Some gore in this one guys - be warned!

SPN

Candles burned in their sconces, casting ominous shadows across the flagstone floor of the abandoned convent. Darkness filled the room, seeping in from the night beyond the stained-glass windows. The saints glared down, their smiles twisted and grotesque instead of sacred and comforting. The floor was littered with debris and dirt; chains hung from the sides of the altar opposite a dark stain that permanently marred the floor.

A single voice murmured, its echo a droning hum that filled the chapel.

Sam found himself stuck as an observer. He was dreaming, and he could not move — a fly on the wall, able to witness everything without participating. Dread filled his unconscious mind: over the past two years, he had countless dreams of the chapel at St. Mary's Convent. Most were nightmarish memories — he'd relived Dean's near death over and over — he'd felt the life fall from Jacob's body when Benny killed him. The dreams weren't always the same, but this… this one was new.

The murmuring grew louder, the candles briefly flaring as a man walked in. He was tall and olive-skinned with a strong, resolute face and dark, focused eyes. A long black cloak swathed around him, a simple wooden box clasped in his hands. It was wide and narrow, unadorned with any kind of decoration, but something about it sent Sam's trepidation skyrocketing and, had it been real, his nerves would've turned to ice.

Instead of crossing all the way up to the altar, the man paused in the middle of the room, standing above the black stain on the floor. Almost reverently, he knelt before the mark, placing the wooden box down carefully. His chanting continued, the language indecipherable. Sam watched as the cloaked man pulled the lid off the box and set it aside. He leaned forwards, touching the stain with the palm of his hand. His voice shifted from a chant to an incantation, and Sam watched in horror as the stain flashed with an eerie blue light.

Moments later, the light blinked out, and the stain was gone; in its place was a fresh pool of blood. The man quickly yanked his hand back, but it was already covered in the red substance. He flicked his fingers, spattering as much of it onto the floor as he could.

Sam prayed to wake up; he didn't want to see the rest. He tried to rouse himself, but it was like the dream wanted him to watch.

Oblivious to his spectator, the man picked up the box, tipping its contents straight into the pool of blood. It looked like… ash.

What the hell?

If possible, Sam would have shivered, unable to fathom what was happening, but aware of its atrocity.

"Torzu niiso vgeg tolocvovim esiasch," the man intoned again, repeating the same phrase over and over again. The candles around the room shot up, the flames like jets, disturbing the shadows.

Sam stared, fascinated but terrified, as the blood began to undulate, like a wave, slowly at first, but with mounting urgency. The ash — was it ash? — began to spread through the blood, congealing as it swayed. The puddle shrank, moving inwards and rising up in a column. The man stood along with it, still chanting, brow furrowed in concentration.

Wake up, Sam urged himself. I don't want to be here!

Something awful was coming… something he knew he didn't want to face.

When the bloody, gritty column reached its full height, just over six feet tall, it began swelling… convulsing and bubbling… wriggling from the inside out, as if packed with snakes, each one slithering beneath the surface. The putrid bubbles popped, spewing droplets of blood over the floor. Some splattered onto the cloaked man, but he paid it no heed.

Slowly, moment by moment, the column grew appendages: one on either side of the trunk and two at the base. Meanwhile, the apex began rounding itself into a head, and Sam couldn't help but recognize the shape. It sickened him, and he fought back, unable to accept the obvious.

It couldn't be. It wasn't.

The shape grew more intricate, the appendages defining themselves, adding hands, fingers, feet, ears… A bubbling roar, like that of a wounded animal, thundered from the freshly-formed mouth, drowning out the man's chanting.

Wake up!

Sam tried to flee, heart pounding, but could not escape. There was something painfully familiar about that roar.

The grotesque thing reached its hands up to clutch its head. It dropped to its knees, convulsing and howling. The ash sank into the blood, disappearing beneath the surface, and gradually, the coiling, slithering activity began to abate, stabilizing into a solid figure. A person, hunched over, covered in a thick blanket of blood, shouting as if in agony.

