously across the page. "What the hell is going on?!"

Sam leaned back into his pillow and closed his eyes before his tears could flow out. "Well… dad's dead," he murmured to himself.

Dean shook him until he opened his eyes. Tears streaked down Dean's face. "So what the fuck do we do now, Sam? Dad's dead, we got some creepy note from God knows who, and we don't even know where the hell we are."

Blinking away tears, Sam looked at the note again. He pointed to the signature. "The first thing we should we is figure out who this is."

Sam grabbed the white box and untied the red ribbon. Inside, resting on a bed of salt, was a cell phone. Sam gingerly removed it from the box, shook the grains of salt away, and flipped it open. The screen flickered to life. "1 New Contact".

Sam opened the phone's list of contacts. "Captain Wilkerson - 212-470-8827". Heartbeat rising, he pressed CALL.

Sam put the call on speaker, and the phone's distorted ringing filled the room. Dean sat up, staring in silence at the phone.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, I presume," answered a deep, yet friendly voice not unlike that of a salesman or telemarketer. "I've been expecting this call for a while now."

"Who are you? What you have done to us? Where is our dad?" shouted Dean, directing his anger and confusion at the voice coming through the little cell phone. "You better tell us, or I'll-"

"Not so fast," interrupted the voice, having adopted a brisk and business-like tone. "I am Captain Wilkerson, but before we go any further, I must confirm your identities. So tell me, what is the make, model, and license plate number of your car, Dean?"

Dean gave Sam a sideways glance, then answered: "She's a 1967 Chevy Impala. Kansas license plate, KAZ 2Y5."

"Good, good," replied Wilkerson. "And what is jammed in your car's ash tray?"

"A little toy army man," answered Sam, staring at the phone with wide eyes.

"Perfect. I suppose that's the best check that we can do over the phone," said Wilkerson. "As I said, I am Captain George Wilkerson, of the Night Police. And I would like to invite the two of your to join our order."

"Your- your order?" sputtered Dean. "Who the hell are you people?"

"Like I said, I am Captain George Wilkerson of the Night Police. We are a group dedicated to the same mission as you two. We hunt demons, ghosts, ghouls, and everything else that goes bump in the night. Except on a much larger scale than you do on your own."

"Larger scale?" repeated Sam. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Wilkerson, in the tone used by a patient teacher, "That we are an organization of thousands of people dedicated to keeping the supernatural in check. And the very fact that you haven't heard of us means that we are successful.

"We are basically the Men-in-Black: a modern, secular, militarized version of the knightly orders of old. We are a private, black organization that keeps the peace between the natural and supernatural. We operate in all U.S. territories. And the public knows nothing about us.

"You see, just how bad would it be if the general public knew about the supernatural? The average man wants nothing more than to go to work, make some money, and come home to a nice family. And knowing that a soul-sucking ghoul has an eye on his young daughter would be rather distracting. So, we come in, do a nice, quiet job, and the man continues living a happy life, none the wiser. It is our job to prevent the widespread panic that would result if people actually knew that a group of liches controlled much of the world's politics, or that zombie outbreaks actually were quite common in parts of the world, or that, Heaven forbid, everyone found out that Hell actually is real.

"We are the Night Police, keeping the peace between humans and the things that go bump in the night. And would like to invite you to join us."

Sam and Dean stared at the phone in disbelief. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. "This… this sounds absurd," said Sam. "This… doesn't sound real."

"Yes, that's how most people react," said Wilkerson, in a chipper voice. "Tell you what, why don't you come down to Florida and you can see us for yourselves. Come to the Stay Inn in Bartow, Florida. Today's May 9th, so make sure you arrive by… May 13th. And when you check-in, say you're with Blackwell Publishing."

"Okay… that sounds great and all," said Sam patronizingly. "But how can we even get there without our car?"

"Yeah, without my car," emphasized Dean. "And how can we trust you?"

"Oh, right. Well, I don't know how else I can gain your trust. But I'm sure that after we've meet in person, you'll change your tune. Feel free to come armed, if you feel the need.

"And as for your car, it is currently parked at a Hampton Inn that is about a ten minute walk south of the hospital. When you check out of the hospital, you will receive most of your belongings, as well as a room key for room 212. The car keys will be in there, along with some new clothing and weapons, courtesy of us. Feel free to spend the night there, too.

"And now I must say goodbye; I have things to do and people to command, after all. I hope to see you in a few days. Good-bye."

Sam and Dean stared the phone in silence, and then looked at each. "Well, what do we do now?" asked Sam.


