Frail, Chapter 7

Sam wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard the sound of a door opening and closing to his left. He'd been working on the cords around his wrists, rubbing them against a small outcropping of rough spot on the wall above him. He didn't think he was making much progress. Sam bit his lip against the scrape of raw flesh against the cement, conscious of the slick feeling of blood slipping down his arms.

Sam glanced over at Tommy as the footsteps approached and saw the boy's head turn toward the sound before his frightened gaze came back to Sam.

"It's okay," Sam said softly. He watched Tommy draw in on himself, trying to make his small body even smaller. Across the space that separated them, Sam could see the whites around the dark shadow of Tommy's irises.

"It's going to be okay," Sam said again.

Tommy nodded jerkily, but didn't make a sound. Knees drawn up tightly to his chest, the boy ducked his head down, face turned in the direction of the approaching steps. His arms, stretched up like Sam's, pulled down ineffectually as the boy tried instinctively to curl into a protective ball. Sam watched a tremor run through Tommy's frame. Something Gene Potter has said or done had terrified the boy beyond what the kid had told Sam.

The man who entered was hardly recognizable as the Gene Potter Sam had met and served in the diner. While Gene had always been "rough" looking in a shaggy-haired, unshaven, vaguely greasy kind of way, the man standing in front of Sam was way past rough. He looked like hell – literally, Sam suspected. Unkempt and marred with deep bruises and cuts, the man's whole presence was wrong. His eyes—while neither the pitch black of Meg's possession nor the golden-orange his father's eyes had taken on when he'd been possessed by the Demon—glittered with a madness that caught Sam's breath in his throat. He felt the terror that had infected Tommy steal through him, numbing his arms and his legs and his brain.

Like a hunted animal, Sam went completely still, as if immobility would make him invisible to the man who approached. Tommy had frozen as well, the only movement in his eyes as they followed Gene Potter across the room. His gaze darted to Sam helplessly before being drawn back to the man who had stopped in front of the child.

"Gene." Sam said it sharply, his mind coming suddenly unstuck at the sight of Potter looming over Tommy.

The man's head swiveled toward Sam. That's it. Over here.

Sam felt the moisture leave his mouth as he caught sight of the expression on Gene Potter's face. Dear God.

"What do you want from us?" Sam asked thickly, forcing the words past dry lips.

Potter took two steps toward Sam, and Sam held his breath, pressing against the unyielding stone at his back in spite of himself.

"What do I want?" The timbre of the voice that came out of Potter's mouth struck a horrific chord deep in Sam's chest, and he heard Tommy make a soft frightened sound from across the room.

In Potter's eyes, the madness had dropped away, replaced by an inky blackness—a depthless Nothing.

It gazed thoughtfully at Sam.

"What do you think I want?" it asked. A sane, reasonable-sounding question that turned Sam's blood to ice.

"I don't know," Sam whispered, hating the quaver he could hear in his voice.

The black eyes went to the huddled boy. A cold smile touched its face.

"How do you think the child's aunt will respond to his death?" It turned back to Sam. "Will her faith be destroyed by another such loss?"

Sam couldn't breathe, eyes caught by the confusion and terror in Tommy's.

"And your brother?" Sam's eyes snapped back to Potter. "The boy killed? His brother… broken, dead?"

Sam was suffocating.

"Could he be turned by that loss?"

The demon seemed to pose the question theoretically, but the glint of cruelty in the twist of its mouth gave away the intent, and Sam reached desperately for the anger that had surged at being toyed with, clawing his way out of the breathless numbness that had taken hold.

How dared this thing question Dean's integrity, his goodness?

"You'll never turn my brother," Sam gritted in fury. "No matter what you do. Dean would never …"

The demon howled in amusement.

"'Dean would never'?" it said contemptuously. "Boy, you have no idea what a man will do in the face of such grief and rage." It paused. Said consideringly, "Although perhaps you do." Sam swallowed. "Besides. We don't necessarily need to turn him to us. If he turns away from what is good, abandons his purpose…."

Sam's chin came up, and he met the demon's dark gaze fiercely.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "Dean would never abandon the hunt. If you kill me, if you kill Tommy, my brother won't rest until he's killed anyone and anything that's responsible."

The demon cocked Potter's head at him.

