Following a rider-less motorcycle through the streets of Hollywood was not an easy task, even in the wee hours of the morning, but somehow Dean managed it. Soon, they had arrived at the rundown motel 6. Grace parked herself quite docilely at the edge of the parking lot while Sam went in to pay, headlight seeming to watch all they did as Johnny was carried into their first floor room. Okay, the possessed motorcycle was officially creepy.

Sam took a couple minutes to strip Johnny of his jacket and shirt, then taped up the large wound in the man's shoulder and tied him to the room's desk chair, drawing a set of wards around his feet. Just in case. Dean, meanwhile, was in the bathroom, trying to see his back in the mirror. The tattered remains of what was his favorite shirt had been thrown in the trash, and the tire tread down his back seemed to have only gotten more noticeable in the time since the fight.

"Do you need some lotion for that?" Sam asked as he walked in to wash Johnny's blood off his hands.

Dean just glared, "I don't need any of your lilac lotion-y crap, alright?"

"Alright,"

There was a groan from the other side of the room and the two brothers shut up. Their guest was coming to.

Consciousness returned to Johnny Blaze through a haze of pain, not something entirely unusual for him. He vaguely remembered being stabbed the night before, but a knife shouldn't've had any effect on the Ghost Rider. So why did his shoulder hurt so bad?

It was when Johnny tried to reach up and cradle his shoulder that he realized that he was seated in a hard chair with his arms tied behind his back. Oh, this was not good. Johnny opened his eyes and a dingy motel room swam into focus, along with two familiar faces.

"D'n . . . ?" Johnny coughed, throat burning from the forced return transformation. He swallowed roughly, "Dean? Sam?" The whole of last night came back in a rush and he frowned. Clearly, it had been a mistake to let his guard down around the two. "Quite th' show last night."

"Yeah, speaking of last night, what the hell are you?" Dean asked gruffly, bypassing the meaningless chatter.

The stunt rider licked his dry lips, then let out a heavy sigh. Well, at least the fact that the two were asking him that question meant they were human and not some kind of demonic force, "That's not a real easy question ta answer. I am the Ghost Rider, the one who walks in both worlds or something like that."

"So, a demon," Dean pushed insistently.

Johnny shook his head, "No, I'm one-hundred percent human, but sometimes I change into . . well, this great big monster." He frowned and tried to re-word what he was trying to say. This was not looking good at the moment, "Th' Ghost Rider is th' Spirit of Vengeance. 'The fire that rains down from heaven' or something like that. The wrath of God personified. Leastways, so I've been told. I ain't heard shit from heaven on the matter."

Hmmm . . . an agent of Heaven. Wondering vaguely whether Cas would've heard of this or not, Dean moved on to his next question, "So why choose to appear as a famous stunt biker? It's not exactly a good disguise."

"Wait, what?" Johnny blinked in surprise, "I, I don' understand. I'm not appearing as anything. I've always been a stunt rider, my daddy was one too. Zarathos is not me, he's just connected ta me."

"The real Johnny Blaze was born in 1956 in Wakugen Illinois," Sam pointed out from the bed, having done some research while Johnny was unconcious, "That would make you almost fifty, unless your Ghost Rider powers have prevented you from aging."

"Oh," His age had never really occurred to Johnny before. He had aged a bit slower than usual, probably a result of the fact he spent a decent amount of time as a vengeful demon, but nobody had ever pointed it out. And there was the fact that he had escaped from Hell and ended up looking like his younger self again. Actually, now that he thought about it, it was a little astonishing that no one at the studio had wondered why he looked so young for someone who had assisted with the original Stuntmaster show, "Well, there's actually a good explanation for that. Y'see, a few years ago I was killed and sent ta hell. When I escaped last year, I looked twenty-one again. It's, well, it's kinda complicated." He frowned, "An' how come you're askin' me all these questions anyway? I should be the one askin' you. You two clearly ain't any more normal than I am. I can feel the aura of Hell hangin' around you both."

'Aura of Hell?' What did that mean? Dean frowned, "In case you haven't noticed, you're the one tied to the chair. You're not in a position to be asking questions. We're hunters, that's all you need to know."

"This isn't the first time someone's trussed me to a chair." And this time he wasn't surrounded by several tons of explosives either. Focusing on his left hand, Johnny managed to ignite it and easily burned through the rope around his wrists, then stood and stretched sorely, "Now, can we have a conversation like civilized men?"

Dean instantly made a grab for his shotgun, but didn't pick it up, "Okay, okay, fine. You want to talk? Me and my brother spend our time driving around, hunting down and destroying demons and evil spirits like you."

"Evil? Pissed off maybe, but I do try my best not ta hurt anybody who doesn't deserve it," Johnny scuffed his toe over the ward drawn on the floor, then stepped over it cautiously, "Sure, I sold my soul to th' devil, but I was a kid."

"Yeah, like we haven't heard that one before."

"Wait, Dean, stop," As always, it was Sam who had to talk down his brother, "Maybe he can help us. He's got better access to the studio, he knows the town."

"See, I'm a useful guy," Johnny pulled the office chair out of the circle of the ward and sat back down, cradling his still aching shoulder, "What're you guys 'hunting' anyway? Hollywood's full of bastards, but nobody's really come to my attention in the last couple weeks, aside from the usual low-life types that is."

"It's a pagan god of sorts," Dean saw that he wasn't going to win this argument, "It's called a Trickster. They like to play deadly tricks on the upper-crust sort, bring them down a peg."

"Never heard of it," Johnny had gone up against a lot of things over the years, from costumed supervillians to demons, but never a god. "How do ya find such a thing?"

"Well, now, that's the problem," Sam admitted, "The trickster can look like anyone or anything. There's no way to know who it is until we can catch him the act."

"And you've managed to hunt this thing down before? Without being able to recognize it or anything?" Johnny asked incredulously, "Well, maybe it'll be easier this time. I can sense evil and the supernatural, so maybe I'll be able to sense this thing if I can get close enough to it."

Sam gave Dean a look that said 'see, I knew he could help' and Dean snorted, "Then what are we doing standing around here? Let's get to that studio. It's almost dawn anyway."

"And that means I gotta get to work," Johnny stood to his feet with a wince, pulling on his leather jacket and zipping it up, "Not that I'll be able to do much with my shoulder like this. Is Grace with you?"

"What, you mean your motorcycle? You named that thing Grace?" Dean recalled the possessed bike with a shudder.

"She's not a thing, and I didn't name her," Johnny stated defensively, "She came with me when I escaped from hell."

"Great, more demons," Dean threw his hands in the air and walked out of the hotel room, "Now they're possessing motorcycles."

Following a professional motorcycle stunt rider through the streets of Hollywood turned out to not be the easiest task. Dean growled in frustration as once again Johnny vanished among the thick traffic on the strip. The stunt rider didn't even seem to notice he was leaving them in the dust, he just naturally rode like a maniac. Fortunately, they had reached a part of town Dean recognized and he was pretty sure he could find his way to the studio from there.

Johnny was waiting for them when the two brothers reached the gate to the studio, leaning on his bike with a bored expression, "What took you so long?"

"If you haven't noticed, a '67 Impala can't squeeze between a tour bus and a taxi."

The motorcyclist let a smirk drift across his face before starting his bike back up, "It might if you weren't afraid to ding it up a bit."

Dean stared at him, aghast, before grumbling darkly and following him through the studio gate.