Ten minutes later, Sam and Dean checked out of the hospital. A nurse handed their wallets, keys, cell phones, as well as a bag containing two new sets of clothing, no questions asked. Sam and Dean dug through their wallets and found a few new items: two hundred dollars of cash, a five hundred dollar Exxon Mobil prepaid gas card, a room key for the Hampton Inn, and two new fake driver's licenses.

"Hello, Mr. Daniel Redford of Colorado," said Dean, holding out his hand to Sam. "I'm Mr. Steven Schuster of Montana. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," muttered Sam as he studied a small, credit-card sized envelope that was in his wallet. IN CASE OF EMERGENCY was printed on the front. On the back was a short list of instructions:

1. Unfold contents.

2. Place on level surface with circle facing upwards.

3. Stay in the circle until the danger has passed.

WARNING: Single use only.

He stuck the envelope back into his wallet. "Just what the hell are we getting ourselves into?"


Ten minutes later, in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn, tears of joy streaked down Dean's face as he ran his hands over his restored Impala.

"She looks as good as new!" he said as he opened the driver's door. "She even smells the exact same!"

Sam opened the trunk and threw in the two suitcases he had retrieved from room 212; they each contained toiletries and a week's supply of clothing. Their collection of weapons was intact; in fact, everything had been neatly sorted and cleaned.

"They even kept the army man in the ash tray!" shouted Dean from the driver's seat. The Impala roared to life as he started the engine.

Sam sat down in the passenger and opened the glovebox. Everything was just like it had been before the accident. Well, except for one thing.

"These guys have thought of everything," he said as he noticed the electronic tolling transponder mounted near the top of the windshield.


Four days and one leisurely road trip later, the Impala rumbled into the parking lot of the Stay Inn in Bartow, Florida. Dean circled the parking lot and then parked near the hotel's entrance.

"So, Mr. Redford, what you think of this place?" asked Dean as reached under his seat and retrieved the handgun that was taped underneath. He racked the slide and stowed the gun in his coat pocket.

"Dean, don't you think you will look suspicious wearing a leather jacket in ninety-degree weather?"

"Not unless you can think of a better way to smuggle our guns in there."

Sam sighed, put on his coat, and stowed his handgun in an interior pocket. The Florida sun beat down on them as they exited the Impala and walked through the main entrance. When the automatic doors opened, the two brothers were greeted with the arctic blast of the air conditioning unit.

The hotel looked like it had seen better days. The paint was cracked and the light fixtures were covered in dust, but Dean put on his most charming smile for the young lady behind the counter.

"Hello, I'm Steven Schuster and this is Daniel Redford," he said, gesturing at Sam. "We are here with Blackwell Publishing."

"Oh, yes," said the receptionist. "Mr. Wilkerson told me that you two were coming."

"He did now?" said Dean, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"Yes, well, the company rented out the whole hotel, and he said he wanted to personally make sure that we had a room ready for you. You two are in room 142," she said as she handed Dean a key.

"That's perfect," said Dean as he pocketed it. "Now, where can we find Mr. Wilkerson?"

"He said that he'd be in the conference room all day. Go left, turn the corner, go past the restaurant, and it will be the next door on your left."

"Thanks, darling. If I need anything, I'll be sure to call the front desk," replied Dean with wink. The receptionist blushed as Sam and Dean walked down the carpeted hallway.

Sam and Dean tried to walk as casually as possible, but they were on edge. They heard voices at the end of the hallway, and it was difficult to stop themselves from pulling out their handguns. At the corner, they stopped, and Dean poked his head around.

At the end of the hallway, near the door to the conference room, mounted on an easel was a sign that said "Blackwell Publishing Executive Retreat." Muffled voices could be heard from behind the door. Three men in business attire were lounging on chairs in front of the door. One was smoking a cigarette, one was reading a newspaper, and one was eating a McDonald's combo meal. All three of them looked bored. The smoker was looking in Dean's direction, but didn't give any indication that he saw Dean peek around the corner.

"What did you see?" whispered Sam.

"Three guys in suits sitting around outside the conference room. There's people in there, but I can barely hear them."

"Did they see you?"

"I thought one guy was looking at me, but he didn't even move his head when I stuck my head around."

"Okay, let's go," said Sam, as he reached inside his coat, ready to draw his handgun if necessary. He and Dean turned the corner.

But instead of sitting down, looking bored, all three men were now standing in the Weaver stance, handguns pointed directly at Sam and Dean.

