The Thule member was left standing in the warehouse with the Golem and the cop-demon. The Golem remained stone-faced while holding the bit of the Impala.

"Idiot!" his master screamed, whirling on the cop. "What have you done?" He slapped the demon across the face, who seemed more annoyed than injured.

"What did I do?" the cop demanded. "It wasn't my fault those hunters followed us. Why don't you take it out on your big walking robo-man?" He kicked the Golem in frustration. It made no response.

"You didn't say anything about hunters!" sneered the Nazi. "This could ruin everything."

"They're just two guys," the cop protested. "I've slaughtered dozens like them before."

"Really?" his comrade grimaced. "That duo seemed quite adapt at their trade. And if you haven't noticed, they just removed one of your associates."

"The guy's a jackass. See if I care if they cut him into pieces."

"Then pray you're not the next demon on their list," he hissed. "Nobody makes exceptions in this line of work."

For once the cop looked edgy.

"I agree," a male voice murmured from behind them. "But we do make bargains."

The Nazi whirled around to see a man dressed in a three-piece black suit standing before them. A silver-tipped cane was in his hand.

The cop swallowed nervously. "M-Mister Crowley! I, I didn't think that—"

"Yes, that's just it. You didn't think." Crowley shook his head at the minion. "You left your noodle at home and let this baby-faced dumpkof lead you around by the balls."

The green-eyed man glared at the insult. Crowley merely shrugged at him. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, lad. We have bigger things to worry about."

"As for you." He lifted his cane and pointed it at the cop. "I'll deal with you later. Pop on downstairs before daddy gets mad." The cop's back arched and black smoke poured out his mouth until an unconscious body lay at Crowley's feet. He ignored it and stepped towards the Thule member.

"Nice piece of work you've got here." Crowley knocked his cane against the silent Golem. "Taking commissions, are we?"

"What I do is none of your business," the man retorted.

"On the contrary, lad. Anytime anyone borrows my flunkies, it's damn well my business. Let me guess. Bats in your belfry?"

The man said nothing.

"Teufel, Teufel, we're all on the same side," Crowley insisted. "Why get hot under the collar right now? I'm a big admirer of your work. Just thinking about good ol' Deutschland brings a smile to my face."

He stepped up right into the face of the man named Teufel. "Just remember that I'm the bloody King of Hell and I don't like people using my minions without permission!" he exploded with rage.

"It's bad enough that you make a bloody mess all over town but nicking my chess pieces right and left is downright sloppy. And you have the balls to call yourself a member of the Nazi party."

A vein was pulsing in Teufel's right temple. "Do not patronize me, demon."

"Then don't be such an asshole," Crowley shot back. "I have an army of demons at my command. Tell me why I shouldn't send you downstairs for them to chew the marrow off your bones."

"I have the Golem," Teufel reminded him. Seeing Crowley's surprised face, he nodded grimly. "The sorcery behind him is worth tenfold of your minions. I'm guessing he would be useful to you too."

Crowley exhaled sharply between his nostrils. "True, true. And that's a very good commodity, having something that doesn't blabber all the time." He seemed to calm down again.

"Herr Teufel, let's not quarrel. We actually have some things in common. You admired ol' Adolf, so do I. Big fan, in fact. You have work to do, so do I. We both have honey bees that need to be smoked out of their hive."

Teufel eyed him skeptically. "What do you want?"

It was Crowley's turn to sit upon the crate. "A guess at who crashed your party. Ten to one says it was two blokes. A loud-mouthed fool in flannel and a big milksop of a moose."

The silence between them confirmed Crowley's suspicions. "Winchesters," he announced.

Teufel rubbed his chin in thought. "These…Winchesters. They're the ones who told the rabbi's grandson how to kill my members?"

"Yes." Crowley smirked. "It's because of them that you're alone and on the run."

"They got away," Teufel glowered.

"Not for long," Crowley assured him. "Thing about these Winchesters is that they're like worms. Sooner or later, they need to come back to the surface for air."

A-A-A

1944

Malka snuck out of the makeshift basement where the rabbis had been talking in hushed whispers. What conversations she had been privileged to listen to would never be repeated and so she knew she would take those secrets to the grave.

Hell was about to break loose.

Reuniting with Rachel in the women's' barracks, Malka Grunberg nudged her little sister awake and dressed her in layers of clothing. They were tattered and smelled of dung but would keep Rachel warm. She tucked a packet of papers into Rachel's coat and explained the route that would take them to the Bielski Partisans in the forest where they'd be taken care of.

"This is important for the war effort," Malka explained gravely. "Don't open them until you are safe in the Bielski camp."

"Why don't you take them?" Rachel panicked. "Why are you giving them to me? Can't you do it?"

"It's because nobody will suspect you, silly." Malka assured her. "Cute kids always get away with it."

Rachel rubbed her dripping nose. It was hard to believe she was only fifteen years old and that Malka was twenty one. The last few years had sucked all the joy and beauty out of them until the sisters were little more than gaunt matchsticks; just shells of their former selves.

"Rachel." Malka squared Rachel's shoulders and looked her sister in the face. "I'm your big sister. Mama and Papa left me in charge. So you have to do exactly as I tell you. If I say run, you run. If I say go north, you go north. Just listen to me and everything will be all right."

Rachel nodded. A weak smile flickered on her face. "We'll always be together, won't we?"

A thousand words were on the tip of Malka's tongue but she said nothing. She merely bent forward and kissed her sister on her dirty forehead. "Yes, Rachel. Nothing in the world will keep us apart."

