Warnings: Lots of talking so language warning. Other than that, amateur psycho-babble.


Chapter 6: Rinse, Spin and Repeat

Sheriff Jody Mills of Willett, just west of us, is denying that dead cows discovered over the last three days
were mutilated as part of a ritual performed by cultists to either hold off or call forth Armageddon.
I can't believe people actually asked her that question, I mean, really…
Everyone should know it's not a fight between Heaven and Hell; it's the Zombie Apocalypse!

"What else can you tell me about Hell?"

They were lying in Vera's bed with Vera draped almost on top of Dean since she couldn't put any weight on her back yet. He rubbed light fingers over her back, careful of the butterfly bandages and the ointment. He'd have to remember to stock up the Impala's first aid kit before Sam saw it.

"You really want to talk about Hell now? Again?"

They were both damp from the shower and wrung out from the sex and the memories and Dean could understand why she was looking at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was, but he had to know. It was like he was ten and his tooth had just fallen out and it hurt but he had to keep poking his tongue into the gaping wound. He nodded.

"Surprisingly, I don't remember where we left off," she said as she tucked her head back down onto his chest. She yawned and rubbed her cheek against his skin.

Dean chuckled and gave the top of her head a gentle kiss. "Being adopted by a tougher demon or something."

"Right," she said, her voice sleepy and dragging "So it's like a mentor-apprentice thing. If a demon takes a liking to you they'll ask you to join up. Normal souls generally don't get asked because they have no unique talents or skills; just ordinary people having lived ordinary not-nice lives." She rubbed a lazy hand over his chest, petting him like he was precious. "That was me. I was never asked because I had nothing any demon wanted. 'Drunk and stupid is no way to get through life'," she muttered but Dean hardly heard her.

"They ask; you say yes, and you become a demon?" Dean said, low-voiced with horror. He remembered saying yes. He remembered reaching out his hand for the knife and cutting up his first poor soul.

Vera was shaking her head. She ran soothing hands over him. "Saying yes just started the process," she said. "Oaths, rites and other rituals, nasty ones too. If you survived those, then you were a demon. But you'd still be traded away whenever your 'mentor' got a better offer. I actually think being a low level demon was worse than being a damned soul because they couldn't disintegrate or repent. No forgiveness or escaping from Hell for them. On the bottom for the rest of eternity."

"I didn't do anything like that," Dean said, still stuck on saying yes and becoming a demon.

"They wouldn't have let you," Vera responded sleepily. "From what I heard, they needed you righteous and you can't be a demon and be righteous. The two are somewhat mutually exclusive."

...When we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester...

He could hear that smarmy, nasal voice. He'd know it anywhere, whatever meat suit Alistair was riding, the voice remained the same.

This time Vera reacted to Dean's sudden tension by lifting her head. "What?"

Dean was staring at her, green eyes hard and flat in the dim light. "How do you know that? That they had a purpose for me," he demanded. He knew, even as he said it, that his voice was too harsh. It was his 'I'm going to kill you' voice. He just had to hope that Vera was too well trained to want to scream and run away.

She was. She swallowed and her voice was shaky, but she responded to his command. "The guards gossiped all the time and I mean all the time. And they didn't care if we heard them because what could we do? We couldn't get out of Hell and warn anybody." She looked at Dean, waiting to see if that was okay. He nodded and she let out a breath. He put his hand on the back of her head, encouraging her to lie back down; trying to reassure her that he wasn't going to hurt her; trying to forget the voice that haunted his memories.

...Dean, Dean, Dean... I am so disappointed. You had such promise...

"Go on," he murmured; anything to drown out that voice.

"All they talked about was 'The Plan'. They compared Azazel's handling of it to Lilith's, critiquing it like armchair quarterbacks discuss the Superbowl. The only thing they talked about more was their sex lives. Standing in the checkout lane kind of reminds me of them," she snorted in amusement but Dean didn't join in. No way could he picture any of the demons he'd met cooing over pictures of Brangelina's kids, except as possible appetisers.