"Sam and Dean Winchester?" said the one who had been smoking, his cigarette now smoldering on the hallway floor. "Put your hands up and walk over here, slowly."

Sam and Dean released the grips on their handguns, withdrew their hands from their coats, and slowly raised them. They walked slowly and deliberately down the hallway toward the three guards.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us who you are?" said Dean.

"That isn't for me to decide," said the guard in command. "Stop when you are ten feet away from us and put your hands behind your heads."

Sam and Dean stopped, shifted the position of their hands, and the guard who had been reading the newspaper came forward and patted them down. "They're both armed, sir. One pistol on each of them."

"The Captain expected that," said the guard in command. Without turning his head, he backed up and knocked on the door twice, and pushed it open a crack. "Captain, Sam and Dean Winchester are here."

The door opened and a tall man in a jet black suit and matching tie stepped out. His wide smile was betrayed by the lines and shadows under eyes, eyes that had seen any number of unseen horrors. He held out his hand and in the familiar, friendly voice, this time free of the cell phone's distortion, said, "Sam, Dean, it's great to finally meet you. I am Captain George Wilkerson."

The guards relaxed and put away their guns, and Sam and Dean put down their hands. "I thought you'd be taller," joked Dean as he shook Wilkerson's hand.

"And you are exactly as tall as your file said you'd be," he replied.

"Not to be rude," said Sam as he shook Wilkerson's hand, "but can you tell us what is going on?"

"Of course," said Wilkerson. "But first, you must come in and meet everyone."

Wilkerson led them through the door into the conference room. Inside was one long table, around which sat half a dozen men in suits of varying color and style. He introduced them one by one.

First, he pointed to a man wearing an ashen-grey suit and a dull, plain red tie, a man whose appearance was instantly forgettable, but whose eyes were perceptive and guarded. His gaze flicked over them, analyzing them instantly, but he stayed silent. "This is Lieutenant Philip Silva, on-site commander of our intelligence unit."

Next, Wilkerson pointed to a very serious, bespectacled man in a navy pinstriped suit. This man would not have looked out of place in a lecture hall or library, but Sam and Dean sensed a dangerous aura emanating from him. "This is Captain Carl Dunbar, on-site commander of our covert operations group." Sensing Sam and Dean's confusion, he clarified, "He's commander of the clean-up crew."

"And very underappreciated, I must say," said Captain Dunbar dourly.

"Moving along, here are two of my men, Lieutenants Daniel Vicario and Frederick Pearce," said Wilkerson, pointing to two men. Both reclined leisurely back in their chairs, mischievous smiles on their faces as they evaluated Sam and Dean. Lieutenant Vicario wore a gaudy, bright red suit and matching red tie; Lieutenant Pearce wore a dull, dark green suit and dark green tie. Both of their ties had matching images of a roaring bear outlined in white, paws grasping the emblem of 'Wash U'.

"Nice to meet you," said Lieutenant Vicario warmly, in a voice that filled the room.

"Yes, nice to meet you," echoed Lieutenant Pearce, guardedly.

"And finally," said Wilkerson, moving along, "we have Lieutenant Andrew Garza, on-site commander of our air unit." He pointed to a man wearing an ill-fitting, rumpled black suit; he looked like he belonged in jeans, a leather jacket, and aviator sunglasses instead.

"Air unit?" questioned Sam.

"Helicopters," answered Lieutenant Garza, gruffly. "But sometimes small airplanes."

Wilkerson sat down at the head of the table. "And finally there's me, commander of the Tactical Response Group and designated commander of this operation." He gestured to two empty seats between Captain Dunbar and Lieutenant Silva, and Sam and Dean lowered themselves into them.

"Now, Lieutenant Silva, please continue your report," said Wilkerson.

"Yes, sir. Our surveillance teams have confirmed that the most recent kidnapping victims have also been possessed. That brings the total number of people under the ifrit's control to fifty-three."

"Hold on," interrupted Dean. "What ifrit?"

Captain Dunbar's eyebrows furrowed with impatience, but Wilkerson answered with the patience of a schoolteacher. "The ifrit is the reason that we are here, in a run-down hotel under the guise of a company retreat." He tossed a folder over to Dean.