"And how is that not turning him away from his purpose?" it asked softly. "Your brother's purpose involves more than just you, Sam Winchester. He has a larger job to do and your death, the child's death, might provide the … distraction that is necessary."

It grinned at Sam.

"Who would have thought that inhabiting this body would provide such unexpected opportunities?"

xxxx

Dean pulled a wooden box out of the trunk of the Impala and hauled it clumsily up the stairs of the porch. He dropped it heavily on the kitchen table, throwing back the bulky lid. It was an old apothecary's box, with compartments that were meant to hold bottles of drug components. Sam had found it on a curbside one trash day and appropriated it for the collection of herbs and other materials he'd begun to hoard since their visit to Kansas. The power of Missouri's anti-poltergeist potpourri had fascinated Sam, and the younger hunter had started to haunt the small stores in any town they visited that sold rare herbs or difficult to find ingredients for the spells they might need. In the months since they'd seen Bobby, Sam had added what he could from the book the man had given them. Dean was almost positive that everything he'd need for the binding spell would be in the box.

"Michael, come here."

The boys had been trailing Dean from one place to the other, not sure what was expected, but willing to do what they were told. Michael moved toward the table.

"Can you follow a recipe?" Dean asked, sliding the large volume across the table toward the boy.

"Yeah," Michael said.

"OK. Then pull out all the ingredients you see listed here." He tapped a long finger on the page. "Don't mix them. Just pull them. Jake, you watch and double check him, got it?"

The boys nodded and got to work. Dean strode back toward the car. Rummaging through the weapons cache, he pulled out a couple of shotguns and two boxes of shells – one of salt rounds, one of consecrated iron rounds. Setting to them to the side, he found the five gallon jug of holy water he'd stashed in the back of the trunk, grabbing three smaller containers he could fill up. Next he grabbed three knives – each one with solid silver blades, blessed by a priest – dropping them next to the guns. Finally, he pulled out a spare duffel bag, thrusting everything he'd gathered into it and slamming the lid to the trunk.

When he got back to the kitchen, he saw that the kids had completed their task and were, he would guess, triple-checking what they'd done.

"Good," he said shortly. He tossed the duffel bag on the other end of the table. "Michael, do you have a coat with pockets, like this?" Dean held up his own weathered army jacket.

"Yeah."

"Go get it."

Michael left the room.

"Come here, Jake."

The boy obeyed.

"There are two boxes of shells in there. Split them into two piles. Each pile gets half of each kind of shell, got it?"

Jake nodded started to root through the bag as Dean turned his attention to the collection of ingredients on the table. He was in the middle of mixing things together when Michael returned. Dean held up a quieting hand when teenager started to ask a question. Rebuffed, Michael joined Jake at the duffel, pulling out the weapons with a faint air of trepidation. He cast an apprehensive look at the man at the table.

Quickly, Dean finished the concoction, tying up the final product in a leather sachet. He murmured a brief incantation as he pulled the cord tight. Picking up his jacket, he put the packet into one of the interior pockets, shrugging on the coat.

"Dean?"

The man turned to the boys seated on the floor.

"Where's your coat?"

Michael held up an old barn jacket, and Dean nodded his approval.

"Put it on."

As the boy struggled into the coat, Dean moved toward the kids, sitting suddenly next to Jake by the duffel. He pulled one of the piles of shotgun shells toward him.

"You see the red shells?" He held one up and both boys nodded. "Michael, fill one of your front pockets with just red shells."

The boy nodded, sorting through the piles while Dean did the same. Jake helped his brother, pulling out red shells and handing them over. Dean made a deliberate choice not to explain how the shells worked on spirits or corporeal entities.

"The green shell casings are a different kind of shell, OK? Fill your other pocket with those shells." Scooping up the remaining shells, they filled their second pockets.

"When we get there, I want you to use one of each shell to load the gun, Michael, you got it? And if you have to reload, one of each."

Michael nodded.

"The truth is, I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with. And you need to know that the shotgun blasts may not kill whatever it is. They'll slow 'em down, whatever they are, and they may kill 'em, but don't count on that. If you have to shoot, even if you get a square hit, run like hell, you got it?"

Both boys nodded again, eyes wide.