"It started with your father—the first time I ever heard about The Plan, I mean—but according to the guards, Alistair screwed up and broke him and the high-ups freaked."

...same offer I made you. I'd put down my blade if he picked one up...

"Dad didn't break," Dean said flatly. "He would never break."

"Of course he broke. Everybody breaks," Vera responded sleepily matter of fact, "Lilith made him do research on brainwashing and coercion and stuff so he wouldn't make the same mistakes with you—"

"He never broke," Dean repeated, "Alistair—"

"It was torture and he shattered."

Dean tensed and she lifted herself to look down at him. He looked away, rejecting what she said.

She flopped back down on his chest, forcing an 'oof' out of him. "Read up on it. God knows I did," she muttered. "Everybody breaks. It's not a bad thing. In your dad's case, it actually a worked out pretty good." Dean glared at her but she wasn't looking so she didn't back down. "After that happened, they couldn't really touch couldn't hold his soul together long enough to do whatever it was they wanted him to do, and they couldn't put him back on the table for the same reason. It was a good thing," she repeated, "It let him survive as mostly himself, I think."

...John, he was made of something unique: the stuff of heroes...

This was... wrong, terribly wrong and a lie. His dad hadn't broken, he wouldn't. Except that he only had Alistair's word that he hadn't and demons lied, he knew that... He'd never questioned what Alistair had told him that day, that day he'd had him in the devil's trap torturing him for the angels, the lying dicks.

Suddenly Dean felt like he had ants crawling under his skin, gnawing on his hair follicles or something. He couldn't breathe. She was too heavy... and she was probably looking at him funny and he just... couldn't anymore. "I have to go."

"You have to..." Vera lifted herself once more, wincing slightly when the action pulled at the cuts. Dean didn't know what she saw in his face, he used to think he had a pretty good poker face, but whatever she was able to read make her stop whatever she was going to say. "Okay," she nodded gently. "Sure. I'll see you to the door." She started the slow process of getting out of bed.

"You don't have to." Actually he didn't want her to because she'd probably want to do small talk or make arrangements to get together again. Maybe she'd ask him to cut her again. Dean wanted to puke.

"Yeah, I do. Alarm remember?"

He hadn't remembered... he hadn't remembered anything.

...John Winchester. Made a good name for himself. A hundred years...

He reached over for his pants and dragged them on. Okay, Dean told himself, he could do this. He could act normal and sane and not like an evil torturer or someone with 'daddy issues'. Meg used to toss that phrase at him a lot, back when she was taunting him in Hell, in between Alistair's sessions. Funny, he'd nearly forgotten the black-eyed bitch used to come around, sticking things into his open wounds and twisting just for fun.

His boots were in the kitchen, along with his socks and most of his shirts. And the first-aid kit he'd brought in from the car. His coat and his weapons; he had to get them too.

Mercifully, Vera remained silent as he gathered up his gear and got ready to leave.

"We'll, you know, be in touch if we have any more questions," he said because they might have to if she was at the center of what they were investigating. He'd let Sam do the talking next time, that might be a good idea. Probably was a good idea considering where this little 'talk' had ended up.

He'd fucking cut her. Cut her so that he could see the blood run just like he'd done in Hell. Even if his father had broken in Hell, he sure wouldn't be proud of his oldest now... not that he'd ever said the was proud, at least not very often, and now Dean had proven him right, proven them all right; Alistair, Ruby, Uriel... Anna who'd burned right in front of him...

"Hey!" Vera called Dean back to the present. She tapped his cheek. "Are you up to driving? I mean, seriously, because I can call a cab." She'd turned the light on in the entrance way. There was nowhere to hide.

"Of course I can fucking drive; I'm not twelve," he snapped back.

"No, but you are glassy-eyed and incoherent." She peered at him in concern. "Maybe you should have a glass of juice before you go." Vera shuffled into the kitchen before he could stop her.

"I don't need any juice," he protested, following her into the scene of his crime. She already had it poured and was holding out the glass for him to drink. He took it, "Fine," and gulped it down. "Happy now?"