They waited for the beaming lights to move away. There was a rumbling sound like thunder and then Rachel saw the door of the soldiers' barracks go flying off the hinges. Fire had sprung up from within the building and she saw a giant figure rising from the flames. Two Nazis ran towards it with raised bayonets but it brought down a hand and knocked them down as if they were tin toys.

"M-Malka," she stammered, pointing to the figure. "What on earth is that thing?"

Malka just had a grim smile on her face. "Vengeance." She grabbed her sister's hand and they both fled into the thicket of action.

There was chaos in the camp. Sirens were screaming, prisoners were running, and gunshots cracked across the square. An officer by the name of Teufel had just run outside when his superior officer grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I will take care of that thing," he announced, pointing to the Golem who had just broken the front of a tank. "You make sure none of the prisoners escape. Shoot upon sight."

"Don't worry, sir. I will make sure of it."

"You'd better be," the general warned him. His dark eyes bore into Teufel's skull. "If even one Jew survives then the vengeance of the Hebrew God will pour down upon all of us."

Teufel felt a trickle of fear run down his spine but he quickly suppressed it. He saluted to the general and motioning to four of his men, charged forward with machine guns. Bullets sprayed forth and blood splattered on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Teufel saw two girls squeezing through a hole in the fence.

"After them!" he shouted. Another soldier with a bloodhound on a leash followed Teufel.

Heavy boots and canine teeth pursued the girls who ran through the woods, leaping over logs and crouching under branches. Malka kept her grip on Rachel's coat, thrusting her sister ahead of her.

"Faster, Rachel! Faster!"

The popping sound of a pistol echoed in the woods. A bullet buzzed inches from Rachel's head. When they reached the edge of a cliff that dropped off into a sharp ravine, she braced herself for the jump. They leapt and landed in a pile of dry leaves. But Malka's face was distorted in pain.

"Go!" she hissed, struggling to limp off her twisted foot.

"NO!" Rachel cried. "I won't leave you."

Malka slapped her sister across the face. "Listen to me!" she hissed between clenched teeth. "Those papers have to reach the Bielskis. You must get them to safety."

"I don't care about the papers! I care about you!" Rachel begged.

Malka pulled her sister close and pressed her lips to Rachel's ear. "I'll find a way to come back to you. I promise."

"Promise?"

"I swear. Now go!"

The beams from flashlights were getting closer to Malka. Rachel started off slowly but with a surge of fear coursing through her blood, she dashed deeper into the woods. Blood pumped in her ears, thumping a mantra she repeated to herself. "I'll come back. I'll come back."

When Teufel found Malka staggering on a broken foot, he didn't hesitate to put a bullet in her stomach. Blood seeped out of Malka's mouth but instead of falling to her knees, she lifted her head up to him.

Malka Grunberg laughed, a slow gurgling laugh that shook her thin frame to the core. It was a laugh that whispered in the wind and tickled the backs of their necks.

"You're going to lose this war," she muttered as drops of blood spurted onto the ground. "You will never conquer the earth or my people."

Teufel knew he should have made a rebuttal comment but the large gaunt eyes starred into his clean-shaven face and he knew that this woman did not fear him at all. He could destroy her body but never her spirit.

Malka wheezed out, her breath became slower and more ragged. "I swear in the name of the God of Abraham..." She drew out one last breath. "...I swear that I will come back to haunt you."

Two more bullets rang out in the cold air.

Rachel had reached the partisans when she heard the sounds of gunfire getting fainter and fainter from behind her. One of them, a large burly fellow with a red beard, wrapped his heavy jacket around her frail shoulders and hoisted her up into his arms.

"You're safe now," he assured her. "Let's get you fed and cleaned up."

"Wait, my sister," she pleaded weakly. "Malka said catch up with us."

"We have to keep moving or else they'll find us," he warned her.

"But Malka had information for you!" Rachel drew out the packet of papers and handed it to the partisan. He opened it up and much to her bewilderment, merely shook his head and showed her what she had been carrying.

The papers were blank.

"MALKA!" she shrieked, beating her fists against his chest. "No, we have to go back for Malka!"

"We can't. Don't you see? She's gone. Malka wanted you to go on without her." He carried the bundled-up Rachel deeper into the woods. Her arms and legs flayed frantically and she continued to fight her protector.

"You lied to me!" she shrieked hysterically. "You said everything would be all right! You said we'd be together again! Liar! You big horrible liar!"

"Malka," she sobbed over and over again, burying her face in the partisan's chest. "Malka! Malka!"

A-A-A

Present day:

Margo waved a hand through the darkness. The air felt cool and immobile, as if time had stopped in this place. Her fingers bumped against something cold and heavy like the base of a lamp. She gripped onto the chain and yanked down.

Pale pink light glowed from the rainbow glass of a Tiffany lamp. Adjusting her eyes, she took in the pale turquoise walls and the white chenille bedspread underneath her body. There was a green braided carpet on the floor and a black lacquered wardrobe and matching dresser in one corner. Everything looked old-fashioned but tidy.

Margo could have sworn she heard muffled music coming through the walls. When's the other shoe going to drop? Who are those guys and why did they drop me into Eleanor Roosevelt's boudoir?

She slowly made her way off the bed and was aware of a quivering sensation in her legs. There were some clothes drapped over a chair that looked faded but clean. Margo left them alone and tested the doorknob. It turned easily, allowing her to step into the corridor.