"I don't intend for you to have to use the gun, Michael. But you're going to be in charge of getting Sam and Tommy clear while I deal with what took them, and I want you to have it, just in case."

Dean knew that the boys had hunted with Luke and so understood gun safety and how to handle firearms. He didn't mean for Michael to have to fire at all, but he wasn't going to leave them unprotected.

He handed each boy a knife with its sheath. Again without explaining. They took them with uncertain looks, tucking them into the back waistbands of their jeans.

Finally, he pulled out the five gallon jug and smaller containers, taking them to the sink. He filled up each bottle, placing one in Michael's hand and one in Jake's.

"Holy water."

"For real?" Jake's voice cracked incredulously.

At Dean's look, Jake ducked his head.

"It's just so… Buffy the Vampire Slayer," he mumbled defensively.

Dean reached out a hand and squeezed Jake's neck, earning himself a surprised, achingly scared look. The boy edged closer, and Dean smiled wryly, rubbing a gentle hand over Jake's head.

"I know it sounds cheesy, but it works, OK?"

Jake nodded. "OK."

xxxx

Turning toward Tommy, the demon made its way across the room, ignoring Sam's attempts to catch its attention again, the boy's frantic scrambling.

With a wave of its hand, the ties around Tommy's wrists fell away and he gasped as his arms collapsed into his lap. The demon's hand shot out, circling the boy's neck and jerking him upright, twisting the child around and pulling him back against Potter's body. With one hand it grasped Tommy's chin, stretching the slim throat up and with the other it reached down pulling a knife out of its boot.

Sam strained frantically against his bonds, watching in horror as with one swift, fluid movement the demon brought the knife up and began its slash across the exposed skin of Tommy's throat.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Sam's scream of anguish reverberated in the narrow confines of the cellar, deafening him to the piercing cry of the demon itself as it was hurled backward across the room, colliding with a sickening crunch against the wall on the far side of the basement.

Sam pitched forward as the cords around his wrists came loose in the same instant, and gasping, Sam surged to his feet, too focused on getting at the demon to question his sudden freedom.

"Sam!"

"Tommy," he breathed, dropping to his knees, arms encircling the small the body that had hurled itself at him.

"Are you OK?"

Over Tommy's shoulder, Sam could see Potter at the base of the far wall, immobile. It took a beat for Sam to register what he'd just done, the power punching out of him uncontrolled again, fueled by panic and adrenaline. Sam tightened his grip on Tommy, his battered body start to shake in reaction.

He pushed Tommy back from him, examining the boy's neck, finding only a small nick on the fragile skin.

Tommy was trembling, and Sam asked again, voice breaking with urgency, "Are you OK?"

The boy nodded, pressing insistently back into Sam. "Yeah," he whispered.

Sam squeezed him hard one more time, eyes locked on the still form across the room.

"Let's get out of here."

xxxx

In the car, a heavy silence hung in the air. Dean sat in the passenger seat, working through a dozen different scenarios in his head, hoping on some level to have thought of everything before confronting Potter. As Michael had driven, Dean had read and reread and reread again the incantation in Bobby's book, committing it to memory fairly easily given the drills Dad had run with him and Sam when they'd been young.

Between the two of them, Michael and Jake had tried to give Dean an idea of the layout of the old cabin—entrances and exits, rooms, hallways. Evidently there was a cellar of some sort as well, and while the local kids often haunted the abandoned house, neither boy had ventured down into the basement. Creepy, Jake had said with a shudder.

Next to Dean, Michael sat still, eyes to the front, hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel of the Impala. Dean had let Michael drive, needing the time to concentrate on learning the spell and finalize plans; and Michael was the one who knew the way. Dean felt a certain regret that Michael's first chance to drive the car was this particular situation. But it was what it was.

Twisting toward the back, Dean could see the tension and anxiety radiating off Jake in jittery waves. The boy's knee bounced up and down, and even though he wasn't moving that much Jake gave the impression of a kid bouncing off the walls. Dean watched him narrowly for a couple of brief moments, concerned that Jake's nerves might turn into full-blown panic, making him useless for the task Dean needed him. Biting the inside of his cheek, Dean tried to figure out what might calm the boy down.