"Pretty much," she gave him a soft smile and put the glass on the counter. Then she reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled. He rocked forward a little but otherwise, didn't budge. "You're not evil, Dean. You may be fucked up in a lot of ways, but that's not one of them," she said firmly, staring at him. It kind of reminded him of the 'you're not a monster' speeches he used to give Sammy.

"And you're not a lesser man than your father was," she went on, "You're just you and that's good enough for me."

Dean ducked his head and looked away. He knew it was a tell even as he did it and he knew this woman would pick up on it. She didn't say anything though, just sighed then leaned up and gave him a soft kiss. "Drive safely okay?" she said before releasing him.

He just stared, uncertain of what had just happened. If this had been Sam then there's no way the conversation would've ended there. "That's it?" he asked then could've kicked himself. Did he want to have a huge chick-flick moment? Vera smiled, bright and sharp, and Dean figured that his face had given away his thoughts just fine, thank you very much.

"I'm not family, Dean. We shared something, something I'm going to remember fondly, but that doesn't give me the right to pry," she said. "If we ever do this again," she twirled her finger vaguely indicating the both of them and the kitchen and the bedroom—all of it, everything, "then maybe it'll be almost a relationship type thing. Maybe then, but not now."

"Most people would ask," Dean pointed out.

She smiled again, more sadly this time, "Maybe I don't need your pain added to mine." Dean opened his mouth but she put a finger on it. "Go home. Talk to your brother if you want. If anyone deserves to know, he does."

Dean snorted. He was so not having this conversation with his brother. Sam didn't need the extra weight when he had all this other stuff riding his ass. But it was an exit line and he was taking it. He didn't even wait for the door to close before he was running down the stairs two and three at a time.

That was The Dirty Hoe, a guide to organic gardening with Capability Brown,
with tips on prepping your garden when the weather's so weird.
At least it's finally promising to warm up, melt some of that snow.
So now we can look forward to flooded basements and mud up to our knees.
Ah, spring in South Dakota…

Sam was considering trying that sleep thing again when he heard the Impala's distinctive rumble. He glanced at the clock on Bobby's microwave: 3:17. Only two more hours until he needed to be at work... joy. He got up, poured himself another glass of juice and chugged it as Dean entered Bobby's kitchen.

"Little early for a beer, isn't it Sammy?" The tease was perfunctory but Sam still rolled his eyes.

"It's juice," he responded, "Want some?" He wasn't surprised when Dean made a face. Sam couldn't remember how old they'd been, but he could remember his brother getting violently ill after drinking a carton of juice that had started to ferment. Now the older Winchester had to be feeling really shitty before he'd touch the stuff.

Dean moved to the coffee pot and got it started instead. "Why aren't you in bed," he asked, "Having a rough night?"

Sam stared into his empty glass, debating, but Dean had a right to know, "Dreams."

"As in 'fallen angels are invading my brain' dreams?"

Sam chuckled in bleak humour, "Yeah, like that."

"He's really pushing you, isn't he," Dean's voice was as gentle and understanding as it ever got.

For some reason Sam felt like he was being handled... like Dean was afraid he'd go Dark Side again or something, and the anger, never far from the surface, flared up again. "Don't worry. I'm not going to say yes," he snapped.

"Dude, that's not—"

"I know I let you down," Sam interrupted him, "but it's not going to happen again."

Dean frowned, "We've already been over the killing Lilith thing."

Sam shook his head. "Not Lilith...or, or Ruby. Just now; Famine and...the demon blood thing. And using those...my powers again." He swallowed down his anger and forced the words out, "I know I disappointed you... and I'm sorry."

Dean stared at him. "You didn't disappoint me, Sam. You saved me. And Cas."

"Yeah right you're not disappointed," he scoffed. "I saw how you looked at me. How scared you were... of me. Afraid I was turning into a monster again." Sam stared at his brother, jaw clenched, ready for the blow.

Dean shook his head but stared back steadily; his way of trying to let Sam know just how serious he was. "No, not of you, I mean you were freaking scary but that's not really it. I was scared for you. You took out five demons—"

"Four," Sam corrected.