When the cloaked summoner reached the end of his chant, he knelt down across from the wretched thing and patiently waited for him to collect himself. "Take your time. There's no rush."

Abruptly, the shouting ceased, and the newly-crafted man raised his blood-soaked head to glare at his predecessor with two cold, ice-blue eyes.

Eyes that Sam had seen before; eyes that he knew all too well.

No…

This wasn't real.

Couldn't be real.

Jacob's hand shot out and grabbed the man by his cloak, pulling him close. Blood stained his teeth, dripping from his mouth as he snarled, "What did you do with my brother?!"

SPN

(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 3, 2008)

Sam woke with a start, swallowing his scream before it could manifest. He was safe in Bobby's guest room, it was still dark outside, and he didn't need all the mothering that came whenever he cried out in his sleep. He slowly sat up, bending his knees beneath the blanket while resting his head in his hands. He had to focus on breathing so he could calm his racing heart. Through the darkness, he peered over at the other bed, where Dean lay visible in the slivers of moonlight that penetrated the thin curtains. Still asleep. Sam had not disturbed him.

It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Jacob's dead. We burned his body.

He silently spoke the mantra to himself again and again. Just a dream… Nothing unusual about that. Sam had nightmares all the time. True, some were premonitions, but they always foreshadowed impending disasters. Jacob…

Jacob was already dead. They burned his body. It couldn't be a premonition because Jacob couldn't come back. That part of Sam's life was over. He didn't know why his mind had conjured the nightmare, but that's all it was. A nightmare. A figment of his imagination. No sense dwelling on it.

He reached for his cell phone on the bedside table and checked the time. 4:08am. He could still try going back to sleep, or he could get up. Was anyone else awake? Sam reached out with his mind, scoping out the house. Bobby was asleep in his room and John was downstairs. Sam concentrated on his dad. He was in the living room, his aura calm, asleep on the sofa where he'd spent the last few days. If Sam was going to get up, then he would have to sneak through the living room.

"Sometimes I think we'd all be better off without your abilities."

Sam's jaw clenched at the memory. It had been nearly a week, and he was still reeling from John's hurtful words. Dean had naturally tried apologizing on his behalf, but John showed no remorse — he never did when he thought he was right about something. And that made it all so much worse. His dad honestly thought he was right — that they would be better off if Sam was not a psychic. A freak. An unholy 'vessel' for a fallen angel. It was hard enough coping with his so-called 'destiny'… How was he supposed to forge his own path in the world when his own father doubted him? It stung more than Sam cared to admit, and so he did everything he could to avoid John's presence.

Meanwhile, Dean did everything he could to build a bridge between them, but Sam would not give in. Not this time. Upsetting his brother sucked, but a line had been crossed, and Sam couldn't just get over it. Not when his dad all but called him cursed.

Shoving back the covers, Sam hauled himself out of bed and silently padded across the room, sidestepping the floorboards that squeaked. He made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He flipped up the lightswitch and glanced at the mirror — the dark shadows under his eyes brought a hollow look to his complexion. No one had slept well over the past week. Turning away, Sam sat on the edge of the bath, next to the sink, so he could start unwinding the bandages on his wrists. The dexterity in his fingers had greatly improved, but he still had a weak grip. It took him a couple of tries to undo the bandage on his left wrist. The material fell away slowly, exposing the long thin scar, a purple blight on his otherwise tan skin. The stitches were neat and clean; they were ready to come out, but he would need his brother for that. Carefully, he unwrapped his right wrist, dumping both bandages in the trash can. He flexed his hands experimentally, watching the tendons in his wrists move, relieved to feel significantly less pain. At this rate, he would make a full recovery.

Good… Sam would hate having to explain his injury to Cyrus. The kid just turned ten a few weeks ago. He was adapting to life in Vermont, where Rufus Turner had opened his home, and things were going well. He was no longer trapped in the Stynes' shadow, he was gaining confidence, and he was happy. Sam didn't want to spoil that with news of his near-death experience. Cyrus deserved better. Once the stitches were out, and once the Carrigans were neutralized, then Sam would consider telling his young friend.

