Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

A/N: Please note that I am not a spatially gifted person, so if I somehow managed to create a geographical impossibility with the street names and the places, I apologize. I managed to get lost while I was visiting New Orleans, so it would hardly be surprising if I messed up the directions and such.

Chapter 2: AWOL

As the door to one of Jeb's guestrooms slammed shut behind Sam, Dean scowled. No doubt he'd been bitching it out with their dad again—and it sounded like it ended about the way it usually did, which was not well.

's fucking ridiculous.

Aubrey was sitting on a sofa in what Dean kinda thought might be a den—considering how many rooms Jeb's house seemed to have, Dean couldn't say for sure. He flopped down onto it, stretching out on his stomach and nudging Aubrey continually with his foot until she huffily got up and moved to the floor, relinquishing the couch to him completely. He didn't feel bad about it, really, because the truth was, he felt a little like shit.

His head felt kinda cloudy, and he could still feel the pull of drowsiness left over from his dad's stupid meds. To make things worse, hunger was adding to the almost nauseous feeling that was nagging at him. It pissed him off.

Turning his head towards the door, he eyed it for a long moment, considering, before opening his mouth.

"DAD! 'm gonna puke if I don't get some food!" he yelled.

John appeared in the doorway a second later, staring at Dean where he lay apathetically on the couch, his face partially buried in the couch pillow.

"Are you serious?" John asked him with a deadpan expression.

"'m hungry."

"And that makes it okay for you to yell across the damn house like that? Like I didn't teach you any manners?"

"You didn't," Dean retorted. "Mom did."

"Dammit, Dean—" his father began, obviously starting to get a little hot under the collar as he dragged a hand over his face.

"What? It's your stupid drugs makin' me feel like 'm gonna hurl! I need some damn food!"

"Look, sleep it off for a little while, give the drugs some time to wear off, and then we'll try food. You were way too close to hurling on the plane, and you've never had Valium before—I don't know if it'll make you sick, and I'd rather have you sick on an empty stomach then a full stomach."

It was probably a reasonable suggestion, but Dean wasn't having any of it.

"Or we could just go and get me some food and hope for the best," Dean retorted, vaguely aware that he was getting dangerously close to pushing too far but too irritable to give a shit.

"Uh…Johnny," Jeb called from somewhere else in the house. "Your youngest boy's in here drawing some kinda hoodoo shit on my floor—you need to get your ass down here!"

"Dammit," John said, wheeling around and hurrying out to deal with Braden as Dean stared crankily after him. Five minutes, twenty-eight seconds, and a stomach rumble later, Dean had had enough.

Fuck it. I'll go and get my own damn food. I'm eighteen fucking years old—I don't have to wait for my old man to take me. We're in New Orleans—there's food within walking distance."

He peeled himself off the couch and double-checked that his wallet was still in his back pocket before he headed for the door.

"Where ya' goin', D?" Aubrey called after him, her blue eyes gazing back at him with concern.

"To find some damn food. You comin' with me?"

"Is Daddy goin', too?"

"Doesn't fucking sound like it, does it?"

"Nah, I guess not," she told him after considering it for a second.

"So are you in or out?"

"Ummm…I'm gonna wait for Daddy," she told him, turning back to the TV.

Suit yourself.

He headed to the guest room where he'd heard Sam slam the door, hardly surprised that the door was locked. He banged his fist against it a few times to get Sammy's attention.

"'m goin' for food. If you're comin' with me, you'd better move your ass."

When there wasn't even a 'screw you' in reply, Dean pressed his ear to the door, frowning when he heard tell-tale sniffling.

Ah shit. 'm too tired and hungry and sick for this, Dean thought with a sigh, even as he reached into his back pocket for his lock-picks. He made quick work of picking the lock, pushing open the door and quietly making his way to the bed where Sam was laying on his stomach, his face buried in his arms as he fought to stop the flow of tears.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked him, already predicting a soon to be total chick flick moment.

"Leave me alone!" Sam barked, and part of Dean wanted to do just that: leave His Royal Bitchiness alone to deal with his emo shit on his own. But as irritable as Dean was, the big brother in him couldn't just leave his little brother miserable and hurting. And crying.

Shit.

"What happened?"

"He said I can't go," Sam sobbed, and underneath the anger and the tears, it was pretty easy to see the hurt.

"Sammy, I've told you before, you shouldn't take it personally. If Dad changed his mind, it's not because of you. He just does shit like that sometimes, usually 'cause he knows something we don't."