Dean waved it away, "Whatever. Four demons and Famine. Dude, you took out a fucking Horseman...with your mind.

Sam could feel his jaw tighten. "I know; I could so I did."

"Exactly," Dean agreed which wasn't what Sam had expected, "And that was with just two demons. Imagine what you'd've been capable of if you'd taken Famine up on his offer of more?" This time Sam looked away because Dean's eyes weren't accusing, they were sad and scared and worried and all those emotions were for him.

Dean wasn't finished, "Lucifer is never going to stop chasing you. You could turn into the world's biggest pacifist—the freaking Dalai Lama or the Love Guru or some shit like that—and he isn't ever going to leave you alone." He stopped but the burbling coffee filled the silence. "I know you're working on a way to get rid of your anger—meditating for God's sake—but will it work?"

Sam hunched a defensive shoulder but stayed quiet. How could he know? It's not like this stuff came with a manual.

Dean sighed. "Anger has always been your weak spot, Sam. Even as a kid you were always raging about something, injustices and slights, just waiting to vent all your frustration on someone—usually me," Dean bitched with a faint smile but Sam didn't smile back. Instead he glared at Dean who sighed. "What I'm afraid of is that Lucifer will pick a moment when you're angry enough you'd say yes to just about anything as long as you got some pay back."

"Like I did with Ruby and Lilith," Sam had to clarify.

"I guess," Dean looked away but tried to cover it by getting down a mug and pouring himself some coffee. "It's just that, if Lucifer ever manages to turn you—"

"He won't." Sam tried to reassure Dean but the older hunter just shook his head.

"When you walked into that restaurant, covered in demon blood, you were so calm and confident... You were filled with so much power that the place vibrated with it..." Dean stopped and stared into his coffee. "He's not going to stop trying, Sam. You're everything he could want."

Silence filled the kitchen. The fridge hummed and a clock ticked, but there wasn't even the coffee pot to cover up the quiet... until Sam laughed. Dean looked up at him in question.

"That has got to be the weirdest compliment anyone has ever received." A reluctant smile lifted one side of his brother's mouth and Sam cherished it. Peace offering accepted.

"I suppose," Dean agreed, "Doesn't make it any less frightening though."

"Not really," Sam shrugged, "which is why I'm down here instead of upstairs in bed... not sleeping."

"Well, in that case, geek-boy. I may have some intel for you regarding Vera's true identity."

"Really?" When Dean nodded Sam grabbed his own cup of coffee and sat down by his laptop. It was Dean's version of a peace offering and Sam snapped it up. "What did you learn?"

"Vera was in the Pit sometime before 2004." Dean said. "She mentioned a name, Bobby Frank Cherry—"

"Who?" Sam interrupted even as he typed the name into Google.

"He was one of the guys convicted of bombing the Baptist church in Birmingham in the early 60's killing a bunch of black kids. He died in 2004." Sam stared at his brother in shock. Dean shrugged. "Cassie told me about it." And Sam remembered there were four years of his brother's life that he knew practically nothing about. He'd been in love with Cassie but she hadn't been able to deal with Dean's job. After all this time, she was another sore spot that was never, ever discussed.

"How did his name get worked into the conversation?" Sam asked because he was having a hard time figuring that one out.

"She used him as an example of what kind of human gets turned into a demon. When Cherry descended, or whatever, he got snapped up right away and recruited. Apparently, that's not standard practice."

"What is standard practice... and that sounds like a really stupid phrase to be applying to Hell." Dean smirked in agreement as he poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he began to talk.

Listening to Dean explain what he'd learned about Hell's hierarchy from the woman in Vera's body, Sam realized he'd never really asked Ruby about Hell: how it was structured and what kind of internal politics it had. He'd known her for two years and Dean had found out more from a woman he'd only known for two days.

In his own defence, he had brought it up once but Ruby had made it seem so difficult to explain, so painful to remember, that he'd backed off and never asked again. If he hadn't been so blinded by his desire for revenge, maybe he would've forced it but it hadn't seemed important enough to justify hurting her like that.