Inside the folder was a stack of papers and the photograph of a bearded man with a white turban. Beneath the photo was a dossier:

NAME: Hulon Mitchell Jr., AKA Yahweh ben Yahweh

BORN: 10/27/1935 in Kingfisher, OK

PERMANENT ADDRESS: Miami, FL

OCCUPATION: Cult leader (Nation of Yahweh)

SUMMARY: Founder and leader of black supremacist cult Nation of Yahweh. Indoctrinated followers believe that he is the son of God. Monitored by Night Police from March 1990 to November 1990 as suspect in twelve murder cases. Attempted to use victims' blood to summon ifrits, but demonstrated incorrect and rudimentary knowledge of summoning techniques. Evidence turned over to FBI in November 1990 resulted in arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. Convicted, but released on parole in 2001.

RECOMMENDATION: Low-level monitoring

"Looks like you've dealt with this guy before," noted Sam.

"We have," sighed Wilkerson. "According to the case file, our patrol officers viewed him as a very low-level threat. Just another crazy guy who wanted to summon a demon, but couldn't figure out how and tried to use what he saw in movies."

"It says he committed murders," said Dean.

"It does. But as long as there was no supernatural aspect to them, we do not get involved," replied Wilkerson.

"But this guy was going around murdering people and you just let him?" said Dean indignantly, voice rising.

"Listen, Dean," said Wilkerson, impatience creeping into his voice. "We aren't normal police. Our jurisdiction is only in matters of the supernatural. We did report him to the FBI, who did what they do best. But you wouldn't expect the FBI to be hunting ghosts, would you? So we leave normal crime to them, and they leave the paranormal to us. Are we clear?"

Dean slumped down in his seat, unsatisfied. Sam nodded.

"Good. Now the reason we are here today is because this fellow escaped his parole and has been hard at work re-establishing his cult. And apparently he learned something in prison, because he has managed to summon low-level demons into each of his followers. And they've been busy kidnapping people to grow his little army.

"I've been here for about one week now; Lieutenant Silva has been here for two. We've used the time to plan and gather intelligence. And we also teamed up with our local patrol officers to run interference and prevent more kidnappings. And soon, hopefully, we'll be able to execute our plan."

"What's stopping you from-" started Sam before the ringing of the telephone on the table in front of Wilkerson interrupted. He picked up before its first ring faded.

"Captain George Wilkerson, Tactical Response Group," he said. "Yes, I completely understand, sir. As per usual, we will be swift, silent, and effective… Thank you very much, sir. We will contact you immediately once the operation is complete. Good-bye."

Wilkerson put the phone down. "That was the Deputy Attorney General," he announced. "We have permission to proceed. We will execute tomorrow at 0200. Everyone relax and get a good night's sleep. Vicario and Pearce, stay a little longer to brief the Winchesters. Everyone else, dismissed."

Wilkerson, Dunbar, Silva, and Garza stood up and left the room. Lieutenants Vicario and Pearce remained seated across from Sam and Dean. Vicario cleared his throat.

"So, are either of you afraid of heights?"


Twelve hours later, at 0130, Sam Winchester found himself in the back of a Black Hawk helicopter preparing to take off from Bartow Municipal Airport. He was sitting in the middle of a group of ten officers from the Night Police Tactical Response Group RED Unit. Each of them wore a navy blue combat uniform, a combat vest, a kevlar helmet, and night vision goggles and carried an assault rifle, a pistol, a combat knife, and several different types of grenades. Sam was dressed the same but was unarmed, save for a smoke grenade that released rosemary incense. "In case things get hairy out there," explained Lieutenant Vicario.

The Lieutenant was riding in another Black Hawk. There were four Black Hawks in all, each carrying ten officers and a flight crew of three. Sam was riding with Sergeant Lawrence Taylor, commander of RED Unit's 2nd Squad.

"Just stay with me, and everything will be okay," reminded Sergeant Taylor, more to reassure himself than Sam. Why did he have to get stuck with chaperone duty?

Outside, Sam heard the engines of the three nearby Sikorsky Skycranes roar to life, and he knew it was time. The Skycranes, each equipped with a two thousand five hundred gallon water tank, rose slowly from the tarmac and flew southwest in a V formation, towards Brewster. Eight seconds behind them, the Black Hawks rose into the night and followed them.


On a ridge overlooking the once-thriving town of Brewster, Florida, Dean peered through infrared lenses at the abandoned buildings below. He could make out about four dozen distinct forms. All people who were controlled by demons.