One end of the hallway led into further darkness. She shuddered and turned away, then edged towards the other end that was coming to a lighted room.

This can't be the Bat Cave. Aaron said it was much darker and craggier. No, don't go there. Don't think about Aaron. Don't think about the door exploding or that Nazi who's been alive for decades-

The sound of music was getting stronger. It sounded slightly scratchy as if it was coming from a record player. Was that Frank Sinatra singing?

Margo's bare feet tread carefully across the tiled floor until she came to a large well-furnished room with a decisive Art Deco style to it. The lighting was warm and inviting from additional old-fashioned lamps and the sight of so much literature on the walls was a feast to the eyes. If she hadn't been thrust into such unusual circumstances, Margo would have wanted to explore all the leather-bound books.

The source of music was indeed, a record player, that was whirling away in one corner.

Margo heard voices and quickly ducked behind a sofa, crouching down until her face was parallel with the ground. By tilting eyes up she could see well enough. The big long-haired agent came in and sat down at the table, then proceeded to bind his wrist in bandages. The other one was on his feet and peppering loudly to the agent he called "Sammy."

"We're not going to find anything if we dig up Aaron's grave," Sam insisted.

"Then what else? He didn't have a safety deposit box or any secret maps. We have to find that manual, damnit, before Frankenstein starts raising hell all over town."

"But Aaron said he burned the instructions his grandfather gave him back in high school," Sam protested.

"Then he must've found another copy somehow. I swear Sammy, that's the only thing that makes sense. Aaron told me he had gotten full control of the Golem. Are you suggesting he did that without any manual?"

"I don't know."

Dean threw up his hands. "All right, then. It had to be buried with him. So we'd better go out and find it before that Thule comes back—"

"—and get ourselves killed? Dean, we barely escaped with our necks!" Sam said. "There's a Nazi zombie out there and he's teamed up with demons and the Golem is under his control. It's a suicide mission."

"You got any better ideas? I'm all ears."

Sam shook his head. "Jews don't bury possessions with their loved ones anyway," he insisted firmly. "And they say a prayer called kaddish to make sure the soul has a direct journey up to heaven. So you can count resurrecting Aaron's spirit out."

How on earth does this guy know everything? Margo pondered. Dean echoed her thoughts.

"How the hell do you know all this? Oh wait. Jacobson, right? Yeah, my little brother's got a crush on an old wrinkly lady."

"Don't get started," Sam warned his brother.

"Hey, I just wanted to wrap things up and come home to burgers and a ballgame. Instead we're stuck with no leads or clues thanks to Basshole."

"That's not fair, Dean. Aaron put his life on the line to carry out his grandfather's legacy. It's not his fault that things went south."

"Then he was an idiot. He should've gotten someone to help him instead of killing Nazis on his own."

"Help from who? The college kids? War survivors? Aaron was the last member of the Judah Initiative for a reason. He didn't want anyone else getting hurt."

"Tell that to the princess we have stashed in the ivory tower."

There was a moment of frigid silence. Margo was certain that they could hear her heart thundering in her chest. Her eyes scanned the room for an exit but eventually rested upon Dean Winchester. He must've sense someone watching him because he looked straight at the sofa. In three strides he was across the room and yanked it aside, revealing Margo.

She got to her feet and grabbing the nearest lamp. "Stay back!" she warned him, brandishing it in front of her.

Margo expected a snide comment or threat. Much to her surprise, Dean raised his hands in front of himself. "Woah, woah. Take it easy, princess. Nobody's going to hurt you."

From behind him, Sam rose to his feet. "We were friends of Aaron Bass. We're trying to stop the person that killed him."

"You knew Aaron?" She still clutched the lamp in sweaty palms. "Who are you people? You're not the FBI, are you?"

"No. I'm Dean and this is Sam," came the answer. "We're the Winchesters. Hunters."

Margo didn't know what a hunter was but the word Winchester suddenly unlocked a door in her mind. She felt herself still wavering between trust and uncertainty but following her instincts, and Aaron's last instructions, dared to set the lamp down carefully.

Dean approved. "I swear, if we were going to hurt you then we would've done it already. And we wouldn't have taken you back to our secret hideout either."

"Secret hideout," she repeated. There were no windows anywhere. It was hard to tell what time of day it was.

Sam took two steps forward. "Margo, I'm sorry you were dragged into this. But now that you're here, it's time you learned everything."

"How? I don't understand a single thing that's going on."

Dean motioned to a chair. "You'd better sit down for this one."

She glanced at the chair and then at Dean uneasily. From behind him, Sam's face registered a plea for cooperation. Unable to see an exit or any signs of threats, Margo gingerly sat down.

A-A-A

Margo would never forget the next twenty minutes of her life.

Everything she knew about the world until now had been removed from her head and re-fitted into a new jigsaw puzzle. Somehow a crystal glass of whiskey was produced and between sips and sputters, she listened as the Winchesters carefully explained everything: who they were, what they did, how they met Aaron, and what he had been doing.

"Its nuts," she said at last, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's all nuts. Monsters, demons, ghosts. You're saying you deal with all of these things?"

The Winchesters nodded.

"Why didn't I know about this before?"

"Some of them don't want people to know they exist. And I think some Jewish rituals are insurance against the supernatural," Sam suggested slowly. "Like the talisman nailed on your doorpost."

"The mezuzah? But that's a piece of parchment with some Biblical text, that's all."