"Hey, Jakey?" Michael's voice, quiet beside him, startled Dean. "You know what I was thinking?" The teenager, still staring down the road, didn't turn toward the back or even glance in the rear view mirror.

There was no verbal response from Jake, but turning slightly, out of the corner of his eye Dean saw the younger boy's eyes focus on his brother.

"You remember that song from Vacation Bible School? The one Miss Maddie made us sing every summer?"

Again, there were no words from Jake, just a nodding of his head. Michael continued on as if he'd seen the slight motion.

"Put it on, put it on, the armor of God, everyday we need the armor of God, put on the armor of God." Michael spoke softly, not singing really, although Dean could hear the cadence of the music in the rhythm of the words. Dean eyes, which had turned toward Michael, shifted back to Jake, gauging the younger boy's reaction.

Jake didn't join in, but he was listening, eyes intent on the side of Michael's face visible from his vantage point. A sudden movement to his left returned Dean's attention to Michael, and he watched as Michael's right hand came off the steering wheel, motioning like he was putting on a hat.

"The helmet of salvation goes on your head," he whispered in sync with his movement, "So when the battle gets hard, you can stand," he put the arm awkwardly akimbo on his hip. "Use the sword of the Spirit," now he made a slashing movement with his hand.

Startled, Dean's eyes turned more fully back to Jake.

Dean wasn't exactly sure what he expected to see, but it hadn't been Jake's mesmerized attention on Michael. His serious expression was softened by the slight curve of his lips as he watched his older brother act out the simple children's song.

The look was one Dean recognized, but had never really seen before – slightly exasperated amusement and a kind of wondering awe that translated into an absolute, unwavering faith in its object.

It was the same expression Dean had seen on Sam's face from time to time over the years, and recognizing it for the first time, it made Dean's stomach ache in sharp remembrance and with the gnawing fear that he had betrayed that confidence when he'd failed to protect his brother from this demon.

Michael finished the song, hand motions and all.

"Therefore, take up the armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day. And having done everything stand firm."

Silence descended again, and Michael met his brother's eyes in the rear view mirror.

"Whatever happens, Jake, God is in control," he said.

Dean saw the tears start into Jake's eyes, but they didn't fall and the younger boy nodded, swallowing hard.

"Remember that, OK, Jakey? No matter what."

Jake nodded again, eyes still fixed on his older brother's in the reflction. "I know," he whispered.

Michael's head turned toward Dean and the slight smile on his face faded as his eyes caught Dean's for a brief moment before they sought out the horizon stretching out in front of them.

Behind him, Dean saw that Jake had settled, leaning his head back against the seat and turning his head to the left, the boy watched the scenery as it sped by.

When they arrived at the turn off for the Millers' place, Dean told Michael to cut the engine, letting the Impala roll to a stop just past the gate. Climbing out of the car, the three young men walked around to the trunk, pulling out the weapons and tools they would need for the mission.

"You know your jobs, right?" Dean asked it quietly, looking at each boy in turn.

Michael and Jake nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Get Sam and Tommy to safety; don't wait for me; get out. You got it?"

Again they nodded and they set out.

It was a half a mile from the road down to the house, and Dean kept up a pace that had the two boys behind him moving at an almost trot. As they closed in, Dean moved the hunting party off the road into the brush, crouched low until they reached border of hedges almost 20 yards from the house. Dean paused, letting Michael and Jake catch their breaths.

There was a dim light glowing from one of the windows and Dean pointed to it, eyes steely as he looked at Michael.

"Looks like you were right," he said, voice low.

As they circled the house, a beat up Oldsmobile crouched under some low-lying bushes.

"Recognize it?" Dean asked.

"Mrs. Potter's," Jake breathed.

Dean nodded in grim satisfaction. Good.

xxxx

Sam and Tommy were almost to the top of the stairs when they heard the demon howl, rage and frustration echoing around them as they scrambled up the wooden steps. Sam heard Tommy's terrified gasp, barely managing to swallow his own as he thrust the boy in front of him.

"Run!"

The stairs disgorged them into the kitchen, but Sam had no idea where to go from there. Any escape he might have hoped for out a back door was crushed by the sight of the tree that had fallen across the rear of the house, blocking the door, barricading the way.

"This way!" Tommy yelled.

In front of him, Sam saw Tommy dart to the right, racing toward what Sam could only hope would be the way to freedom.

