Published earlier on other sites as The Fury of San Mateo Alemann. Minor changes from that version, but essentially the same.

Chapter 1

The Winchester brothers had finally arrived. After a long and harried journey, fraught with the usual issues, plus a few new and decidedly unwelcome ones, they pulled up in front of the resort Sam had Impala was hissing with the heat of the long run, dust-caked and radiating exhaustion. Black car, black interior, unrelentingly hot Gulf sun...it was a brutal combination for a lengthy trek.

Dean was first to attempt to unfold himself from the sticky seat with some semblance of dignity. He got out, gripped the doorframe and stretched, groaning with a loud discomfort. It had been, to say the least, a very long drive. Sam sat back in the driver's seat and rubbed a weary hand over his face, plucking the errant sweaty bangs away from his brow. Air-con…he was ready to sell a kidney for it. He pulled the keys and waited a moment or two before exiting, closing his gritty eyes and resting his head against the seat. Finally...Mexico.

It had been a nerve-wracking experience, crossing the border. They weren't sure what to expect in terms of scrutiny, and both had sat sweating and smiling stupidly in nervous fear, as they were asked the usual questions. But their answers raised no red flags,...they were just another couple of yahoos in search of some sun and beach,-and they were allowed to continue through without any further interrogation. It took several miles more before either dared to breathe normally again. After that, they burst out in near-hysterical laughter and the tension broke.

Dean scratched his hair and gazed around him at the glowing sandy strand. It was a thing of beauty...warm and bright and sparkling. The vista was not quite what he'd expected. The area had been hard hit by the last battery of hurricane season, and the landscape was still devastated. What had been an elegant avenue of tall, swaying palms was now lined with ragged, splintered trunks of varying heights, all sadly shorn of their waving fronds. The ubiquitous thatched beach huts were non-existent, all flattened by the high winds and surf. The resort's main buildings were relatively unharmed, with the exception of the glass, which had been replaced immediately. But there was endless work in store to rebuild the area to meet the fairytale expectations of the tourists that fed the economy here. It was a perfect situation for the brothers, immediate paid laborers' jobs, cheap hotel rates—and a setting that demanded they do nothing but relax and unwind after simple days of hard work. No hunts, no distress…no harm.

Sam followed Dean, standing stiffly after his endless time behind the wheel. Dean had tried to do his share, but he'd found it too tiring and uncomfortable to stay alert and focused behind the wheel for any length of time. It irritated him beyond words, as driving was his particular form of sanctuary. But after his run in with the werewolf in Texas, he found strength and stamina frustratingly slow to return, at least by his own, impatient standards. Sam would try to grab a bit of shut-eye, but he'd frequently catch Dean mid-grimace as he shifted around in the driver's seat in vain hope of finding a position that didn't stress his newly acquired scars. At that point he would find an excuse to request that Dean stop, and then he'd take the wheel again, knowing he could never simply suggest that his brother take the back seat and rest for a while. Dean's pride was all the more belligerent when he felt weak.

Sam had tried to remain patient. He had, after all, vowed to ensure that his brother finally got the R&R he needed and deserved. But by now, he was stretched to his limit by Dean's restlessness and ill-tempered complaints. He hardly noticed the tattered beauty of this place, heading instead in search of a bed and some blessed sleep.

"Dean, you coming?"

Dean wandered back, and leaned against the hood, clasping his hands on the hot metal. "Yeah. What do we do—ask about work first, or check in..?"

Sam was already heading toward the units facing the beach. He was a man with a mission, and nothing was going to get between him and his pillow. "Room." he tossed over his shoulder. He had no energy left for conversation. Dean shrugged and grabbed a few bags, following him to check in. By the time he'd caught up with him, Sam had gotten the keys and paperwork. They walked in tired silence back to the sprawling beach building, finding their unit and unlocking it. Sam dropped the keys on the table and face-planted onto the closest bed, stretching his long arms to the sides as if hugging a long lost friend. Dean dropped his bags and sat heavily on the second one. He watched his brother melt into the mattress.

"You could've let me drive some more, you know." he objected guiltily.

A muffled grunt served as Sam's answer. But he turned over and stretched like a cat on his back, sighing with deep relief. "Relax, Dean. I know you did your part. It was just a really long drive….I'm fried."

"Mmm. How long are we booked here for?"

"A week. After that we should try to find work. It's cheap right now because of the shape everything's in after the hurricane, but not so cheap that we can hang out forever."

Dean was thwarted in discussing anything else, as Sam had settled into some deep snoring within minutes. Dean shook his head with a little smile, and lay back on his own bed. –Pussy. He checked the time, it was late afternoon. Dinner would be served soon, which pleased him as he was famished. He wondered what these all-inclusive joints served, but he was eager to fill the hollow space in his middle with whatever was going, plus a tray-full of Coronas, served, if there was a god, by some buxom, tanned waitress that thought nothing of delivering a meal in a tiny, neon bikini…..

When they both finally woke up, the sun was a deep orange ball floating over the sea, and it was long past the dinner buffet. Dean swore in disappointment, shaking a protesting Sam awake.

"Knock it off, jerk!" the younger man growled, attempting to roll over and away from the irritant.

Dean persisted. "C'mon, lazy-arse! Are you planning to spend the whole time here in the sack, alone? Let's go find something to eat and see how the chicks rate around here."

Sam reluctantly rose to sit on the bed edge, knowing it would be hopeless to ignore Dean when he was pumped on an entire road-trip's worth of caffeine and eager anticipation. "Can I at least have a freaking shower? I feel like stale crap."

"Yeah, you look the part too. Go scrub the bitchiness out, Sam…but hurry up, will you? I don't wanna miss out on anything."

