It was going to kill him. Timothy could sense it.

It wasn't planning anything brutal, or physical. He didn't think he'd wake to hellhounds tearing into his legs or a demon cutting into his flesh, but he would die all the same, and not in his sleep. The knowledge was fleeting and barely there, but he had picked up on it in his most recent nightly encounter with the thing. It was gleeful, malevolent, and far too relaxed when it had previously been neurotic, full of rage.

And it teased him about Trystane.

The thing would let Trystane go – it had to, that was the deal, those were the rules – but there was something Timothy was missing, and he didn't like that. The thing spoke in generalities about sadness and charred bones and dead soul mates, and he couldn't be speaking of Trystane. So that meant him.

Didn't it?

He lay on his back, looking at his reflection in the mirror above the bed. The woman who owned this apartment had installed quite a few…interesting additions. The ceiling mirror was the least of them. He wondered briefly where she was; he had told her to go somewhere safe and not to think of the apartment again. He hoped the glamor would hold. His others had, but with everything that had been happening lately, it wouldn't surprise him much if she turned up and shot him, thinking he was an intruder. He sighed, sitting up and licking the spoon of peanut butter on the saucer by the bed. It was the organic kind, expensive, and he'd eaten almost the whole jar.

A sense of calm had settled over him now that he knew that the entity planned to get rid of him. Before, he'd had a slim hope that he could satisfy the thing and get back to his old ways, but now that he knew it was out of the question, his way forward was obvious. The thing was sure to be furious when it learned what he'd done, but that was too bad. It frightened him, he would concede that much, but Timothy wasn't one to freeze into indecision. He didn't have much life experience – just two years ago he'd been a ten year old – but he was hardly an average Joe. In its vainglory, the entity seemed to have forgotten that.

He would remind it.

After it was done gloating and consuming the blood Timothy had delivered to it, it had given him a mission. One last thing, it said, and then it would be over. It wanted him to retrieve something, something precious, from a secret, well -guarded place. It was an interesting twist of fate, now that Timothy thought about it. Imagine, being sent by his tormentor to steal something from his potential saviors. Timothy had laughed when the thing told him what to do.

On the inside, of course.

He was confident he had reached Sam Winchester in his dreams – they no doubt knew exactly what had transpired at the army base. He could only hope they recognized the sigil and what it meant. It would make things much easier when he arrived if they already knew why he was coming.

It would also make it less likely that he would be killed on sight. The older one, Dean, was a bit trigger happy, but Sam would keep him at bay, Timothy knew. They were a team. Dean would listen to Sam. He had before. And now that Lucifer was gone, back in hell – somehow – they had no reason to fear Timothy.

Not really.


Sam thought it best if he didn't say anything.

The silence was tense, pregnant. Bobby had stayed behind at the motel, using their new information to find some old information. It was raining, the droplets beating against the windshield of Bobby's pickup with an audible and unrelenting insistence, destroying their visibility even with the wipers on high. Dean was driving slower than usual, though whether that was because of the rain or his thoughts, Sam couldn't say.

They dressed before they left the motel, slipping into the distinctive gear of crime scene cleanup crewmen. They had acquired identification from a friend of Bobby's, some paranoid hacker who had limited the phone call to twenty eight seconds. Luckily, the local police and the FBI were both involved in processing the crime scene, and they wouldn't need military clearance to get onto the base. The hacker assured them that if they hurried, it was likely they wouldn't be asked to do much more than flash their badges, so chaotic was the scene.

He looked over at Dean, running his tongue over the backside of his teeth. He was sure the boy he had dreamed about was involved with this, and so was Dean. The thing was, he knew the kid was just a puppet, a hostage in his own right. He didn't want to be doing any of this. Someone had something on him, something big, and the kid was just trying to get a monkey off his back. A very powerful monkey, if Sam wasn't mistaken.

He could sense the thing's presence through the boy. It wasn't a demon, he knew – he sent a silent and thankful prayer to the universe for that – but it was something with a lot of mojo.

Maybe more than he or Dean could handle.

And it was familiar, somehow. The kid was, too. Sam couldn't begin to speculate how it was possible, but he would swear on a stack of bibles that they'd dealt with this whole situation before.

