The Dark Presence was powerful, but not powerful enough to break free of its chains to reach the world without having to touch an artist. There was no manuscript, no piece of work that it could use to its advantage. Not yet. The writer was held in the Dark Place in the dark depths of Cauldron Lake, but the Dark Presence sensed an emerging threat that came not from the writer, but Dean and Sam Winchester. The Dark Presence was still regaining its strength after the writer had destroyed its previous human vessel with the Clicker, but once it was strong enough, it would go after them and, if fate would have it, break its shackles and unleash itself upon the world.

Sheriff Breaker's intuition was bugging her, like a fly that wouldn't stop buzzing around you. Her duty was to Bright Falls, but—assuming the Dark Presence had returned—how could she protect the town from something that was omnipresent? She knew how to fight it, but only because Alan had told her how to do so. There was no possible way she and Wheeler could protect the town on their own. Alan was gone; the authorities believed him dead, but Sarah didn't believe he was gone. Neither did Wheeler. She strode into her office, reaching for her revolver from her belt and loading it with bullets.

"I'm heading out, guys," she said as she strode out from her office. She hurried out of the police station. Today was just not her day. Her meeting with Barry had sparked a strong sense of dread within her, like the calm before the storm. She was the sheriff; she'd experienced some deep shit in her life, but not like the Dark Presence. Darkness had never frightened her; it was a mere absence of light, but now her perspective had completely changed. She knew now that darkness was a very tangible entity; you could touch and feel it, and the only way it could be fought was with light. While she didn't sleep with the lights on, she hadn't emerged from the war unscathed. She was jumpy and more wary of the dark, and was more open-minded to more possibilities—even the ones that were impossible and beyond the borders of logic. Agent Nightingale hadn't realized this until his very last moments. His shocked expression after he realized the events in the manuscript were coming true before he was suddenly taken by the Dark Presence still haunted her to this day. There was no evidence that he was dead, but there was no way in hell he could have survived the attack. Sarah's train of thought was interrupted when she felt the atmosphere change. Perhaps it was her feeling of dread and concern for the town that had finally gotten to her, but she semi-ran to her car, ignited the engine and sped off from the police station. Dawn was breaking, and she couldn't help but double-check her belt. Gun, check. Flashlight, check.

Fuck, Sarah. Get it together. You're being paranoid, she chastised herself, but her intuition told her otherwise. And it scared the shit out of her.

Sam's head was spinning as he and Dean made their way back to their motel room. He tried to ignore it, but his brother kept on giving him concerned looks, almost as if he were about to collapse. More than anything, he wanted to tell Dean that he would be okay, but what was the point? His ailment wasn't a simple cold or flu that could be nursed within a matter of days, and it was more than clear how much Dean didn't want to accept it, and while he understood his worry, he wanted his brother to accept the situation for what it was. He would make it through the final trial and close the gates of Hell, or die trying.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean asked him, shaking him out of his reverie. Both brothers knew he wasn't asking about the revelation about the poem.

"I'm fine, honestly," he insisted. "I'm fine." Dean shot him a doubtful look in response.

"You're not okay, and we both know it," the elder Winchester said, frustration creeping into his voice. "It's been three days since you last ate—three days—and you've been oversleeping, coughing up blood—" He put a hand to his brother's forehead and pulled his hand back. "—and you're burning up. This is not good, Sam. Not good whatsoever."

"The only way I'll be able to get better is if I start and finish the third trial, Dean," said Sam pointedly. His head was pounding, like a gong was going off inside his skull. The pain was blinding and made it hard, near impossible, for him to concentrate.

"Trial? I wouldn't let you start a moped! This sickness will only get worse as time goes by. We are not starting the third trial until you're well enough."

"Dean, this isn't a cold or flu or whatever it is you're supposed to feed," he began. "These trials—they're changing me."