"It kept the demon from crossing the threshold," Dean pointed out. "What about the silver candlesticks in the window?"

"Shabbat candles."

"Aaron's shaker of salt?"

"For the bread on Sabbath meals."

"The cup of holy water?"

"It's just tap water," she insisted. "You pour it over your hands every morning and make a blessing."

"Call it what you will. Demons don't like those things."

"Meshuginah. Nuts," she repeated.

"I know it is. But we live in Goobertown, kiddo, and we need you to keep it together."

"How do you know those freaks aren't in here spying on us?"

"This place is fortified," Dean grinned. "And you've been drinking holy water mixed with whiskey which, though I find disgusting, proves you're not a walking meat puppet either."

"Oh." Margo fiddled with her glass.

"Enough of that. We need to show you something."

Dean motioned for Margo to follow him. Sam went too as they headed down the corridor to a room with a padlock on the door. Dean got it open and pried open the metal doors. The tied-up body of Brian Dempsy had been placed in the center of the room. A single shaft of light beamed onto the demon-possessed teen and the five-pointed star within a circle that had been painted around him.

"He can't hurt you," Sam assured an edgy Margo. "That demon trap is like flypaper. He can't get out."

"Just keep away from the circle," Dean added. "One toe in and you're a goner."

Brian's head lifted up a few inches. He smiled at the trio between bloodied gums. "What's up, bitches?"

"Nothing but your balls, dipstick."

The teen sniggered. "You are funny, Dean Winchester. And here I thought the other demons just didn't like your sense of humor."

"Let's save the laughs for later. Who's your boss?" Dean demanded.

"Who's your daddy?"

"Tell me about the snake-oil salesman you were talking to."

"He's not my boss. Just a free-lancer with some good ideas."

"Give me a name."

"Bite me."

Dean picked up a bucket of holy water and dumped it onto the teen, who howled and strained against the ropes binding him. Margo instinctively backed up against the wall.

"Whoever he was, he's running around free with a giant wind-up toy and you're stuck in here with us," Dean warned the teen. "So he obviously doesn't give a rat's ass about you. Why don't you make this easier on yourself and give it up? Or else I'll dunk you in our holy juice Jacuzzi."

"Nononono," he rambled.

"Tell me!" Dean thundered.

"Teufel," the teen wheezed out. "H-his name is Captain Albert Teufel. He was in the lower ranks of the Thule and worked his way up."

"What's his part in this?"

"He was in charge of the prisoners of the labor camp in Belarus. Teufel's job was to make sure nobody escaped. Th-they didn't want anyone else finding out about their experiments in raising the dead."

"Belarus," Margo said quietly. "My grandmother was there during the war."

Sam and Dean glanced at her but the teen spoke first.

"Unwind your pants, boys. The girl's granny didn't know anything about the J.I. She was just a number in the prison book until she crawled her way out of the camp back into the real world—or at least what was left of it." He shook his head. "Man, nobody today ever parties like they did in World War II."

"What's Teufel want with Margo?" Sam asked.

The demon straightened himself up in the chair with a knowing look. He seemed to be less hysterical and more poised than before. "At first we thought Bass gave her the instructions but he didn't. Now I realize Teufel had a personal vendetta too. He's obsessed with making sure the right parts of history repeat themselves."

"And the wrong parts?" asked Dean.

"Go to hell."

"Did once. Didn't like it."

"Tell me another joke, Dean. How many angels does it take to screw a Winchester? If there's an Apocalypse and nobody's alive, does it matter? Two hunters walk into hell and one says to the other, 'Damn, it's hot in here!' Ha ha ha! You boys taking notes?"

"Talk or bleed."

"Boo hoo," remarked the teen. "Teufel's already pissed at the both of you for messing up his plans. But if you hand over Malka Chaya and apologize nicely then he may not use you two as doormats."

Margo suddenly gripped Sam's arm until her knuckles turned white. "Please don't turn me over," she begged. "Please!"

"Don't worry," Sam assured her firmly. "No one's giving Teufel what he wants."

The demon grinned ghoulishly at Margo. "Malka Chaya, Malka Chaya," he chanted. "Thrash you to pieces, slice open your spleen. Teufel's gonna burn you alive, Malka Chaya Green!"

Margo's face turned the color of a sour apple and she dashed from the room. She didn't make it to the bathroom and collapsed in the corridor where her stomach disgorged four tablespoons of whiskey and yesterday's breakfast.

Dean went after her. "Finish him off," he told Sam before leaving the room.

The younger Winchester opened a book and was about to perform the exorcism when the demon gave him a ghostly smile.

"Lucifer misses you," he said softly.

Seeing Sam's face freeze in horror, the smile widened between swollen gums. "I know. It's hard not having your other half around," he added in a sickly sweet voice.

"When Lucifer entered your body we all felt the earth tremble. It was bliss. A catharsis. The fallen angel found his rightful vessel, the boy with the demon blood. We were ready to bow and worship you both."

The demon sighed and squirmed in his seat. "Now you're back to being an overgrown puppy following his meatbag of a sibling around while Lucifer is banging against the bars of his cage downstairs."

"But you know what they say," cooed the demon. "'Absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Dear sweet Sam Winchester, have no fear. You'll be reunited with your other half soon enough."

Sam's jaw's clenched together. "Shut up," he hissed.

The demon cocked his head to one side. "Don't you miss him, Sam? I'm sure you do. I can see it in your eyes. All that righteous power coursing through your veins, fortifying your body and soul. it was his gift to you.