"How come he only does it to me then?" Sam asked hotly.

"Because I'm fucking older, Sammy—I've got a few more years under my belt. Dad leaves me behind if he thinks he needs to, but he just doesn't think he has to so much anymore, not since I've gotten older. Guess he figures if I'm old enough to die for my country, then I'm old enough to help on hunts that I've been training for since I was little."

"I've been training, too, Dean! And he still won't let me help!"

"Well you gotta remember, I've been helping him out since I was the twins' age, Sammy. He knows what I'm capable of."

"But I'm fifteen, now—he let you help when you were nine! Why won't he let me?"

"Dad let me help because he didn't have anybody else, Sammy. He didn't have a fucking choice, and neither did I. He's letting you hang back, get some more training before throwing you out there. I didn't get that chance."

"But I can help! I know I can! And besides, how 'm I supposed to get better if he never lets me come?"

"He will, Sammy—'s just…this hunt's looking like it's gonna be nasty. A demon isn't somethin' to mess around with. Hell, Dad might decide to leave my ass here, too."

"Yeah, right. There's no way he'd leave you sitting on your ass here babysitting," Sam told him acerbically, the disdain in his voice evident.

"Hey, you listen to me," Dean said suddenly, grabbing Sam's chin and forcing the younger boy to meet his gaze. "Maybe you haven't been paying attention, but there've been plenty of times where I've stayed behind to watch you and now the twins. I don't fucking hesitate to do it, either. Ever. And you shouldn't either. Because there is nothing more important than family, Sammy. Nothing," Dean told him tightly.

"Okay, okay!" Sam said, wrenching his head out of Dean's grasp, and Dean knew that Sam just didn't get it. He could only hope that Sammy figured it out one day.

"Now are you done with your little emo-bitch fest? Cause I'm tired, and I'm fuckin' starving."

"You're always starving. Maybe something's wrong with you."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm hungry. So are you coming or not?"

"Yeah, 'm coming…is Dad coming, too?"

"Well, considering he gave me the brush-off a few minutes ago, I'm guessing no. Now get up and let's haul ass—I want some Cajun food."

"kay," Sam said, swiping at his face with his shirt sleeve before he stood, and as he followed Dean downstairs, Dean really thought that was the end of it. Problem solved.

Of course, he should've known better.


With a command for Aubrey to let their dad know they'd gone for some chow, Dean led Sam out through the courtyard and onto the street. A quick sniff had him turning left, his innate sense of direction keeping him oriented despite the tiredness still pulling at him.

"You realize it's gonna piss Dad off that we left without telling him, right?" Sam asked.

"We told Aubrey," Dean pointed out, looking both ways before he pulled Sam along with him across the street.

"Yeah, but—"

"And Dad didn't say we couldn't go anywhere, did he?" Dean went on.

"Well, no, but…you know that you're really just rationalizing, right?"

"Hey, Dad left a loophole—'s not my fault. Besides, you like pissing him off, so what are you bitching about?"

"I dunno. I guess I was just wonderin'."

"I'm fucking hungry, Sam—and I kinda feel like shit warmed over, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm not really in the mood to wait for his permission. It's his fault anyway—I told him I didn't want his damn drugs, and he made me take 'em anyway."

"Well, you did look kinda green on the plane," Sam told him, "and you were sorta hyperventilating."

"The fuckin' plane was actin' funny—and you can't tell me that tons of metal flyin' through the sky makes any kind of sense! There's no way in hell that's natural."

"Well, it's physics, Dean—"

"Not interested, Sammy. Now shut up and keep your eyes open for food."

Dean thought for sure it'd be a quick trip to find food, but damn if Sammy didn't keep stopping to look in windows and ask annoying questions.

"Hey, look, Dean—there's an antique weapons store! They've got swords!"

"Food, Sammy," Dean said, grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him along until Sam started moving of his own volition again.

"Can we look in there later?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to respond with an immediate no, but…well, swords. Swords were cool.

"Yeah, but it might not be today. Told you, I feel like shit."

"Oh right," Sam said, but Dean could tell his attention had already shifted to something else.

"Hey, what are they doing?" Sam asked, beginning to step off the sidewalk towards the other side of the street before Dean even looked up.

"They're showing off their goods, Sam," Dean said, yanking Sam back onto the sidewalk and hurrying him along.

"What are they selling? It doesn't look like they're carrying anything…"

Oh no, he did not seriously ask me that.