But he had to do something about the two sadistic gods. They were still out there — still a threat. They no longer lived in Michigan — their house had been abandoned — but that only made them more dangerous… As long as they were unaccounted for, they had the advantage, and considering their abilities, that was a frightening thought. Sam would not rest well until they were put out of their misery, and he would see it through, with or without his family's help.

Finishing up in the bathroom, Sam made his way silently downstairs, taking even more care to remain stealthy. The last thing he wanted was for John to stir. Thankfully, he had more than enough moonlight creeping in through the windows to navigate the old house. He'd spent much of his youth in Bobby's care; the Salvage Yard was more of a home to him than anywhere else, and he knew the place like the back of his hand.

He crept through the living room, keeping an eye on his father, constantly reading him, growing more confident with each step that John would not awake. When he reached the kitchen, Sam slipped through the basement door and fumbled for the lightswitch. The bulb was dim and dingy, but he still squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for them to adjust. Then, he ventured down into the cavernous space below.

The basement was a mess: Bobby's living room looked clean by comparison. It contained everything from normal items boxes of books, baseball gear, and paint cans to a hunter's treasure trove a mass of weapons, lore books, and various spell ingredients. Sometimes, Sam wondered how the infamous Men of Letters could possibly have more occult artifacts than Bobby.

He drifted towards an area on the side of the room where Bobby was planning to build… something. It had less clutter than the rest of the basement, but wasn't nearly clean enough for the project to commence. Sam still didn't know what the project was, but he had glimpsed the excitement in Bobby's eyes whenever they were down here.

In his effort to avoid his dad, Sam had been spending more time with Bobby, mostly by sitting on the basement stairs while the old hunter went about reorganizing. Sometimes they would chat, and sometimes they passed the time in companionable silence. Much like Dean and Cyrus, Bobby saw Sam for who he was, and he always knew when to listen, and when to give advice. Sam couldn't ask for a better ally whenever he felt… smothered by his dad.

Of course, that just meant tension was high everywhere, and not solely between father and son. Bobby had always been protective of the boys, and when Dean told him about the argument, it took all the discipline he had not to lambaste John. After all, he didn't want to make the situation worse, as much as John deserved getting chewed out. Besides, Bobby had the decency to let Sam fight his own battles.

Which was more than he could say about his dad.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Sam walked over to Bobby's project site. A huge work unit stood against the wall, covered in various sundry items, with several open crates on the floor next to it. Rolling up his sleeves, Sam picked up an empty crate, ignoring the pain that flared through his forearms, and dumped it on the work surface of the sideboard. Gritting his teeth, he glanced down at his scars in frustration. They made it so difficult to perform the simplest tasks. It sucked. But he had to push through it — he had to get his strength back.

Collecting a pile of old newspapers, Sam focused on packing up the more delicate items. They were easier to handle. He worked in silence, letting the mundane nature of the chore clear out his mind as he tried to forget the gruesome details of his latest nightmare.

SPN

It was still dark outside, well before dawn, when John's vibrating phone stirred him from sleep. He blinked his eyes open and sat up stiffly on Bobby's sofa. Who was calling him at this hour? He reached into his pocket and fished out the offensive device, checking the caller ID. Ellen Harvelle. His chest tightened as a wave of guilt threatened to shake his composure. Ellen had done so much for his children. She had been there for them when Sam was kidnapped, and risked her life to help rescue the boy. Consequently, the Stynes launched an attack on the Roadhouse, burning it to the ground, and they barely escaped with their lives. Thankfully, Ellen was a resilient woman and had spent the last two years rebuilding, but John would never be able to repay her.

Answering the phone was the least he could do. "Ellen?"

"John!" she exclaimed with a mixture of surprise and relief after all, he wasn't known for his accessibility. "Thank God you answered!"

He grunted, well-aware of his reputation. But in this case, he was between hunts and available for calls. "What's wrong?" he asked, getting straight to business.