Brewster was once a thriving town, but now all that remained were a few hollowed-out buildings and the ruins of the town's power plant, whose crumbling smokestack still dominated the skyline. GREEN Unit's 1st squad was spread out on the ridge overlooking the ghost town, each officer having a clear line of sight. The officer to Dean's left manned a light machine gun; the others carried assault rifles. Dean was unarmed; he was empty-handed except for the binoculars. On his right, Captain Wilkerson was staring at his watch and Lieutenant Pearce was looking through his own binoculars.

"Is 2nd Squad in position?" asked Wilkerson.

"Yes, sir," answered Pearce. 2nd Squad was positioned in a treeline to the northeast. Together, the two squads formed a pincer shape around Brewster; 1st Squad positioned south of the town and 2nd Squad positioned to the east. 3rd and 4th Squads were on standby with pursuit vehicles, ready to reinforce their comrades or chase down fleeing demons.

Wilkerson's watch let out a gentle beep, and he keyed his radio. "All units, this is WOLF Actual, the party starts in thirty seconds. GREEN-1 and GREEN-2, prepare to fire on my command." He nodded at Pearce. "Play the music."

Pearce picked up a small remote control and pressed play, and a dozen speakers concealed around the perimeter of Brewster sprang to life. They started playing a slowed-down version of a song recognizable to any demon: a Latin exorcism chant.

Through the binoculars, Dean saw all the forms in the ghost town immediately stand up, cover their ears, and stumble out of the abandoned buildings, searching for the source of the wretched chant. They were so distracted that none of them noticed the sound of approaching helicopters.

The three Sikorsky Skycranes appeared out of the darkness, racing towards Brewster like three hungry lions chasing an injured gazelle. Once over Brewster, the lead helicopter signaled, and in unison, the three Skycranes dumped six thousand gallons of Holy Water on the demonic masses.

The demons howled like they had been showered with molten lead. Wilkerson couldn't help but smile at their pain, and he gave the command: "1st and 2nd Squads, open fire."

The light machine gun next to Dean opened up, firing hundreds of wooden Palo Santo bullets into the demons. The rest of 1st and 2nd Squad joined in with their assault rifles, easily finding targets with their night vision goggles. Then, the Black Hawks arrived.


"All gunners, fire at will," ordered Lieutenant Garza from the lead Black Hawk. The helicopters' door gunners obliged him, raining Palo Santo bullets down upon the writhing mass of demons. After circling the town once, the helicopters split off and headed toward their designated landing sites.

Sam's Black Hawk landed in a clearing surrounded by abandoned buildings. "You boys know the drill," barked Sergeant Taylor. "Secure the area and apprehend all demons." He turned to Sam. "And you, stay by the helicopter and set this up," he said as he tossed him a folded nylon sheet and four stakes.

Sam ducked out of the helicopter, mindful to stay out of the line of fire of the door gunner, who was providing overwatch. The officers of 2nd Squad had cuffed a half dozen nearby demons, locking them in pure iron handcuffs engraved with a litany of magical symbols. They were now clearing buildings with a combination of salt grenades, rosemary incense grenades, and Palo Santo bullets.

Sam unfolded the white nylon sheet. Painted in the center was a magical circle of entrapment. Sam recognized some symbols that he had seen before in a Devil's Trap, but the rest were beyond him. Surrounding the center entrapment circle were thirteen smaller circles. These smaller circles were adorned with Arabic letters.

"Stake it down before the helicopter blows it away," ordered Sergeant Lawrence. With one demon in each hand, he began dragging the incapacitated demons into the circle of entrapment. After securing the demons in the clearing, he keyed his radio. "2nd Squad, report."

"We've cleared our assigned area, sarge," reported an officer. "We're returning to the landing area with some captives."

"Good work, boys, now let's-"

"WOLF Actual, this is RED Actual," interrupted the voice of Lieutenant Vicario. "We have a sighting of the ifrit. As we suspected, he's holed up in the power plant's old smokestack. Apparently he was too smart to be flushed out, over."

"Acknowledged," answered Wilkerson. "RED-1 and RED-2, set up a perimeter but do not engage. GREEN-3, send in your two flamethrowers. GREEN-4, move up and assist RED-3 and RED-4 with clearing operations. GREEN-1 and GREEN-2, maintain overwatch. Over."

"You heard him," said Sergeant Taylor to the squad. "You can come, but you must stay with me. You don't fuck with an ifrit," he said to Sam.

Taylor, Sam, and the rest of 2nd Squad moved to their new positions. The smokestack rose from the ground like a dying tree. It was covered with cracks and overgrown with moss and ivy. The once-proud power plant was now nothing more than a collection of low brick walls no higher than a man's chest. 1st and 2nd Squads crouched behind these walls, assault rifles aimed at the dilapidated smokestack.