But blood oaths and rituals meant she hadn't just 'slid' into being a demon like she'd said. It hadn't been just a matter of forgetting her humanity. No, she'd chosen it, worked for it... fucking earned it. Ruby had manipulated his ass so hard… He swallowed a disgusted sound—such a fucking gullible idiot.

"Sounds like Vera was down there a long time," he said when his brother finished. "Do you really think she's still human?"

Dean snorted, "I doubt she's fully human, she's reanimating someone else's body, but she's not a demon."

Sam wasn't so sure. "Lilith and Alistair were able to shrug off holy water," he pointed out.

"But not Christus," Dean countered. "And not salt. Those always had an effect."

"Salt?" Sam frowned, "When'd you get a chance to try salt on her?"

Dean shifted his position a little. "Salt water," he cleared his throat, "I used salt water."

"Not as effective as pure salt but okay," Sam conceded. "Still doesn't explain why. Did she do something to make you suspicious?" he asked. "What did she do?"

Dean cleared his throat again and turned away. "Nothing, she did nothing." He was covering up something.

"What was it, Dean," Sam pressed.

Dean turned back to him, fake little smile in place. "Just cleaning some wounds."

"With salt water?" Sam was horrified. "That must have hurt like a bitch."

The other hunter shifted his weight again. "But her eyes didn't turn black, so..." He cleared his throat again. "Anyway, I think I'm going to call it a night... or maybe a morning. Time to rack out."

And it clicked. Sam knew why Dean had been shuffling his feet like a naughty schoolboy. "You slept with her." It wasn't a question. "A possible evil entity, certainly a supernatural one, and you had sex with her. How could you be so stupid?"

Dean's face shut down. "Pot and kettle, little brother," he snapped back and Sam flinched like he'd been slapped.

The conversation was over and whatever rapport they'd rediscovered was gone once again. Sam said nothing as Dean emptied his cup into the sink and stalked out of the room. He listened to his brother's light tread on the stairs, tracking his movements by the creaking of the floor: bedroom, bathroom then back to bed. He listened and tried to ignore the rage that had risen up inside him, just as he tried to ignore the urge to toss his laptop against the wall.

This had to stop. Tomorrow, or rather later today, he'd talk to Dave the meditation instructor, and find a way to fix this.

Everyone's talking about the end of the world... again.
Today it's the biblical Apocalypse. Tomorrow it's the Nazca calendar.
Hello people! Doesn't anyone remember just ten years ago? Y2K, ring any bells?
Why does anyone think this 'end of the world' is going to be any more real than the last one?
Puh-leese! It's going to sputter and die, and nothing will have changed.

Sam had been surprised when the meditation instructor had turned out to be a guy. Then he'd mentally slapped himself for the gender stereo-typing going on in his brain. After all, he was going to meditation and he was a guy. And he wasn't the only male attending these sessions; there were usually about five men sitting on the mats listening to their own breathing. Sam breathed right along with them. He did the gentle stretching and visualized his anger and tension as a river flowing through him and out of him replacing them with unicorns and rainbows... He controlled his sneer. At least they didn't chant ohm.

It wasn't that it didn't help him relax—it did. It was just that it wasn't actually helping him get rid of his anger, that roiling pit of rage that was his own bit of Hellfire. Whatever tension he dispersed during the exercises came crashing back once they were finished because the pit wasn't any smaller, the lid wasn't any tighter and he felt the same as when they'd fucking started!

Today wasn't any different. It was okay when he was actually doing this stuff; Dad's training, Dean's training...even Ruby's had all taught him how to focus completely on the task at hand. It was actually nice to have one thing to think about even if it was, you know, his breathing but once the session was over reality came crashing back in. Today he had the added bonus of remembering last night's dream, and the fight with Dean just to add that extra bit of suckage he needed to his life.

He'd already decided to talk to the instructor so, when the session was over, he waited until most of the people had left, spending the time picking up the extra mats and stacking them on the side like a good employee.