Sam brushed past him and made his way to the can. He felt like he was pet-sitting an ADHD Jack Russell terrier...entertain him or else! As he adjusted to the steaming water, he felt the cramped, churlish feelings melt away with the cascading stream. God, it felt good. After all the hours in that damned car, this was pure heaven.

But heaven had a meter running. Dean, sure he was on the verge of expiring from starvation, banged on the door and hollered at him to quit preening, it was a lost cause anyway. After some choice exchanges, Sam emerged refreshed and ready. He stopped short and stared at his brother.

"What the hell is that?" he burst out, with a guffaw.

Dean had adopted a when-in-Rome attitude. He'd discarded his dusty jeans and pulled on a pair of baggy, wildly flowered shorts. He had been waiting with his hands in TaDa! mode for Sam to come out.

"What? Just blending in, Sam. I figured I'd go native for the week." he grinned shyly.

Sam laughed. "Hey-dude, I'm with you. Just never figured you'd ditch the long pants without a fight." He remembered having to cut Dean's jeans off and hide the rest of his clothes to get him into shorts when they were in Florida. -Guess he learned something after all….

"Where the hell did you get those?"

Dean rummaged in his gear for the flip flops Sam had forced him to wear in the Keys. "Bought'em in that last joint near the border. On sale too."

"Go figure." Sam snorted.

But before Dean could succumb to his embarrassment and attempt to change, Sam sought a colourful pair himself. The two stood in front of the mirror for several moments, eyeing their reflections critically. Dean pronounced a verdict. "We look like dorks."

Sam laughed. "No, but we sure as hell are pasty. We need a tan, like yesterday. Nobody's gonna bother asking if it's our first day here, that's for sure."

Dean grunted in agreement. "Well Sammy, I'm about to gnaw off my own arm here. Find us some food."

Six weeks earlier...

Young Father Elieis Herrera was freshly ordained. And as such, he burned with the passionate fires of youthful conviction, and was eager to implement his New Ideas. He envisioned a new path to God, one clarified by the discarding of the millstones of Old Religion; superstition, ritual,…the ponderous language and observances. It was long overdue, in his mind. For centuries here, the Church had allowed practices that bordered on idol worship, activities, he was sure, that obscured the true path to salvation. He vowed to work hard to eradicate these nonsensical beliefs, particularly the abhorrent veneration of relics...the worship of bits of bone and hair and yellowed fingernails that had once been part of the living saints.

His approach bordered on heresy, and worse-he was an irritating thorn in the side of his tired and jaded colleagues. The elder Catholic fathers were perfectly happy with the way things were currently done—both God and the people seemed happy enough. At least, neither was complaining. They decided he needed to be contained. They worked to isolate him, drop him in some tiny rural parish where the waves he generated would peter out harmlessly, leaving the comfortable status quo intact. And so, the young priest found himself in this poor and rural corner. Upon being given the old and crumbling Church Of San Mateo Alemann, he vowed that his first task must be to sweep away the parish's obsession with the very things he'd preached against. After an inspired and thunderous sermon at his first mass, one that left his new congregation agape with shock and disapproving worry, Father Elieis set about cleaning house.

He had some idea of how his new ways were received. He sectretly reveled in the shock and bewilderment he'd caused his people. To heal, he thought, one must cut away the rot. Of course there was pain in this, but soon they would see that the result was a healthier faith. When mass was long over and the murmuring throng had left, he strolled around the patched and crumbling walls of the old building. He made a list as he went, making note of the statues and icons that seemed to rule every corner...their bland expressions, painted like whores, beseeching alms from these poor, misguided people. They were draped in decorated finery, as if they were kings and queens, and gilt crowns and baubles adorned them. Scraps of paper, each carrying the scribbled prayer of a worshipper, littered the statue bases, spilling over the edge and piling on the floor. Father Elieis knew that the faithful looked to these wood and plaster things as if they were gods in their own right, begging their favour in return for the offerings they could ill afford. No-it had to stop.

He paused finally in front of the ornate, gilded casket that held the relics. The pride of the parish, the blessed remains of San Mateo Alemann himself. –Disgusting. He didn't even want to know what lay in the revered container, seated on its dusty, half rotted velvet cushion, and strewn with wilted and dead floral offerings and the wax from countless votive candles. It could be anything; a shriveled finger, or a lock of hair, a tooth or a darkened scrap of bone. He'd once visited a church in his youth, where he was told by a beaming deacon that they had the dried foreskin of San Salvatore in a silver box, and it was given to granting miracles. He snorted, remembering the man's stupid pride over the macabre souvenir. Well, whatever lay in this box now, he would see that it was buried in the churchyard where it belonged.

Father Elieis wiped his hands on his cassock and turned to the vestry. He needed to learn now. There was a network of faithful that did things for the building and its priest, it was the same everywhere. He would familiarize himself with these good people, find out who did what and who could serve as an ally while he imposed his changes. He scanned through the books and notes of his predecessor. Sadly, there were few who served. Lino Salazar...he seemed to be the caretaker. He had yet to speak to the man, but he had seen him puttering about the yard, a sour, hunched figure that radiated more malice than faith. And there was old, nearly blind Sister Crotilda, who did the laundry and washed the church-goods after mass. He'd watched as she made her way around the church, mumbling her prayers to the statues, kissing their gesso'd feet. She was going to be his cross to bear in this...she was the one responsible for the overwrought, ridiculous dresses in which the statues were clothed, and she was immensely proud of the precious box of San Mateo's corporeal leftovers. He was going to have a tough time convincing her that this was not the way to salvation. She'd fawned over these distractions for more than fifty years, and was more than likely going to try to brain him with the chalice when she found out what he'd done.

He sighed and returned to his chambers. This was not going to be easy.