There were several large, man-sized holes at the base of the smoke stack. In the moonlight, Sam thought he could see the outline of a man, but it wasn't clear… like it was surrounded by wisps of smoke.

Lieutenant Vicario plopped down next to Sam, eyes trained on the smokestack's base. He flashed another mischievous smile. "You're in for a real treat," he said as a black SUV drove up. Two men with large tanks on their backs got out and slowly approached the smokestack. Flamethrowers.

When the ifrit spotted them, it let out a howl of anger. Purple flames engulfed its body, dissolving its human host and revealing its true form: a demonic, winged monster of purple fire. With another howl, it launched itself towards the men with the flamethrowers.

Sam got ready to pull the pin on his incense grenade, but Vicario stopped him. "Watch."

Despite a flaming monster rushing towards them, the two officers reacted with all the nonchalance in the world. In unison, they calmly raised their flamethrower guns and squeezed the triggers. A stream of Holy Oil sprayed at the charging ifrit, followed one millisecond later by a gout of Holy Fire as the oil ignited.

The Holy Fire engulfed the ifrit, stopping it in its tracks. Its purple flames were completely covered by the orange tongues of holy flame. The ifrit released one final scream of pain as its body turned to ash, and then it was nothing more but dust.

The two officers stepped back. Three officers from RED-2 approached and scooped the ashes into a sack with all the ceremony of scooping day-old dog poop. The mission was over.

"So what do you think of all that?" asked Wilkerson. He approached Sam from the black SUV, Dean in tow.

"I don't know what to say," replied Sam, feeling overwhelmed. "The machine guns, the helicopters, the flamethrowers… all this," he said, sweeping his arms wide and gesturing at the officers who were dragging away demons. "How is this even possible?"

"That will all be shared in due time," said Wilkerson. "If you decide to join us."

"Join you?" echoed Dean incredulously. "We barely know you."

"Yes, but we know a lot about you two," said Wilkerson. "Out of all the hunters in the United States, you two are among the best. So why not stop playing JV and move yourselves up to varsity? We can supply you with weapons, training, everything you need."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. "Look, we really appreciate this," said Sam, "But this is just so overwhelming…"

"I thought you'd say that," said Wilkerson. "So give it some time. You have my number. And who knows, we may run into each other again." He tossed Dean a key.

"That's the only spare key to your Impala. We had it made when getting her fixed. I took the liberty of having one of my men pack her up and bring her over," Wilkerson said. He jerked his thumb backwards. "She's over that way, on the side of the road. I figured you two wouldn't want to share a hotel with us for any longer than you had to. I know you guys like to leave quickly."

"Thanks," said Dean. He took a minute to take one last look around. "But what's going to happen to these people?"

The remaining possessed humans were being led to the entrapment circles. Steel cylinders were placed in the small circles surrounding the main entrapment circle. An Arabic chant was being recited by nearby officers; when the chant concluded, the demonic smoke flowed out of the humans and into the steel cylinders.

"The insides of those cylinders are coated with iron. We suck the demon out of the human and trap it in there, for a very painful and eternal prison sentence," said Wilkerson. "After all, if we just exorcise them, they'll just go back to Hell and try again later. We prefer to lock them up in a place that they can never escape from."

"And where's that?" asked Sam.

"An old iron mine underneath a mountain. And also the world's most secure prison for the supernatural."

Dean looked around again. More Night Police officers, presumably from the clean-up crew, had arrived and set up temporary medical stations. A little girl, no older than seven, was screaming in pain as a nurse carefully removed the Palo Santo fragment that was embedded in her arm.

"There's gotta be a better method than this," said Dean, thinking aloud.

"If you don't agree with our methods, don't join us," said Wilkerson. "Just know that we've been doing this for a lot longer than most."

"And how long would that be?" asked Sam.

"About one hundred years," answered Wilkerson. "And if you excuse me, I must now see to my men." He started walking away, then turned. "And if you have had enough thinking, give me a call any time. We can always use some capable new officers."

"We'll see," said Dean, and the two brothers turned and walked towards the Impala.

"You know, Sammy," said Dean as he climbed in and shut the driver's door. "Things just got a lot more complicated."

"Yeah, but there's still demons to hunt and people to save," said Sam. "And I still have a stupid lunk like you for a brother."

Dean smiled. "I guess things aren't so bad after all." The Impala rumbled up the highway, the rising sun illuminating the road ahead.