But he had, because he was totally looking up at Dean with a confused look on his face that had Dean fighting the urge to face-palm.

"What planet are you from? The fact that you can be my brother and not know these things is just fucking mind-boggling," Dean told him, rolling his eyes at the completely clueless expression on his little brother's face. "Sex, Sam—they're prostitutes."

"Ohhhhhhh," Sam murmured, allowing Dean to pull him along as he considered this bit of information. "Well, why do—"

"No, Sam," Dean told him, cutting him off. "We're not talking about it. You got questions about hookers, you can ask Dad. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I'm nauseous. I'm not talking to you about sex, prostitutes, or anything else right now. We're looking for food."

"Fine," Sam grumbled. "Grouchy much?"

"What part of 'I feel like shit' do you not understand?" Dean asked him testily, but Sam had already moved on.

"Wow, look at that, Dean—'s a voodoo museum!"

"We're not here to play tourist, Sam. Stay focused—food."

"Dude, you're totally taking the fun out of this," Sam complained, his voice breaking as he started to hit that whiny pitch that even Dean couldn't stand any more than their dad.

"I swear, dude—if you start that whining shit, I am sending your ass back to the house and going on without you."

"But it's a voodoo museum!"

"That doesn't serve food. We're not going. 'sides, Dad would shit a brick if we went in there."

"Can we come back later then? I wanna go to the French Market."

"Isn't that outside?"

"Kinda. I mean, there's a roof," Sam said brightly, obviously trying to convince Dean that the French Market would be nine kinds of awesome. "The sun wouldn't be on us, and there'd be a nice breeze flowing through, since it's all open and everything—it'd be fun!"

Nope, not gonna work, little brother. Not convincing at all.

"What the hell would make you think I wanna go there? It's fucking hot out here."

"Yeah, but they've got lots of cool stuff there! Well, that's what I read anyway."

"Geek."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean veered onto Ursulines Avenue, having decided to get off Royal Street—the restaurants there were too fancy—and it was only when he turned onto Decatur Street that he finally found what he considered an acceptable restaurant. Of course, that set Sam off again about the damn French Market, but Dean was mostly past listening to him at that point. Mostly. Dragging Sam inside the cool, air conditioned restaurant, he ordered the first thing on the menu, something called shrimp etoufee, while Sam went with a po boy that obviously sounded safer to him than anything with a French-sounding name.

Wuss.

They made short work of eating—Dean was too hungry to sit and enjoy, and he knew good and well that their dad was more likely to notice their absence the longer they were gone. He finished first, and prodded Sam to hurry, well aware that Sam was purposefully eating at a snail's pace.

Little punk knows Dad'll notice we're missing if he takes fucking eternity to eat. Probably relishing the idea of pissing him off by coming with me. Yeah. Sounds about right.

Eight blocks, four street musicians, and fifteen souvenir shop windows later, they made it back to Jeb's, and any hope that Dean had harbored in regard to his father not noticing their absence was shot to hell. All told, Dean figured they were only gone about seventy-three minutes, but it was enough to have their dad royally pissed by the time they walked through the door.

"Where the hell have you been?" John yelled as soon as they crossed the threshold.

"I told you—I was hungry," Dean said with a shrug, surreptitiously nudging Sam towards the door, even as John moved into Dean's space. Dean hated it when he did that. "'sides, you didn't say we couldn't."

"In what fucking universe is that ever a good reason for leaving without my permission?" John yelled, apparently angry enough that he didn't notice Sam's strategic retreat. "You scared the hell outta me, and you're old enough to know better!"

"I shouldn't have to ask—I'm fuckin' eighteen. But maybe if you'd just listened to me, then I wouldn't have been taking off without your permission anyway," Dean told him impatiently, wishing like hell that they could be done with this whole thing so that he could move on. Or throw up, which was becoming the more likely option at that moment.

"You told me you were hungry, and I told you to wait—how the hell does that add up to 'can I leave the house?'" John went on, and Dean couldn't say when continuing the argument suddenly became less of a distraction for Sam and more of an actual display of temper. Whatever the cause, Dean didn't really have it in him to acquiesce this time, too tired, sick, and irritable to give a damn.

"You're a smart guy, Dad," he heard himself say. "I just assumed you'd figure it out."

"First of all, you'd better stow the attitude and fast, because that shit doesn't fly with me. Hung-over from the meds or not, you don't talk to me that way—do you understand?"

