A/N: I thought I'd include a warning that there will be violence in this chapter. It never exceeds what is shown in the show, but all the same … John is on the hunt. There will be blood. Also, the weapon that Seth uses does, in fact, exist in SPN canon, but it only appears in the pilot. I thought it was too cool to have such a small role, so I brought it back.

You're telling us Purgatory is Heaven's back door, too?

It makes sense. Dante describes the way to Heaven was going through the seven levels of Purgatory. It's the realm that bridges both Heaven and Hell.

Exactly. If we can find the door into Heaven through Purgatory, we may be able to undo what Metatron has done to my brothers and sisters.

You want us to go rescue angels, Cas?

I may also be able to find a cure for Sam.

By the time they've driven to the police station to get John's car (no one's found the false bottom in the trunk yet), checked in with the M.E. (and confirmed that the disappearing John Doe looks a lot like Brock Hilton's photo), and driven (separately) back to the motel, it's nearing dusk. The library closed hours ago, so Sammy and Dean are back on the second bed. Sammy has a book propped open on his crossed legs, while Dean twitches like he wants to bolt off the bed and do . . . something. John isn't really sure what.

"Whatta you looking at?" Dean suddenly snaps.

John looks up suddenly from the Sig he's putting together to see Dean glaring at Wesson, who looks shocked at the ferocity of a teenaged hunter.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "I— Your—"

He waves a hand limply at Dean before dropping it. That tells John absolutely nothing as he looks between Wesson and Dean, trying to figure out what just happened. Without any hint from his son, John simply steps forward so that he's between Dean and Wesson's line of sight. Dean probably hates the fact that his dad's actively protecting him, but that's always been John's job, and he's never going to apologize for it.

Wesson almost flinches as soon as John turns his frown on the man, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But then, pretty much all of Wesson's reactions are weird. He shifts between stubborn defiance and a timidness that's almost fear of John. It doesn't make sense, especially since the man is at least six-foot-three. But Wesson turns away and places his journal in his briefcase, saying nothing to explain or excuse his sudden flabbergasted behavior.

"You need a piece?" John asks coldly.

"I got my own."

Seth's hand goes to the small of his back, and he pulls out a Smith and Wesson pistol. John frowns only briefly and wonders if Wesson is aware of the irony, but that's hardly the most important thing to think about now. Wesson snaps the briefcase shut and shrugs into an olive jacket that looks like it came from an army surplus store.

"Ready?" he asks as if he's the one that's been waiting.

John huffs and tucks his Colt revolver into his jacket, feeling in his pocket for his keys. Before he follows Wesson completely out the door, he looks over his shoulder.

"Look out for your brother," he says.

Dean mutters a "yessir," but Sam nods eagerly, too, which he's never done before. He's usually too busy pouting that he's old enough to take care of himself and he doesn't need Dean watching out for him at all. But John heads out the door knowing that Dean has his orders, at least.

Wesson ducks into the back of his silly car and pulls out something wrapped in oiled leather. John watches him, not hiding the fact that he's watching. Wesson doesn't say anything, though, doesn't even acknowledge the way John's staring as he ducks into the passenger door and lays the bundle down by his feet. They don't speak as John drives them downtown to the bar Mrs. Hilton named. The Impala crawls the last half-block, just in case someone at the bar is in the know and watching out for Hunters.

John flips off the ignition, noting a distinct lack of other cars around the bar, and steps out to pull open the trunk. He rummages through the hidden cache of weapons as Wesson shuffles around the other side of the car to the back. John hefts a silver machete up in front of Wesson, just to see his eyes widen.

"Need one?" he asks.

He really should be asking because Wesson's journal states the best way to kill an arachne is decapitation. But he likes seeing Wesson eye the machete in John's hand, likes the uncertain look that mixes with more fear than a hunter's should.

"Got my own." Wesson pulls out the oiled leather and unwraps it. A wicked-looking scythe lays in his hand now, with a couple points at the opposite end of the blade as well. John doesn't know what kind of weapon it is, only that it looks ferocious in Wesson's hand.