"Do you hear what I'm saying? Lucifer gave you a birthright!" the demon abruptly exploded. "And you'd throw it away because of some prick of a human brother and a filthy Jewess? NO! Lucifer will not be denied what is rightfully his!"

He thrashed against the ropes binding him while Sam chanted aloud in Latin. "..et clementian taum supplex exposco ut adverus hunc.."

A-A-A

Dean gave Margo a glass that thankfully, contained only water. She sipped it cautiously while he waited for Sam to join them.

"Better?"

"A little."

Dean folded his arms over his chest. "So you wanna help us out? Or bawl some more over Aaron?"

His abrupt mannerisms seemed to kick some sense back into Margo better than the whiskey. She shook her head and carefully set her glass down.

"If this Albert Teufel murdered Aaron then he has to be brought to justice," she said at last. "And if he has control of a Golem then it has to be destroyed before it can hurt anyone else."

Sam re-entered the main room and rolled his sleeves down. "Demon's gone. I guess we're back to Plan A."

"Which is?"

"Start at the beginning."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Sam ignored his brother. "Do you know anything about the origins of the Golem?" he asked Margo.

She opened her mouth to say something but suddenly seemed to change her mind and closed it.

Dean looked annoyed. "Don't hold your breath, princess. Teufel and the demons must be having fun bouncing Frankenstein all over town while you wait to file your fingernails."

"That's not the problem."

"Then what is? Getting the knot out of your panty hose?" he demanded. The comment caused Margo's face to flush.

"I may not know much about the things you deal with every day but I can tell you what I know about Kabbalah," she answered heatedly. "I'm talking about the real deal and not the silly 'mysticism' people plunk down a hundred dollars to wrestle with for a few classes."

She expected a smart aleck comment but Dean gave her a hard stare to show he was fully attentive.

"I'm all ears," he assured her. Margo went on.

"We discussed it briefly in Hebrew school. My teachers said that only the most pious sages were allowed to divulge into it and even those who did were extremely careful about the wisdom they were handling. Kabbalah wasn't meant for the general public to use or abuse. Anybody foolish or arrogant enough to think that they were 'worthy' to meddle with holy secrets was really just messing with fire. Imagine giving a kindergartener a nuclear bomb to play with."

Dean kept his lips sealed while Sam nodded his head in agreement. Their silence assured Margo that they had no desire to abuse the paranormal powers they were dealing with.

Sensing a bit of civility had been restored, Margo asked a crucial question. "Do you have any books on Jewish history lying around?"

Sam pushed two tall columns of stacked books towards her. "The Men of Letters were attentive in their research. Knock yourself out." Margo did so and carefully examined his findings.

She felt herself warming up a bit. Anybody who collected these books instead of burning them must have appreciated their value. Margo sat down and began thumbing through the collection eagerly.

"This is amazing," she murmured as she read off the titles. "Maimonides Guide to the Perplexed? The Gemara? Ethics of Our Fathers, the essays of Don Isaac Abarbanel, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch's letters…"

She lifted up one particular fat volume in blue leather. "I swear, this version was all burned in the Inquisition! How did the Men of Letters get a copy of it?"

"As much as you're having fun playing sexy librarian," Dean reminded her.

"Right, okay." Margo found two books and quickly leafed through them while talking with great animation.

"King David wrote how God saw his unformed body or 'golmi'. That's essentially what a Golem is: a being without the free will or refined character of a human being. It can't talk or take action for itself because it was created to serve a master. You might as well call someone a Golem instead of a 'dummy' to insult him. You said Aaron's Golem actually talked the last time you saw him?"

"Yes."

"Spouting gibberish?"

"No. He was speaking in full sentences and joining our conversations."

"Then I'm guessing that's abnormal."

She placed a book on the table, leafed through it until she had found a specific page, and pushed it over to Sam and Dean. There was a photograph of the statue of a robbed gaunt man.

"This is Rabbi Judah Loew who lived in Prague during the 14th century," Margo said. "Also known as the Maharal, he was a renowned scholar who contributed to many Jewish laws and wrote about Biblical commentators."

"The Jews of Prague were confined to a ghetto that was locked at night. The citizens in town were superstitious and saw every excuse to use the Jews as scapegoats or accused them of using Gentile blood for Passover. Sometimes they rigged cases so that the slightest accusation could start up a riot. Like the time the body of a Christian child was found with his neck cut open-"

"—must've been a vampire," Dean cut in.

Two beats of silence passed before Margo went on.

"—and that was only the beginning of the dangers which is why the Golem was created. The Maharal was already known in the ghetto to be well-versed in the study of Kabbalah. It was even rumored that he cured a man who suffered from hallucinations of being chased by wild dogs—"

"Hellhounds?" blurted Sam.

This time Margo gave them a cool librarian stare. The Winchesters shut up.

"The Maharal created the Golem using the four elements of fire, water, earth, and air. Aside from being impervious to sword and fire, the Golem possessed spiritual awareness and could sense if a grave had been violated. That's how they were able to find out who really murdered the child or had stolen a corpse. The Golem's great speed and strength were used to rescue imprisoned Jews or bring a reliable witnesses to court when a bribed jury might accuse the wrong person."

She closed the book and looked up at the Winchesters.

"All we know is that when there was no more need for the Golem, the Maharal took his creation up to his study and did something that turned it back into clay. Nobody dared to go into that room again."