Obviously not as well as we should have, he thought. He rested his head against the glass of the passenger window and sighed.

Dean's eyes were locked on the window in front of him, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the butt of his gun. His face was drawn and set, determined. Sam knew there'd be no stopping Dean from drawing whatever conclusions he would from the scene, visions or none. And he wouldn't stop to listen to Sam's protests about the kid's innocence, either. Now that he knew the boy had been there and had drawn the damn sigil, Dean wouldn't stop until there was a knife through the kid's heart and his blood was on the ground. The more the better.

Can't blame him though, now can you?

Sam wondered whether fate, the universe – whatever – was still trying to get back at him for starting the apocalypse. Or, hell, for stopping it. Hadn't his time in the cage been atonement enough? Hadn't walking the earth soulless been enough? Wasn't dealing with the guilt and the pain of knowing he'd hurt people – innocent people – without mercy, enough? Did he have to finally be right about something, something important, only to have Dean disbelieve him and kill another innocent, not to mention let an even worse monster escape unscathed, all because of Sam's sour history? His character flaws?

He risked another glance at Dean's face.

It did nothing to reassure him.

Sam closed his eyes, the rain beating against his temples through the glass. At least they would learn from the crime scene. Sam might even learn something that would help him prove that the kid wasn't their Big Bad. Or at least something to help him escape the clutches of whatever had him by the balls. Dean would want to kill him for it, but if he could help the kid escape, he would do it. He wouldn't let him die at their hands. No more innocents would die because of him. He wouldn't allow it. Wouldn't stand for it.

Couldn't take it.

"Three hundred and twenty seven, Sam." Dean looked askance at him, then back at the road, his jaw set. "That's how many people died here today. That's how many people your innocent kid sent to meet the man behind the curtain."

Sam didn't reply.

"Tight-lipped all of a sudden, huh?" He shifted gears, slowing down further as the rain came down harder, beating against their roof. He snorted derisively. "Figures."

"What you want me to say, Dean?" Sam said softly, his lips barely moving. "There was nothing we could have done to prevent this. Not a damned thing."

"I want you to say that you're in this with me," Dean said. "All the way."

"Of course, I-"

"No, no. Just listen." The bite was gone from his voice; now there was only exhaustion and iron resolve. "Just listen to me, Sam. And…and I really need for you to hear me." He paused. "I will not do this again. Do you understand? I can't go through this…this trust the monster and just trust me and I can feel it bullshit, okay?"

He stopped, as though he expected Sam to interrupt. When Sam remained silent, Dean continued.

"I know you, Sam. You did some stuff, and now you feel all guilty and you give people chances, benefits of the doubt, when you shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Because where does it ever get us, Sammy? Where? Dead, in hell, or in deep shit, or both, or all three. No exceptions."

Sam wanted to say something, to prove that this time, it was different – it really was – but he didn't have what it would take to convince Dean. It was possible that nothing would. So he stayed quiet, and listened.

"So I'm asking you – begging you – not to get caught in this monster kid's web. You just got your soul back. It's fragile. It would be pretty easy for this thing to get inside your head and fuck you, Sam. It's already trying. It knows where your thin patches are – it's already convinced you that it's innocent and just made some bad decisions and needs you to save it. It's just a ten minute ride to the point where you'll want to help it do whatever it's doing. So let go of it, Sam. Let it all go. Because if you don't…"

Sam lifted his head from the window and met Dean's gaze, his expression flat.

"If you don't…I'll have to stop you. By any means necessary. And I mean that, Sam. I'm serious. The world can't take it anymore." He pursed his lips. "I can't take it."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, the car rolling along at thirty-five miles per hour. Then, he sighed, placing his head against the window. His hair rested against his cheek, blocking some of Dean from view.

"Yeah, Dean," he said. "Okay."


The guards took only cursory glances at their credentials. Their motions were rote and thoughtless, without feeling. At the third checkpoint, the exhausted-looking guard didn't even check the I.D. photos against Sam and Dean's faces; he simply waved them through. They went, silently, the rain having slowed to a drizzle.

There was blood – everywhere. They had already moved the bodies, it seemed; there were none out here. Dozens of people moved to and fro, carrying and dusting and mopping. Even so, the scene had an oddly empty feeling, as though something crucial was missing.