Dean said nothing, glaring back at his father as he tried to push down the urge to throw-up all over Jeb's carpet.

"Can I go now?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I said, 'do you understand?'" John bit out tightly, obviously unwilling to answer Dean's question until he had an answer to his own question.

Fuck.

"Yessir," Dean mumbled, angrier than ever that his dad would never let shit go.

And Sam's the same fucking way. It's a wonder I'm not psychologically fucked up in the head because of this shit.

"Good. Now let's get one thing clear. We're in the middle of a hunt, and anything could've fucking happened to you—so from here on, you don't put so much as a damn foot out of this house without my permission."

"Wow, Dad, I can feel the trust," Dean retorted. "You know, I'm not a fucking moron—I know how to handle myself."

"This isn't about trust, son! I trust you just fine, and I know you can handle yourself most of the time. But this hunt—if this thing is as bat-shit crazy as we think it is, we don't have the luxury of you taking off whenever you feel like it, especially without telling me!"

"I did tell you!"

"No, you didn't! I remember our last conversation very well, and not once did I hear 'Dad, I'm taking Sam and going out for chow!' You didn't tell me a damn thing!"

"Maybe not in so many words, but—"

"You know what? We're done. You listen, and you listen good," John said, obviously not willing to even pretend he was willing to continue the argument. "Don't you ever fucking leave without telling me, do you understand?"

Dean wasn't normally one to argue with or provoke his father, he had always had authority issues, and that last demand was pretty much the last straw. Besides, the mild urge to throw up had quickly become more than mild, and it was only making things that much worse that his father may have actually had a point about the fucking Valium making him sick.

"What's the big fucking deal? I was hungry, and you didn't seem to give a damn— I just wanted some fucking food so I wouldn't throw up all over Jeb's nice, fancy furniture! But I'm probably gonna do that anyway, so fine, Dad—you were right about the Valium! And I'm fucking sorry, okay? I'm sorry I took off, I'm sorry I ate, and I'm sorry you were fucking right about it making me sick!" he yelled, but he figured he probably didn't sound too sincere. Especially since he wasn't sincere. Except about the throwing up part—he was totally sincere about that.

"If you'd just listened to me from the start, then you wouldn't be feeling so bad," John pointed out, not looking quite as angry as he had only a few moments ago. "I know what I'm talking about, son. I don't tell you this shit to piss you off or to hear myself talk."

"What do you want me to tell you, Dad?" Dean asked him with equal parts anger, frustration, and weariness. "I said you were right."

"Just go upstairs and sleep it off, Dean," his father finally ordered with an aggravated sigh. "I don't know how the fuck I forgot the fact that you're irritable as hell after you take meds. My own damn fault, I guess, for not remembering."

"Told you," Dean muttered.

"And you're irrational, too."

"Bullshit! I'm totally fucking rational!" Dean argued, even as John wrapped a hand around his shoulder and began maneuvering him upstairs.

"So rational you decided taking off with your little brother into the French Quarter where there's a demon on the loose was a good idea?"

"The demon hasn't attacked during the day," Dean retorted. "I wouldn't have taken him if I thought he'd get hurt."

"Just lay down, Dean," John told him with a sigh as he ushered him into the second of Jeb's guestrooms.

"I wouldn't have let anything happen to him, Dad," Dean said, paying no attention as his father pushed him onto the bed, forcing him to lie down.

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't," John said softly. "You just…you gotta let me know where you're going. You're almost an adult, and I realize that. But you're my still my son, and I worry. Now, do you still feel like you're gonna yack?"

Dean thought about it for a second, considering, happy to realize that the nausea had settled now that he was laying down, leaving only the lingering drowsiness in its place.

"No sir."

"Good. Get some sleep—I'm gonna need you good to go come nightfall."

"You know, if you hadn't fuckin' made me take that shit, I'd already be good to go," Dean pointed out, somewhat aware that he sounded a bit like a five-year-old. A really foul-mouthed five-year-old, but still…

"Yeah, yeah, it's all my fault," John said with a slight smile as he draped a blanket over Dean and dropped a pillow over Dean's face. And as Dean rolled over onto his stomach and burrowed his head more firmly under the pillow, his irritation melting away, he was already falling asleep as he heard his father shut the door quietly behind him.


Dean spent a long night following his father from one location to another, keeping watch while John searched the areas where the demon had made its kills. Unfortunately, other than the presence of sulfur—which had at least confirmed that it was, in fact, a demon—there was no other trace of its presence, and Dean couldn't see that there was any pattern to its kills.