A-A-A

Dean waited for hours to pass until Sam and Margo had gone to bed to slip quietly out of the Bunker. If Sammy got wind of what he was doing then Dean wouldn't hear the end of it. But he couldn't sleep and something in the back of his mind kept nagging that he had been overlooking something.

Aaron had found what he was looking for to complete his legacy and now Dean had to find it as well.

He parked the Impala around the corner from Aaron's apartment. The police had left hours ago but there was still yellow tape up around the crime scene. Dean crouched underneath it and approached the burnt-out entrance cautiously. The EMF reader in his hand gave off no signs of supernatural activity.

He covered his mouth with one hand and coughed faintly. The room still smelled of smoke and everything had been badly singed. Dean made his way from the den to the kitchen to upstairs.

The second floor also smelled strongly of smoke but was in better condition. The explosion had been aimed at one part of the house. Dean found Aaron's bedroom, complete with a refurnished water bed and stereo system. A poster of Wonder Woman in battle armor leading a group of busty Amazon women hung on one of the walls. The other sported some elves attacking long-fanged goblins.

He couldn't resist a grin to himself. Dean shined his flashlight on the doorpost where he found another mezuzah, this one encased in olive wood. He managed to pry the nails out using a knife and carefully stuffed it into his pocket. Something told Dean that it could come in handy.

Dean moved the flashlight's beam to the books on the walls. "Where are you?" he muttered to himself, turning one after another. "Give me a sign, Aaron."

Then his eye rested upon a fat blue volume. What had Margo said about them being all burnt up?

His fingers grasped the volume and touched not soft leather but cold metal. Dean set down his flashlight and grasped it with both hands. It was in fact not a book but a metal box covered in blue paint. There was a padlock on the side.

"Thanks, Aaron." A simple paper clip was all that was needed to pry the lock open. Flipping the box lid up, Dean was rewarded with a faded green notebook. He leafed through it quickly and found pages of scrawled writing.

"Hello, Dean."

The flashlight flickered across the room before resting upon the beaming face of Crowley and the cautious one of Teufel.

"Found a good bedtime story, have we?" Crowley asked. "But where are my manners? I believe you've already met Captain Teufel." The Nazi glared at Dean, who reached for his knife.

"How long have you two been in bed together?" asked Dean.

"Long enough to tail you for hours," remarked Teufel.

Crowley motioned to the book. "I see you've saved us the trouble of looking for that. I don't suppose you'd know where the Jewess is too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do," Crowley smirked. "Brown hair, brown eyes, mousy expression. Teufel here's got a score to settle."

"Sorry, neither." Dean stuffed the notebook inside of his jacket. "So why don't you girls go back to your slumber party before I rip your guts out?"

"Mmm, tempting but I'll take a rain check."

"The book," demanded Teufel. "Hand it over."

"Pass."

Teufel shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself." He raised a hand in the air and uttered something in German.

The lumbering figure of the Golem had burst out from between Crowley and Teufel and was charging towards him like a rhino. Dean barely had time to react before he was grabbed around the torso and the Golem proceeded to crack his ribcage. One thought came over him before lightning pierced his bones.

Funny, he thought to himself. I don't remember seeing letters on his forehead last time.

The flashlight cluttered to the ground and snapped off.

A-A-A

"Who is a strong man? He who conquers his desires." –Ethics of our Fathers, Chapter 4

A soft voice pulsed underneath Sam's skin. He was vaguely aware of the ghostly presence but remained wary.

"I need you, Sam," the voice pleaded desperately. "Please help me."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm lonely," it whispered unhappily. "You're the only one who can set me free."

And suddenly he felt it shift within him. It was no longer an ethereal voice but that of himself, cool and enticing. A block of ice hardened in his stomach. Fear replaced the rapture and he willed the being to take true form.

"Show yourself!" he yelled.

There came a deep sigh. "As you wish." The being finally materialized into a perfect copy of Sam Winchester. He quivered to see his reflection standing before him, a placid smile on his face and one finger resting against his cheek.

"Lucifer," he said aloud. The fallen angel, now in the form of a doppelganger, nodded to Sam.

"Why won't you let me in, Sam?" Lucifer spread his arms apart as if to embrace Sam. "You're my soul mate. We need each other."

Sam just gritted his teeth and starred at his duplicate. "Because you're evil," he lashed out. "You invaded my body and were going to use it to destroy the world."

"You let me in," Lucifer countered politely. Sam's tongue became lead.

The angel smiled back at him serenely. "Don't hate yourself, Sam. I certainly don't. I said I wanted to make you happy and I still do. Remember all those times you felt frightened and unsure of yourself in the world? How worried you were that people would call you a monster because of your gifts?"

"There's no need to be an outcast anymore," Lucifer assured him. "Because I will always be there to take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of!" Sam insisted. "Especially by someone like you!"

"Then who?" the angel asked in a feathery tone. "Your brother? Dean is merely a man of flesh and blood. He can't watch you forever. It's time for you to spread your wings, Sam."

Sam watched his doppelganger's eyes widen with delight, every word carefully pronounced from his lips. " Just. Let. It. Go."

When he remained hesitant, Lucifer gave a small sigh. "Let me show you what I can do for you."

He watched his duplicate melt away until it had become a being of pure white light. Sam was suddenly engulfed in it, the ethereal force flowing through his veins with ease. He should have been repulsed or scared but instead found himself basking in pure ecstacy. It was freedom, physically and spiritually, and Sam could sense all of the power he had bottled up inside of him now channeling itself smoothly through his bloodstream.