Wesson wraps it back up and tucks it in his jacket, using his elbow to press the bundle to his side. He looks a little like he's cradling an injury, but it's enough to get through any screening system the bar might have for customers. John slides the machete back into its short sheath and straps the thing to his back under his jacket. They'll both pass well enough for paying customers. John slams the trunk shut again and walks up to the door, feeling Wesson close behind his shoulder.

John strides into the bar and immediately stops.

"We at the right address?" Wesson mutters behind him.

John scans the empty bar and doesn't say anything. The lights are on, dim, and he can hear the vague twangs of country music coming from somewhere, but no one is behind the bar, no one's drinking, no one's at the pool table. John hears a rustle of fabric behind him and moves to turn around, his right arm tense just in case he needs to grab his gun.

Wesson's standing like a giant with his handgun in his left hand and his wierd-looking scythe in his right. John eyes the weapons, but Wesson only throws him back a look with eyebrows raised and somehow furrowed, like Wesson is somehow bitching at John without even the use of words.

"No bar is this quiet at nine o'clock," Wesson says. John won't admit the man has a point.

Not out loud, anyway.

John slips his hand in his pocket and curls his fingers automatically around the grip of his gun. He catches Wesson's eye again and nods towards the open doorway behind the bar. Wesson starts moving exactly the way John wants him to, circling around the empty chairs and tables wide enough to keep himself out of the door's immediate line of sight, looking out into the bar area. John raises his gun and starts padding carefully along the empty bar stools, keeping his eye always on the open doorway.

John half-expects it when Wesson spins around the corner of the open doorway, gun first, and finds nothing there. Just more stock of liquor bottles, cases of beer, and kegs that somehow went unlabeled. Wesson edged past the full shelves in one direction while John stepped deeper into the backroom. There's another doorway to what looks like a kitchen, darkened and quiet. Letting his gun lead the way, John peers into the darkness and waits for the sudden presence of monsters.

"Hilton?"

John spins around, so stupid to turn his back on a room, even if there's a hunter in it. Wesson is standing in front of a blocky figure that looks more like a mannequin than a human, especially with the light eyes with almost no color in them. John presses his back against the wall to make sure nothing else is coming and trains his gun on the figure. If this is Hilton, he has a feeling Hilton has left the building.

Wesson glances at John just long enough that John knows the other hunter has seen his lifted gun. Which doesn't really explain why Wesson immediately gets between John's gun and Hilton, who still isn't moving.

"Hilton, can you hear me?" Wesson asks, like a paramedic trying to revive a patient.

John grits his teeth and thinks he should've taken Dean on this hunt instead of this stranger who doesn't even want to kill monsters.

"Hilton, your wife's worried about you," Wesson says. He doesn't have that curved blade in his hand, and his gun is pointing down and away from him. "Carla? You wanted to tell her sorry."

Around the bulk of Wesson's shoulder, John can see Hilton's pale eyes widen. His eyebrows go up in a way that makes his face look suddenly softer, more human. Part of John knows he's making a mistake, but with Carla Hilton's face in his eyes, he allows the word "cure" to drift through his mind.

Suddenly, a roar echoes in the room behind John, making his ribs vibrate with the strength of it. He turns, but not in time to avoid the arm that slams into his chest and knocks away the gun that he fires. John has a brief sensation of being weightless before reality comes crashing back in about the same time as his head strikes the corner of a metal shelf. He can hear glass breaking through the spots in his vision.

"D— John!"

Wesson sounds panicked, which is never a good mentality. John has to get back on his feet.

"Uh-uh-uh," scolds a high voice.

John forces his eyes open and slings one arm across the metal shelf behind him for some leverage. A woman stands facing Wesson and Hilton, half cast in shadow from the kitchen. Her eyes are the same as Hilton's, even more weird because of the way the pale almost-color stands against her olive skin.

"The bar's closed, boys," she says lightly.

John hears a blade through the air, but a crash makes his skull pound before he can even determine what's happened.

"Kill him," the woman says coldly.