Behind them, Sam could hear the pounding of footsteps on the stairs, chasing, relentless. As he ran after Tommy, Sam's mind desperately tried to come up with a game plan, knowing he probably shouldn't count on another random burst of adrenaline-fueled psychic power to save them.

But he had nothing.

Panting at the pain in his head and his chest, heedless of the debris on the floor and the damage being done to his bare feet, Sam stumbled after the smaller boy, propelled forward by the demon's cries behind him, growing louder as the entity gained on him.

xxxx

A bellow from the house rippled down Dean's spine, lodging in the pit of his stomach where it blossomed into the visceral, powerful "fight" reaction he depended on in these types of situations.

"Move," he commanded, starting to race toward the house. Behind him, Dean sensed rather than saw Michael and Jake, right behind him as he surged forward.

xxxx

Tommy was almost to the front door when Sam made his stand against the demon.

It was tooclosetooclosetooclose, sure to catchhim catchTommy if Sam didn't do somethinganything to distract the evil son of a bitch bearing down on him on them.

Tommy hesitated as he ran, sensing freedom, turning to check that Sam was there, meeting Sam's eyes for a brief instant.

"Go, Tommy, go," Sam yelled. "Don't look back!"

Tommy flinging himself forward, reaching for the knob, throwing the door open, Sam almost sobbing in relief as the boy's slight form disappeared out into the gray light.

Please….

And then Sam stopped running. Pivoting around to face the demon.

The demon, barreling around the corner, skidding as it slowed in surprise, might have been comic if Sam had been in the state of mind to appreciate it. Instead, he threw out a hand, commanding.

"Stop!"

The demon, wary after its earlier encounter with Sam's power, obeyed. Grudging.

It narrowed its eyes.

"Can you really control it, boy?" it asked softly.

Sam met the demon's black stare grimly.

"What do you think?" he asked, voice hard, not backing down.

"I think…," the demon said gently, "…not."

Sam felt a pressure like a hand around his throat, picking him up and hurling him into the wall across the room. Vaguely, he was aware that the grip on his neck hadn't slackened, pinning him against the rough boards, feet barely reaching the floor. He forced his eyes open, wretching, choking, pain and nausea almost defeating him as he sought out the demon.

Slowly, Potter's body made its way to him, shaking its head in mock pity.

That's right, you bastard, he thought. Come on.

xxxx

They'd just cleared the hedges when the door to the house in front of them banged open and a figure staggered out, down the steps of the porch, veering across the clearing, headed away from his rescuers.

Dean heard Michael gasp Tommy's name behind him, and Dean snapped, "Quiet," even as he altered his course, now running toward the boy.

"Tommy," he called it low, knowing it would carry in the stillness. Tommy whirled toward them, stumbling backward in fear before he recognized them.

Dean was still headed for Tommy when there was a scream from the cabin, and Dean felt the shock of recognition in his bones.

Sam.

"Sam!"

Tommy's answering cry rang with the sudden realization that the older boy wasn't with him, and to Dean's horror, the youngster began to run back toward the house.

"Tommy, no!" Both Dean and Michael said it at the same time, leaping forward, reaching out, trying to catch the boy.

But there was too big a gap between them, and by the time they caught up to the other boy, they were all running through the door of the cabin, Dean catching the collar of Tommy's shirt, and jerking the child back into the arms of his oldest brother.

Dean's own brother was stretched spread-eagle across the wall, his face contorted in an agony that tore into Dean; Sam, eyes pain-wracked and exhausted, only slowly registered the presence of his older brother. Dean.

The commotion at the door distracted the demon from Sam, dark eyes snapping to the three boys at the door and then to Dean.

"Well, well, well," it said. "Look who's here."

Dean wrenched his eyes from Sam's haggard face, and turned his attention, ice-cold and deadly, on the creature that held his brother.

"Yeah," he said. "The cavalry."

With a swift, underhand toss, Dean threw the satchel with the spell's ingredients at the demon, hitting it square in the chest, the carefully tied leather cord coming loose as Dean had intended, scattering the contents over and around Potter's possessed body.