"And what makes you so sure of that, Sam?" his brother countered. "Nobody else has ever tried to take on these trials! We don't know what the fuck is going on! All we know is that you need to regain your strength before we can move forward with this. You've got to let me take care of you." Sam's eyes were bleary; he could hardly see Dean, and bullets of cold sweat were just barely beginning to form. He was in no condition to go out on a hunt let alone take on the final trial, but it didn't matter to him. He was determined to shut the gates of Hell, and he would do it. Didn't he owe Dean that much? Over the years, he had done so much wrong and hurt his brother in so many ways, whether it was trusting Ruby—a demon—and triggering the Apocalypse, being a soulless, apathetic bastard who hadn't cared at all about his brother or anything or anyone upon his return from the Cage, and not searching for him after he'd been sent to Purgatory after killing Dick Roman. Sam met his brother's eyes and was about to respond when Dean shook his head. End of discussion, Sam, he seemed to say.

"I'm going to go shower," Sam said, and all of a sudden, an overwhelming nausea swept over him like the plague. He was certain he would keel over and vomit in front of Dean, and the last thing he needed was to be completely bedridden while on a case. Sam quickly half-walked, half-ran to the bathroom, a hand over his mouth to keep from puking. He wasn't sure what was coming up, and frankly, he didn't want to know. Before he knew it, he was on his knees, leaning over the toilet, heaving violently.

"Sam! Sammy!" he heard his brother shout. There was the sound of hurried footsteps, but Sam barely paid any mind to his brother and his concern. His head was swimming, and he could scarcely see through his bleary eyes. "Oh my god, oh my god…" The panic was clear as a bell in Dean's voice, and Sam wanted to reassure him that he was okay, but he knew it would be useless. You're not okay, and we both know it. For several long moments, Sam knelt there, retching. He was faintly aware of his brother's presence as he reassuringly rubbed his back in gentle circles. Minutes passed, and finally, Sam leaned back from the toilet. He wiped his mouth; blood came off on his arm. It was then that it dawned on him; he'd been puking up blood.

"Sam, go get some rest," Dean said. "Please." Sam nodded slowly and made his way out of the room, trying not to let his mind wander to the poem in his dream.

The inside of the toilet was a horrific bloody mess, a mini blood bath almost. Blood covered its sides, and there was nothing there to see but the familiar scarlet color of blood. Blood. Everywhere. Dean rose to his feet and flushed the toilet, trying to keep himself calm. Sam had said earlier that he would be cured of this…condition if he completed the third trial, and Dean wanted so badly to believe him—but was it worth the risk? Was it worth putting his brother's life on the line again and risk losing him again? They were on a case when they should've be trying to uncover the last trial, for god's sake. The only thing that was keeping Dean from losing hope in their predicament was his faith in his brother, faith that he would pull through. Because Sam always pulled through in the end. Dean took several deep breaths before making his way out of the bathroom and out the door of their motel room, quietly closing the door behind him so he wouldn't wake Sam. He needed some air, to clear his mind.

"Cass, dammit, where are you?" he found himself saying. "Sam…he's getting worse. He threw up blood earlier, and…" Dean resisted the urge to kick something out of frustration and anger. "We need you!" He paused in his tracks, half-expecting to hear the flutter of wings and Castiel's voice from behind him. Nothing. Of course, he thought bitterly. Go off the grid and ignore my prayers. Stupid, stupid son of a bitch. He shook his head and swung open the door to the Impala, inserting the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and Dean made his way out of the parking lot and onto the main road. He didn't care that he was speeding, or that he'd probably get pulled over. So many questions, so many doubts, swirled around in his mind. There was no light at the end of the tunnel—why would there be one? Sam's condition was only getting worse; chances were that he would die soon, whether or not he completed the last trial. Dean punched the steering wheel in rage, barely resisting the urge to scream. He was completely tired of bottling up all his inner turmoil, all of the shit he'd sworn he'd buried deep down inside himself. Kevin was gone—Crowley had to have gotten to him—and Cass had abandoned them again while Sam was dying. How in the hell would they—

Dean was shaken out of his thoughts when he saw a hooded figure standing in the middle of the road. "Shit!" He slammed on the breaks, but it was too late. The Impala collided with the man, sending him flying. Dean flung the door open, running over to the man he'd hit. However, there was no sign of him. No sign that there'd been someone there. No sign of anything. The road was eerily empty; there was nobody but him. Dawn was beginning to break. Dean pulled out his cell phone. Dammit. No battery life. He'd barely formed another thought when he heard the chainsaw.