Which was gonna be a fucking nightmare, Dean knew, because it not only made it harder to track the son of a bitch down but it also pissed off the old man. Made it a bitch to work with him.

They rounded out the night with a visit to a local voodoo priestess, who had assured them that the case didn't have any connections to voodoo.

"You don't actually believe her, do you?" Dean asked as they slipped back into the shadowed alley and headed back towards the street.

"Yeah, I do."

"What the hell, Dad? You can't trust her!"

"Dean, don't confuse what you see on movies and TV with reality—voodoo isn't sticking pins into a bunch of ugly-as-hell dolls. Their belief system is actually based around helping people, not hexes and voodoo dolls. It's only a select few that go dark-side and start dabbling in that kind of shit. What most practitioners do doesn't make them untrustworthy—it just makes them worth keeping an eye on. And they can be valuable resources, so long as they stick to the basic tenets of voodoo."

"So how do you know she's not stickin' pins into some Winchester-shaped dolls, huh?"

"Jeb trusts her, and while that doesn't automatically make me trust her, I can at least appreciate that she's never steered him wrong, and Jeb was born and raised here. People around here learn pretty damn fast who's reliable and who's a snake in the grass. So, no, I don't think she's lying."

"So if they're so 'Glenda, the good Witch,' how come you suspected a voodoo angle in the first place?"

"Because it's New Orleans, Dean—you always have to suspect a voodoo angle. It's assumed until you rule it out."

"So no voodoo chick manhunt, huh?" Dean asked, disappointed by the prospect.

"Sorry, son, not this time."

"Damn. So now what?"

"We head back to the house and hit the books again—I've got a few things I wanna look into, and besides, the cops are starting to sniff around. I don't want us out here where we're liable to come under scrutiny."

"Dude, 'come under scrutiny'? You been watchin' those cop shows on TV again?"

"Shut-up," his dad said amicably as he playfully cuffed Dean on the shoulder before horse-collaring him and dragging him along for a few steps.

By the time they were nearing the house, it was a little after midnight, and Dean was longing for bed, his 'nap' from earlier not enough to sustain him.

"You alright?"

"'m tired."

"When we get back to the house, you head on to bed."

"I thought you wanted to do research," Dean mentioned, intentionally slurring his words a bit for effect.

Sure, he was tired, but he wasn't that tired. He had to offer the reminder, though—it was all part of the game.

Have to make Dad think I wanna help. Otherwise, he won't fall for it.

"Yeah, but I can manage," John told him, ruffling Dean's hair affectionately. "Jeb can help me out if I need it."

"You're gonna ask him for research help after making him watch the twins and Sam all night? That's cold, Dad," Dean said with a grin.

"Hey, they're doing a lot better," John started to say, but Dean shook his head.

You're totally defaulting to denial, Dad.

"What planet are you living on? Braden still sleepwalks and does freaky shit while he does it, Aubrey still stays awake and crying until we're back, and Sam mostly acts like a whiny, little bitch these days. How is that 'better'?

"Sam at least knows better than to pull that shit with somebody outside the family. And Braden…well, I told Jeb to hide anything that he can use to write on the wall, so even if he gets up, we should be okay."

"And what about Aubrey?"

"At least she's quieter about it these days," John said weakly after a moment's consideration.

"That's weak, man," Dean said, yawning afterward for good measure.

"Yeah, you're right. On second thought, maybe I'll just handle the research on my own."

"Well…if you're sure, Dad."

"Yeah, I'm sure—you go on to bed like I said."

And my work here is done, Dean thought, hiding a smile. Getting out of research was getting easier and easier every time.


"Dean!"

The sound of his father's voice slowly pulled Dean out of a sound sleep, the lingering pull of sleep proving hard to shake. He'd been dreaming about the shrimp etoufee, and the urge to give into sleep and get back to it was hard to deny.

Sounds totally lame with that pansy French name, but damn if it wasn't nine kinds of awesome. It had been totally worth getting yelled at by their dad for taking off. Of course, food usually made things worth it, Dean had found, and—

"Dean!"

His father's hand on his shoulder jolted Dean firmly awake, the last traces of sleep falling away as John roughly shook him.

"Shit, Dad, take it easy—'m up. What time 's it?"

"Where's your brother, Dean?" John demanded, his hands gripping Dean's shoulders firmly.

"Huh?"

"Sam, Dean—where's Sam?"