John pries his eyes open and forced himself to look at his situation. His back is resting against metal shelves, pressing into his left side like a bruise. But he recognizes the wet warmth to know that he's probably bleeding from somewhere near his ribcage. His vision is spotty, but that's going away with every time he blinks hard enough. His gun is on the floor by the door, eight feet away from where he's laying, but his machete is still sheathed at his back. The woman with pale eyes — Jessica Drew, the bar owner, the arachne — strides calmly toward John with just enough sashay in her hips that he notices it. Beyond her soft hair and darkly-marked face, Wesson has his blade but not his gun, holding off Hilton as he swipes clawed hands at the hunter, teeth bared.

Drew suddenly steps right in front of John, her body blocking him from Wesson and Hilton. John focuses on crouching on his right knee, keeping the shelves away from his left while he tries to angle his right hand behind him to get to his blade.

"John Winchester." Drew's voice is half-hiss, half-sultry whisper and grates down John's spine. She shakes her head at his obvious reaction. "Did you really think you could hunt the things in the dark for ten years and not make a name for yourself?"

John hadn't thought that hunters could be known in monster communities. Did monsters even have communities amongst themselves?

The arachne kneels down to John's level and tips his chin up with the tips of her fingers. Her nails, pointed into claws sharp enough to break skin, dig into the flesh near John's pulse. Despite the pain in his ribs, he breathes in and pushes himself against the metal shelves behind him. His chin tilts up but he doesn't have anywhere to get away from her.

"I thought you'd be younger." She studies his face like a beautitian. "But I can work with this."

John hears a clatter from the bar, but he doesn't dare look away from the monster in front of him. The sound at least means that Wesson is still fighting. Or else he's being thrown into furniture.

"What about your victims?" John asks. He doesn't exactly fit the type that the other missing men do, but the idea that the arachne is still perfectly willing to take him anyway makes him get his feet up under him so the shelves aren't taking all his weight.

"Victims?" Drew hovers inches away from John's face and smiles without moving the corners of her mouth. Her teeth look sharp. "They should have been proud I chose them. Y'know, if any of them survived." She releases John's face and shrugs as she adjusts her hair with a long fingernail. John's mostly on his feet, enough so that when the arachne straightens again, her neck is only about two feet about him. John twists his elbow and shoulder, trying not to breathe, and seizes the handle of the machete.

"I figured out I needed stronger humans if they were going to survive the process," Drew continues. She bends down again and hisses. Something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit, wafts in John's face. "And a hunter like you, John, will be very strong."

She's close enough. John pulls the machete out, but he's not at his full height, and the shelves get in the way of the swing. As his arm comes up, Jessica Drew jumps backwards and catches his forearm in her hand, pulling up to stand all the way up. John's legs finally untwist, and something pops in his right hip. Drew's fingernails dig into his arm; John can feel the blood like shots. The bar has gone quiet, or maybe he just can't hear anything past his own heartbeat. He breathes through the spaces in his gritted teeth.

"I'll kill you as soon as my fangs come in," he says.

Drew smiles, teeth overlapping like a shark's.

"You'll be mine," she promises.

She opens her mouth impossibly wide, and her teeth drip like every slimy alien movie John's suffered through with Dean. But then, the arachne ducks her head suddenly as a curved hand scythe slices a straight line above her head. She lets John go to duck the blade, and John slumps against the shelves again. His right leg refuses to support him, and John doesn't know if it's broken or dislocated or bruised.

Wesson slides his body between John and the arachne, and the hand scythe in his hand is dark with blood already. His back is wide in John's vision, and he has to tip to one side to see the arachne past his temporary partner. But the sudden change in height is making John light-headed. He braces himself on his right arm, but his pulse is almost the only thing he can hear.

"What—" She glares furiously at Wesson, but suddenly she stops.

John tries to draw in air without letting his chest expand, but the pain only focuses on his abdomen. He can't see anymore through the light fuzz that covers his vision.

"Your blood is—"

He can't even hear what the arachne is saying anymore. He can't die here. But his vision washes with gray just before his eyes close.