Sam looked around, surveying. "Bit of a mess, huh?"

"That's an understatement," Dean muttered. "Fucking bloodbath."

"The news said they just went nuts and shot each other," Sam said, "so what was the hellhound sigil for?"

"I dunno, but remember, everybody was Kung-Fu fighting in Ella's neighborhood before they got taken, too."

"Yeah," Sam said, "and she told me the man who broke in wanted her to fight him before he took her blood."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I had forgotten about that, that's right. So this thing, whatever he is, he needs his victims to fight before he can take the blood?"

"Apparently," Sam said.

Dean sighed. "Fucking great."

"It's something new we can tell Bobby, though, right?" Sam offered. "I mean, it ought to narrow things down quite a bit."

"There's that, I guess." His brooding mood seemed to have broken, at least for the moment. "Okay. I'm gonna go have a chat with some of these forensic bottom feeders," he said. "You go take a look around. If you see anything – anything – that might tell us where this kid is…"

"I got it, Dean."

Dean gave him a once over, then turned and walked toward a group of men holding various types of kits. Once Dean was out of sight, Sam hurried toward the barracks, praying no one had fiddled around too much with the scene around the sigil.

There were three detectives and a military official standing nearby, speaking in hushed tones. Sam ambled past them, trying to make himself invisible.

It didn't work.

"Hey, hey there Goliath." One of the detectives took him by the arm. Sam stopped, looking at him innocently. "Where do you think you're going?"

"They told me to clean this," he said, in his best authority-scares-and-intimidates-me voice.

The military big-wig spoke. "Good. Get to it."

"With all due respect, sir, we need to-"

"You can't afford to pay all the respect I'm due," he snapped. "You and your fellow detectives have been allowed more latitude in this place than anyone has ever been given, including me. You've got your pictures, you've taken your samples, you've dusted for prints. This kid is gonna wash this blasphemous shit off the wall right now." He nodded at Sam. "Get to it, son."

He strode off, and the detectives followed him, shouting. Sam turned back to the wall.

The sigil was enormous, at least five feet in diameter. He glanced around, then pulled his digital camera out of his pocket, taking a few quick pictures. The creature in the center of this was clearly a dog, and the symbols around the side were identical to the one on the coin. He slipped it back into the pocket of the plastic suit, stepping closer to the thing. He closed his eyes, remembering the dream. He turned his head to the left and opened his eyes, sure what he was looking for would be gone, taken by the crime scene techs.

It was there, folded and stuffed between the siding and the wall, just like the kid had told him it would be.

Sam made sure he wasn't being watched, then reached for the paper. He set his mop against the wall, then knelt in a crevasse, out of sight of the crowds that roamed the barracks near this one. He opened the letter.

Sam,

If you've found this, then I've reached you. I won't bother writing more than I need to – the sigil beside you is used to summon hellhounds, and the one on Ella's wall summons nothing. It commanded me to call forth a deva to kill her, but I botched the symbol, then pled ignorance. It doesn't know as much as I do about summoning things, so it had no choice but to believe me. It was pissed, though. It's always mad no matter what.

We've met before, Sam, and you saved me that day, from something I can't even articulate. I know you and Dean sent the devil away somehow. That was cool. Thanks for that, by the way. I like the world like this, and I don't think I would have been very happy in hell, or whatever he was planning to turn this place into.

I'm sorry about these army guys and those people in Riverton, but I had no choice. I had to, to save my brother. He's not my brother for real, but he's like my brother. We've been best friends since I last saw you, and he says he knows about you, too. He says he escaped from the place with the yellow-eyed demon and hid from him. The demons talked a lot about you, I guess, and he said if we ever needed help with anything we should call you. So I am.

It has him, Sam. I'm sorry, I don't know what the thing is, but it has Trystane and he says he'll kill him if I don't do what he says. I promised and we made a deal, but he's not a demon. He says he knows you, too, and he's going to get back at you for something. (You're really popular. It's like everyone knows you.) He wouldn't tell me what. But first, I'm supposed to steal something from you. If I don't he's gonna kill Trystane and probably me, too. I can't tell you what it is in this letter, because someone bad might get it.