Dean moved forward, reciting the incantation, sprinkling holy water as he chanted, and on a roar, the demon arched back, howling its protest as the spell trapped it, holding it in place, restricting its movement and its power. Panting, it glared at Dean, fists clenching and unclenching impotently.

Sam slid to the ground, hitting the floor with a muffled groan as the three boys by the door started to move toward him.

"Stay," Dean ordered, throwing out a hand, not willing to let them come any farther into the room for the moment.

"Sam," Tommy whispered, but he was held firmly in place by Michael, who clutched him close.

Breathing heavily, Dean pulled his father's journal out of an interior jacket pocket, and flipped it open, glancing down to make sure he'd found the correct page. His attention didn't leave the demon.

"Tommy, stay by the door, do you hear me?" he said.

"But…"

"No. Stay there," he said sharply. There was no answer, and Dean cut his eyes to the boy. "Do you understand me?" he asked again, voice harsh and impatient.

"Yes, sir." Almost a sob.

"Michael, Jake, go get Sam."

He could see the other two boys as they scrambled across the room to Sam's crumpled figure, lifting him carefully, maneuvering his long body awkwardly away. Dean could see that his brother was conscious, feet stumbling with the boys', trying to get himself upright. Michael and Jake got to the door, propping Sam against the jamb, waiting for their next instructions. Sam leaned heavily on Michael, eyes struggling to clear.

"Go. All of you." He wouldn't subject the boys to this.

"Dean…" Sam's weak whisper wasn't heard by anyone except his brother.

"I'll be right behind you, Sammy," he said gently.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the small group make its way carefully out of the house.

Dean kept his focus on the demon in front of him, gathering himself, giving Michael time to get everyone to a safer distance.

The demon stood without moving, hatred visible in the black eyes, directed at the man who controlled it.

"Let's get this finished," Dean said. And he started to read.

xxxx

"We can't leave him."

Sam was gasping for air, dragging himself between Michael and Jake as they tried to help him toward the car.

"Michael, we can't leave him," he repeated, his urgency causing his breath to come in pants.

They stumbled to a halt, Michael adjusting Sam's arm over his shoulders.

"Dean wanted us to get you away," he said uncertainly. "He told us to take you and Tommy and go. Not wait."

Sam grit his teeth. He was having a hard time getting his thoughts in order and wasn't sure he could put together a rational argument to sway Michael to his side.

So he just said it again, more desperately, "We can't leave him."

Sam saw Michael and Jake exchange glances.

Slowly, Michael nodded. "OK. What do I do?"

Sam swallowed hard. "What's the plan?"

"He found this … spell, I guess, that would bind the demon. And then he was going to exorcise it. He said there was something in your dad's notebook that would help."

A deep, shuddering breath as Sam thought.

"What do you have?"

"Shotguns with two different kinds of shells, knives, holy water."

Sam nodded, knowing the shells and the knives.

"OK. Take it all, but have the holy water out and ready to go. It'll slow the demon down if anything goes wrong, hurt it. If it gets lose, that might give Dean a chance…" Sam trailed off, breathing heavily.

Michael nodded. "I'll go."

Jake opened his mouth to protest, but Michael cut him off.

"You can't go, Jake. Tommy can't get Sam to the car on his own. You know that. And he can't drive." He dug in his pocket and produced the keys. "If we're not back at the car in an hour, go."

He dropped the keys into Jake's hand, clasping it briefly.

"OK, Jake? Get them to safety," he said softly, "and take care of Tommy."

Jake nodded tightly. "Be careful."

Easing out from under Sam's arm, Michael moved Tommy into his place.

"Jake's in charge, Tommy," he said seriously.

Wide-eyed, Tommy nodded.

At a run, Michael headed back to the house.

xxxx

The demon struggled against the ritual—like Meg had, like that bastard in the freaking plane had—thrashing against the psychic bonds, but held in place by the spell.

Dean recited the words in his father's journal, the Latin coming slowly, but surely, as the ritual worked powerfully against the evil thing in Gene Potter's body.

The first indication that something might be wrong was the sudden slide of Potter's foot across the floor, slipping the confines of the restrictions that had been placed around the demon itself.

The abrupt movement took Dean by surprise, and he began to read faster, trying not to stumble over the words, but nervous with the demon's increased freedom. The demon itself, empowered by the apparent loosening of its bindings, renewed its efforts.