He felt himself starting to yield, struggling less with the uncertainty that had clouded his judgment. He could sense Lucifer nodding approval as Sam's muscles relaxed under the guiding power of the light.

There was an unearthly touch on his skin and it caressed his face with breath that was lighter than air, assuring Sam that it meant no harm. The light knew where to touch him and how to touch him, so eager in wanting to please him. He was almost turned into water from the delicate sensation of feathery kisses raining down upon his body and tracing the lines of his soul. Everything was so remarkable, so extraordinary, that it left him at a loss for words or actions.

"That's it," the voice purred contently. "Let it wash over you like music. Taste it. Enjoy it, Sam. I won't ever hold you back."

He could have let this exhilaration continue for eternity but a knot had started to tighten in Sam's chest. Tears were brimming up fast in his eyes and he realized that he didn't feel happy anymore.

"What's wrong?" asked Lucifer. The beautiful sensation had halted ever-so-slightly.

Sam put a hand to his face and realized it was wet with tears. Something was wrong. He felt as if a chunk of himself was missing; a void that could not be filled even with the wondrous touch of an angel. He saw a snarky face, a wide grin, and was aware of the smell of motor oil and cheap beer. Annoying frustrating memories but real memories, honest and brave, were pushing through the cracks and he couldn't bear it anymore.

"Dean!" he yelled out, almost chocking on the word. "Dean!"

"No, Sam." Lucifer still tried to entice him. "Your brother doesn't understand you the way I do."

The young man refused to relinquish his pain. Mustering up courage from within himself, Sam forced himself to speak. "Dean doesn't have to understand me all the time. I know I've messed up in the past—more times than I can count." The words pierced like jagged glass in his throat. "But I know that he loves me."

"He doesn't."

"Yes he does!" Sam shouted in protest. Just saying the words aloud made him feel stronger.

The angel studied Sam curiously."Then why does he constantly put you down? If someone loves you, they don't hurt you."

"My brother may not give me everything I want but he gives me what I need," Sam insisted. "He traded his life for mine. Nobody could do more for me than him."

This was what Lucifer would never understand. How human beings with their petty minds and fragile lives could be selfless, courageous, and forgive one another.

Sam watched a wrinkle appear in the angel's placid face. "If you don't cooperate Sam, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to get angry," Lucifer warned in a soft dangerous tone.

Flames burst forth and Sam watched as Dean, who had appeared out of nowhere, was running towards him. The ground opened up and a bony hand snatched Dean by the shoulder, dragging him into a circle of fire. Dean's eyes were locked on Sam with a look of utter terror.

"If Dean is going to be a distraction for you Sammy, then he'll have to be removed."

Sam tried to reach for his brother but found that his feet were frozen into place. Lucifer's high-pitched laughter was ringing in his ears. The fallen angel wagged his fingertips at Dean. "Have a nice trip downstairs," he called playfully.

"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean cried out. Sam got one last look at his brother before the hand yanked Dean down and into the ring of flames.

"NO!" Sam howled.

A-A-A

He bolted up and out of the nightmare. Sam rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. He realized that a thin film of sweat covered his forehead and his heart was pounding. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, trying to scrub the images out of his head.

He could still feel the aftershock of Lucifer in him. It was little more than a thin membrane of the memory, perhaps, but nevertheless it was coiled up there in the crevices of his mind and waiting to strike back.

I need something to take my mind off it, he thought. A little night research can't hurt. Sam got out of bed and made his way to the main room of the Bunker.

A small figure curled up in one of the chairs caught his attention. Margo wore a pair of drawstring pants and a gray hoodie with sleeves rolled up several times to her elbows. The oversized clothes made her look tinier than ever in comparison to Sam.

She was reading Pride and Prejudice but looked up when she heard Sam's footsteps. Margo got out of the chair and walked over to him. "I hope it's okay that I helped myself," she said.

He was about to speak when Sam felt a hot pulse throb in the back of his head.

Not now, he commanded the voice. Get back in your cage.

Margo put the novel down. "Sam? Are you all right?"

Sam's eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled back and forth in a snake-like motion. When his eyes reopened his face was cold and arrogant. He looked down at Margo and his mouth parted into a smile devoid of warmth or compassion, eyeing her as if she was an insignificant fly.

You poor naïve little girl. All trussed up like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

Margo's skin prickled up with fear. Sam had taken a step towards her but she forced herself to remain in place.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, not taking her eyes off Sam.

The question echoed in Sam's ears and felt himself wrestling with the beast within. He shoved the dark thoughts into the depths of his mind, driving them into the abyss. Sam's entire body was seized with a shudder and he staggered backwards, rubbing his palms over his face.

After a painfully long moment, he exhaled carefully. The sinister expression on his face was gone. It had been replaced with a look of empathetic concern that Margo was getting used to.

"Sorry about that," he apologized quickly as he ran a hand through his hair. "I just couldn't sleep. Had a relapse from a bad dream."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm good. What about you, Margo? Are you thirsty?"

"Not for alcohol," she warned him.

He rubbed the back of his head. "I think we've got coffee and a box of cocoa in the kitchen," Sam offered.

"Cocoa sounds good."

He came back in a few minutes with steaming mugs. Margo accepted one gratefully and took a sip.

"Thanks. I love chocolate." She drank some more. "I, I wanted to apologize for being so snippy to you and your brother about everything," Margo admitted. "This is all overwhelming for me."

"It's okay. Comes with the territory."