"What, he's not downstairs?"

"No, dammit—it's two o'clock in the fucking morning! He's supposed to be in bed," John snapped.

"He didn't get up to piss, did he?"

"I'm not stupid, Dean—his bed's cold, and I've checked the whole damn house. He's not here."

"Oh shit," Dean said, shoving aside the blankets and reaching for his clothes.

"Did he say anything to you about going out again?" John asked as Dean dragged his jeans on and began pulling his shirt over his head.

"No sir," Dean told him firmly. "Did you check the courtyard?" he asked, shoving his left boot on and yanking the laces tight.

"Of course I did," John said, dragging a hand through his hair in sheer frustration. "He's not here. Do you know where he'd have gone?"

"No sir. Look, I'll head north if you'll take south—he'll probably keep to a straight path. Maybe we can track him down," Dean said, tying up the laces on his right boot before standing.

"It's not safe for us to split up right now—this thing is still out there, and we don't know enough about what It's doing."

"Yeah, and Sammy's alone," Dean argued. "We don't have time to waste, Dad."

"Shit," John muttered, obviously aware that Dean was right but not liking it. Dean didn't say anything, instead waiting for his father to decide what to do, even as worry began to eat at him.

C'mon, Dad, hurry and decide! We gotta go!

"Alright, Dean. But if you find him first, you bring him straight back here, you understand? I don't want him out there, not on this one."

"Yessir."

"C'mon, let's arm up."

Eight minutes, three reminders to stay sharp, and four weapons checks later, Dean was out on the street, his father's journal in his backpack along with a bottle of now-blessed Aquafina and some extra weapons.

Only a couple of hours had passed since they'd been out, but there was an ominous feel to the air, a product of the storm clouds moving in that had brought with them the distant sound of thunder. Despite the late hour, the French Quarter was still buzzing, Dean decided, as he threaded his way through the meandering groups of people, from the natives out for fun and booze to the tourists out for the fucking ghost tours.

What a bunch of bullshit. What the hell are all these people doing anyway? Haven't they put it all together yet? Don't they realize what's out here? There's a fucking demon killing people and they're out for a good time.

But then, this was New Orleans, and they didn't say 'let the good times roll' for nothing.

His eyes scanned the sides of the roads, desperately hoping to spot Sammy in his fugly yellow t-shirt.

Kid never could dress for shit. It's fuckin' highlighter yellow—who the hell wears yellow? Especially when you're—oh hell. Why didn't I figure it out before?

It was so obvious, Dean could've kicked himself. Sam hadn't just taken off for the hell of it. He had something to prove—he was out hunting the demon.

What's his angle? Where's he gonna look? He had to have started with Dad's journal—had to. Otherwise, he wouldn't have even had a starting point.

Dean stopped, moving off the sidewalk and into an overhang, pulling his father's journal and a small flashlight out of his backpack.

C'mon, please have left me something, Sammy—you gotta throw me a freakin' bone here.

Flipping to the latest entries, Dean only had to read for a few minutes before he saw it. There, on the sketched in map of the French Quarter, where all the murder sites had been carefully marked, someone had connected the fucking dots—and the pattern was clear.

Oh shit. Please let him be wrong.

Dean shoved everything back into his backpack and hauled ass down Bourbon Street, looking for anywhere that would let him in to make a phone call. He had to get a hold of his dad and fast.

So gotta get me a damn cell-phone—this is fucking ridiculous.

"Dad?"

"D'you find him?"

"No sir, but I think I know where he's headed—I think he figured out the pattern, Dad. It's not the victims themselves that are the key—it's the locations. There's some kind of voodoo place at the center. I think the demon may be working outward from there. It fits."

"And you think he's going there?"

"Yessir."

"Why the hell would he do that?"

"Dad, don't you get it? He's trying to prove something to you, trying to prove he can help."

"Dammit!" John cursed, obviously aware that Dean was right but not too happy about it. "Alright, look, you get back to Jeb's—I'm gonna go get your brother and haul ass back there. If there's voodoo involved in this, too, then we're gonna need more than just the two of us."

No fucking way am I gonna go back without Sammy.

"I gotta go, Dad—I'll see you soon."

"Dammit, Dean, you go back to Jeb's—"

Dean slammed the phone down onto the hook before his father could finish telling him to get his ass back to Jeb's and instead took off running hell-bent for leather as he frantically tried to remember which damn voodoo place was the right one. He could only hope he reached his brother before their father. Or something far worse.