Ellen sighed and her tone grew somber. "You wouldn't happen to know a fellow by the name of Gordon Walker?"

Gordon…

John stiffened, picturing the smug, arrogant son of a bitch who called Sam a freak and a monster. "Unfortunately," he growled, resent curdling within him.

The disdain in his voice made Ellen chuckle, albeit mirthlessly. "Yeah, can't say I care much for him myself. He used to frequent the Roadhouse — had a real bad influence on Jo."

In other words, he glamorized hunting. Unlike John, Ellen had the luxury of sheltering her daughter from the supernatural, and she did everything she could to discourage Jo from throwing her life away. But Gordon was the kind of man who enjoyed the job. John could easily see him regaling an impressionable teenage girl with stories of his adventures. The bastard. "What about him?" he asked, wondering what kind of trouble Gordon might be causing.

"He's dead," Ellen replied, catching John off guard. Hunting was certainly dangerous, but Gordon was still young and sharp. He learned from the best, and while he could be reckless at times, he was by no means an idiot. Of all the hunters to die early, it should not have been Gordon. "I heard from Kubrick," Ellen continued. "Looks like demons."

John took a deep, slow breath, processing the information. Demons. He was always on the lookout for demons. They were responsible for Mary's death, and they had an unhealthy interest in Sam. John would go out of his way to fight the evil sons of bitches, especially if it meant tracking down their yellow-eyed leader. Azazel. He finally had a weapon that would potentially kill the demon — an angel blade courtesy of Cuthbert Sinclair — but it wouldn't do him much good unless he could find the elusive bastard.

Despite the issues John had with Gordon, he did not deserve to be killed by demons. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Jo's taking it hard," Ellen explained. "She's threatening to run off and take the case herself if I don't come up with some answers." John winced on Ellen's behalf. She had already lost her husband to hunting John would never forgive himself for that and nothing scared her more than losing Jo. "I can't do this," she said brokenly. "They're not just monsters, John, they're demons! The way they killed Gordon…" She trailed off, and John's imagination supplied the rest. Another reminder why he had to keep the boys safe from these particular enemies.

"Tell Jo I'll look into it," he said decisively, hoping it would be enough to satisfy the girl, keeping her from acting rashly. "What can you tell me about the demons? Why would they target Gordon?"

"No idea!" she replied, obviously at a loss. "That's the mystery. Gordon's never had anything to do with demons. Although… Kubrick said they trashed his place. Maybe they were looking for something?"

It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. If Gordon stumbled upon something the demons wanted — which could be anything — it might explain their behavior. Great. The last thing John needed were demons in possession of an unknown asset. "Text me the location," he said grimly. "I won't be long."

"I can't thank you enough for this," she told him earnestly. "I can't lose Jo."

"It won't come to that," he replied. "I'll be in touch."

Ending the call, he climbed to his feet and trudged over to Bobby's desk. He scavenged around for a sheet of scrap paper and quickly wrote Dean a note.

'Out on a hunt. Stay put till I get back.'

Sam wasn't ready to travel, much less fight, and John couldn't afford to worry about his children when he had a job to do. Folding the sheet in half, he wrote Dean's name on the front flap and tore off a piece of tape. He proceeded to the kitchen where he stuck the note to the coffee pot, ensuring that someone would find it. A part of him wanted to wake the boys, to say goodbye in person, but time was short, and he didn't have the patience for an argument. Sam might be giving him the silent treatment, but if he mentioned demons, the kid would demand to help. He shared John's eagerness to find and kill Azazel, and he always jumped on opportunities to seek out new leads, no matter the risk. It was understandable, but dangerous, especially now. Sam was still recovering, which made him a liability, and John had no choice but to leave him behind.

It was for the best. And maybe — just maybe — it would give Sam the breathing space he needed to cool off, so they could reconcile when John returned. The sooner they put this damn squabble behind them, the better.

Dean would understand. He always did.

And so, John gathered up his luggage and hauled it out to his truck. He left quickly, without a word to anyone, and tried to ignore the strange misgivings that were creeping up inside of him.

SPN

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