I had to write this for you because it can see what I'm thinking and doing sometimes. That's why I didn't tell you in your dream – he can see me when I'm sleeping, and it was bad enough that I let you watch at all. I couldn't risk actually talking to you. He's powerful, this thing, but he's kind of stupid, too. He'll never think that I would write a letter on paper to you. I guess he has a small imagination.

Well, I don't know what you can do to help me and Trystane, but I just thought I'd try, because I don't know what to do. The monster has demons working for him, and they have Trystane locked away somewhere. I've tried calling for him and looking in his dreams, but I can't find him.

I can't tell you who I really am in case Dean is reading this. He'll kill me if you're not there to stop him. But please help, Sam. Think of me in your dreams and I'll find you. If you're the one who contacts me, the thing can't see us.

Well, I guess that's it,

Timothy

Sam exhaled, reading the letter again. The kid was a teenager, at least chronologically, but he was a lot younger than that, if this letter was any indication. He was smart, and had a large vocabulary, but the tone and the style of the letter told him that the kid was really young, perhaps ten or eleven. And who had they saved at that age, who knew about Lucifer and demons and the apocalypse?

Jesse.

Why was he a teenager? It had only been a year and a half since they'd thwarted the apocalypse – how could he have aged so much? But perhaps it was part of being the Antichrist; maybe when Lucifer rose, the boy and started getting older, faster, to be ready for the big event. It made a sort of intuitive sense to Sam.

But this just made things even worse. Who was controlling him, and to what end? It wasn't Lucifer – he was still in the cage, and the kid said the thing wasn't a demon, but had demon mooks. So what the hell was it? And what did it want with him and Dean?

Sam put his face in his hands. He hadn't planned on telling Dean what was in the letter or what the kid wanted, whoever he was. But he didn't have a choice. Not now. He didn't even want to think about what this could mean. If Lucifer managed to escape the cage – again – things would go from sugar to shit with a speed that would leave the world's head spinning as they drowned in lakes of fire and blood.

And now there was someone else – this Trystane, who was apparently one of the special children that Yellow Eyes had created. And he had escaped the Lord of the Flies debacle in the abandoned town where Sam had died, meaning he was pretty powerful. What could have him locked away anywhere?

Sam sat wracking his brain for a few more minutes, then shot to his feet. He left the mop where it was, his plastic suit rustling as he searched the place for Dean. He spotted him leaning against a wall, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows at a young woman with a clipboard. Sam gestured with his hands until Dean spotted him. Dean gave a signal, and Sam went to the lot to wait by the car. Dean arrived twenty minutes later.

"Well, the plot thickens," he said, setting the mop and bucket in the back of the pickup. "The bodies – gone. Not to the coroners, not to the hospital, not to a thriller video audition, but gone. Whatever's downing kegs of blood is also snatching cadavers." Dean looked bemused. "I'm actually kind of relieved to hear that. I mean, at least it's not such a mystery anymore – we've faced down just about every flesh-eater and blood drinker there is. Even if this is something new, we know we can kill it. It's just a matter of finding the fucker…"

He paused as he pulled open the driver door. "Well, you look like shit. What's eating you?" He smirked at the quip.

"I think you should sit down for this, Dean."

His smile faded. "You're about to rain on my parade, aren't you Sammy?" He climbed in, slamming the door. He leaned out the window. "What's the matter? Have another vision?"

Sam looked up at him, his face a mask of fear and worry. Dean settled slowly into his seat, his elbow resting on the door frame.

"Get in," he said. "Let's get it over with."

Sam climbed into the cab, looking over at his brother. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the explosion he knew was coming, once he'd delivered the bad news. In an odd way, he was looking forward to it; it was familiar, something Dean had been doing since they were children. After all they'd been through, he'd come to associate Dean's loud and curse-ridden reactions with problem solving and stability. When Dean got pissed, he got moving, and whatever was in their way had best watch out. Sam let the thought comfort him for a moment before he spoke.

"I know who the kid is, Dean," he said. "And you're really, really not going to like it."


I hope everyone is enjoying the tale so far. I'm really having a good time with this fic, and I hope you are too! Leave a review, and tell me what you think!