"But I shouldn't make things harder for you than they already are."

"Like I said, don't sweat it."

"All right." Margo looked longingly into her mug. "Did you know that Aaron treated us to hot fudge sundaes right after Yom Kippur?"

Sam shook his head. Margo smiled. "Not my first idea of a romantic date, especially after you've been fasting all day, but it hit the spot. That's when I knew he was an awesome guy."

"Yom Kippur," Sam repeated. "Is that what you call 'The Day of Atonement'?"

Margo nodded. "I'm impressed. You seem to know a lot about Jewish commandments."

"Learning new things interests me," Sam admitted. "It helps the family business."

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes.

"Did you attend a Hebrew Day School like Aaron?" Sam asked Margo.

"Uh-huh," she nodded. "My folks didn't grow up in observant homes but they were traditional and wanted me to have a classic Jewish education. The school gave out more than enough homework but I still liked it."

"What did you like about school?"

Margo's fingers curled around the cup. "We were taught how to make the world a better place. Helping people in the community, praying for others, using the knowledge of the Torah to be responsible and smart. But the best parts were the stories from the Bible. Hearing about all these people who overcame their obstacles, performed miracles, and became heroes...maybe hoping someday I could be like them.

She leaned back into her chair. "It might sound corny and sentimental but I liked it."

"No, it doesn't sound corny at all," Sam insisted. "I've tried running away from who I was in the past and it's never gotten me anywhere. Accepting who you are and what you have to do makes you strong."

The sincerity in his voice made Margo feel warm and hopeful inside for the first time in days. "I wish there were more people like you in the world, Sam Winchester."

A cloud suddenly came over his face. "If you know what I was really like, you wouldn't say that. And likely run out of here screaming."

"Why?" asked Margo.

A thousand answers rose up in Sam's throat but quickly hardened into a single iron lump. What could he tell her? That demon blood coursed though his veins? That he had possessed psychic abilities that terrified and infuriated Dean? Or that he was the human being who had not only released the devil into this world but had willingly been a vessel for the angel who would would wreck havoc upon the earth?

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he tried to swallow. Sam looked away. Margo fiddled with her cup in awkward silence, thinking of a way to change the subject.

"Why did that demon call you Malka Chaya?" he asked her.

"That's my Hebrew name. I'm named after Malka Grunberg, my grandmother's older sister. She died in the war."

"What happened to her?"

"Malka and Rachel, my grandmother, were sent to the labor camp in Belarus. Their parents had already been killed in Poland. Malka took it upon herself to look after Rachel and somehow kept her sister from getting sick and weak—otherwise she'd end up as an experiment to the Nazis. When the compound exploded, they escaped together. Rachel made it to the partisans in the woods. But the guards were shooting anyone who tried to flee and Malka..."

Margo drew in a sharp breath. "My grandmother finally told me the whole story before she passed away. She survived the war because her older sister risked her life. She said it was too painful to talk about it for years because of survivor's guilt."

Crack. A beam inside of Sam gave way, filling him with liquid heat.

"Malka Chaya," he whispered to himself. The name was soft around the edges and harsh in the center.

"'Malka' means 'queen' in Hebrew. Chaya means 'life'," Margo added quietly. "They named me to honor her memory. Do you think people can reincarnate, Sam? That their souls can come back to finish what they started?"

Crack. Another beam fell, much easier than the first one. He was quivering inside.

"Because I hope I wasn't Malka in a past life. I know that sounds selfish but I don't think I would've had the strength to make the same sacrifices as her. I know it's the brave thing to do, the right thing to do, but I—I couldn't do it."

Sam suddenly got to his feet. His palms were sweaty and his eyes were stinging.

Margo approached Sam and reaching up, gently rested a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was calm and firm on skin. Their eyes met and Margo felt a deep ache inside. Something inside Sam was begging for help—for what she could only guess. Compassion? Justice? Sanctuary?

She carefully moved her hand up to his face and laid a palm against his cheek.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I frighten myself too sometimes."

Damn you. If I get close to anyone then they twist and burn. But I can't stay away. I can't stop caring. If I tried cutting my heart out of my chest then it would just grow back and hurt twice as much.

An arm wrapped around Margo's shoulders, engulfing her in hard muscles and brittle bones, then pulled her towards him. He was trying hard not to squeeze too tightly or else she'd break like a baby bird. But he held her close, feeling the warm small body pressed against his and praying she couldn't feel him shivering inside.

Neither of them said a word. Nothing had to be said.

Sam felt her face press against his chest for a moment. When Margo let go there was a tiny tearstain on his shirt.

"Over the years I have learned to find it so much more widely, in communities that care, in the kindness of strangers, in people who touch our lives, perhaps only monetarily, doing the deed or saying the word that carries us to safety across the abyss of loneliness or self-doubt." –Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

A-A-A

Additional notes:

Kaddish is indeed a prayer said for 12 months after a person has departed. A mezuzah is a piece of parchment with verses from Deuteronomy that people place on the doorposts of their homes.

Dean and Margo's exchange on "holy water" is some liberty I took with the custom to pour water over the hands after waking up in the morning and before eating bread.

The Maharal, Rabbi Judah Loew, was a real scholar in Jewish history as were Don Isaac Abarbanel and Rabbi Samson Hirsch, though they lived in different periods of time and in different countries. The Gemara is a commenatary to the Talmud. Maimonides Guide to the Perplexed and Ethics of Our Fathers (also known as Perki Avot) are still studied today.