"Worried, boy?" it chortled.

Dean felt a frisson of fear shudder through him as the demon's other foot seemed to come loose of the spell and Potter's body took a stuttering step toward him.

Taking a step back of his own, Dean could only read faster, desperately hoping that he would be finished before the spell lost its power completely.

A roar of triumph alerted Dean to the reality that he had failed, and he dropped his father's journal—open—at his feet just as a surge of power lifted him off his feet, slamming his body into yet another wall, confirming the depth of that failure.

Dean hit the wall with a teeth-shattering impact that left him momentarily stunned as he fell to the ground. But even as he frantically sucked in the breath that had been forced out of his lungs, he was moving, scrambling, legs and arms struggling to get him upright.

"Dean!"

Dean turned and the demon moved again, throwing Dean across the room.

Its back to Michael, intent on the other man, the demon missed the boy pulling out the flask of holy water. Uncapping the bottle, Michael threw the water at the demon and then staggered back in surprise when the demon screamed in agony, its skin smoking and boiling as it flailed and howled its rage.

"Does the pup want to be a part of this?" the demon ground out turning its attention to the teenager. "So be it."

Moving faster than Michael was able to react, the demon was on him, driving the startled boy to the ground, using blows of flesh and bone, fists pounding. Trapped under the weight of the demon, Michael was unable to fight back, taking blow after blow, stunned and hurting.

Fighting his way to his feet, Dean hurled himself at the demon, pausing just long enough to pick up the bottle of holy water Michael had dropped in the attack. Dean hit the demon solidly in the chest, knocking it back and off the younger man.

Michael rolled away, shaking and breathless, not sure what to do as Dean wrestled with the demon, dousing it with holy water and trying to subdue it. A few feet away, he saw the leather journal. Scrambling over, he picked it up.

Michael knew that the language was Latin. Dean had told them that much about the exorcism ritual, but Michael didn't know the meaning of the words themselves. He just knew that Dean had said that saying them, speaking the words aloud, had the power to send a demon back to hell.

The seventy returned with joy, saying, "Lord, even the demons are subject to us in Your name."

Hesitantly, Michael began to read. He started at the top of the left hand page, sounding out the words, stumbling over some, mis-pronouncing most. But he didn't stop, doggedly working his way down the page.

The demon faltered suddenly in Dean's grasp and Dean took quick advantage, exploiting the momentary weakness, managing to pin it firmly under him, knees digging into Potter's biceps as he poured holy water over the exposed chest and face. The demon continued to shriek and squirm, but Dean felt a subtle difference in the nature of the fight and he paused, off-guard and cautious. The demon panted where it was, confused, an odd, frightened look on its face.

To his right, Dean became aware of Michael's voice and he turned to see the boy, head down, reading steadily, horribly, in Latin from Dad's journal. Dean opened his mouth to tell the kid to cut it out when the demon began to shudder, a long, piercing scream echoing through the room, shocking Michael into momentary silence.

Dean's eyes went from the heaving, panicked demon to the white-faced boy holding the worn leather journal and back again.

Holy crap.

"Keep reading," he commanded.

Michael's eyes cut to Dean and then to Potter.

"Michael. Now!"

The younger man jumped and obeyed, and Dean held on tight as the demon in Potter began to fight in earnest, weakened though it was by the holy water and the influence of the exorcism. It was still a battle that Dean wasn't always positive he was going to win.

"Good, Michael, good!"

Dean could feel the fight seeping out of the demon. Michael, eyes round in wonder, read with more and more conviction as the effects of the exorcism began to take their toll on the demon.

Finally, Michael read the closing words of the ritual and the two men cringed away from the black entity that poured out of Gene Potter's mouth as it opened in one last scream of protest.

The sudden silence in the house was oppressive.

Michael blinked at Dean.

"Is it over?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean said hoarsely. "I think it is."

He rolled off Gene Potter. Reaching out a shaking hand, he felt for a pulse.

"He's still alive," he acknowledged softly.

Michael nodded dumbly.

Dean climbed shakily to his feet and stood for a moment, waiting until he regained his equilibrium. Reaching out, he took the journal out of Michael's trembling fingers. Taking the boy by the elbow he gently turned him toward the door.

"Let's go."

xxxx