"Hey Dave, can I speak to you for a sec?" Sam realized he'd automatically hunched over a little, trying not to intimidate or maybe just get them closer to eye level. Dave wasn't even six feet and it made Sam feel like King Kong. Dave didn't even seem to notice. He just looked up at him inquiringly and said 'sure'.

Now it sounded stupid but Sam pushed it out anyway. "Is there any way to speed up the process?" The inquiring look changed to one of confusion. "I mean, using this stuff to get rid of your anger. Are there any tricks to help," he shrugged, squirmed really, "make it go faster?"

Dave sort of chuckled at little. He settled a hip on the low shelving unit where the incense smoked and the water ball trickled and a little Buddha sat and smiled serenely at the world. "There are no shortcuts, Sam, no tricks."

"What?" He really didn't need to hear that. Didn't need to, didn't want to.

"This isn't like a get rich quick scheme. It's a lifestyle change and those take time to have an effect." Dave looked at him in understanding. "Not what you wanted to hear?"

"Not even close," Sam admitted. "I need..." he started but he did need help so this was no time to be a pussy. "I have so much rage inside of me sometimes, all the time," he corrected, "and I'm afraid if I can't get rid of some of it, I'm going to seriously hurt someone." Like the whole world starting with his brother.

"Well that's a legitimate fear and it's good that you're being proactive in confronting your anger, but meditation won't get rid of it for you. It won't even help you control it, not in the sense most people mean of control i.e. keep it bottled in. What it will do, is give you the tools to manage it."

Sam laughed, "You sound like a counsellor's for someone with a terminal illness."

Dave smiled back, "You're actually not that far off base. Anger is something you have to deal with your whole life. Some people have more of it than others but, however much you experience, it never leaves you and it's never far away, just like someone dealing with a major illness."

This wasn't what Sam wanted to hear—really, really not. He took a breath, looking up to the ceiling and away from Dave. He crossed his arms to keep them still.

"You feel like hitting me or hitting something right now, don't you?" It wasn't really a question.

Another breath, "Yeah, I do," Sam admitted. "It just rises up out of nowhere. I can't control it. I don't even know where it comes from!" Although he had a pretty good idea where a lot of it came from, he was not going into demon's blood and the Apocalypse with a Middle American self-help guru.

"It doesn't matter where it comes from," Dave said, "What matters is that the anger is yours now." Sam was already shaking his head, rejecting it. "You have to take ownership of your feelings, Sam, good and bad, before you can ever hope to get a handle on them. You can recognize that certain events and people have had an effect on you and your emotions but you also have to recognize that they are your emotions. You decide when and how much you're going to let them control your actions."

Sam was frowning, "That's backwards."

"Is it?" Dave's eyebrows were up. "You're at the express check-out and the lady in front of you has a more items than she's supposed to plus she's arguing with the cashier over an expired coupon. It makes you angry that people can't understand the simplest, most obvious things." He looked at Sam to confirm he was following the scenario. Sam nodded because it was annoying when that happened. "So do you hit her?"

"What? No!" Sam answered.

"But you kind of want to, don't you," Dave continues, "You'd like to punch her stupid fat face in because she's there, in front of you, and she's an idiot that's making your life more miserable than it needs to be."

"I don't feel like that," Sam protested automatically.

"Really? Or do you believe that you shouldn't feel that way because it's not 'nice' or 'polite'. Or that thinking that way makes you somehow an evil person." Sam couldn't help it, he flinched. Dave gave him a sympathetic look. "Every time you deny your emotions, you are rejecting a part of yourself. You're shoving the so-called ugly bits of yourself into a closet until the door bulges and groans under the strain. One day, it will burst open and all of the emotions you've been denying will come flying out and bury you—you, your family, your friends."

"I'm not going to punch the lady at the counter," he said firmly.

"No, you're not," Dave agreed, "What you're going to do is acknowledge that you're angry at her, accept that it's your anger, and then decide what you're going to do about it."

"But that doesn't get rid of the anger," Sam pointed out.

"Do you need to? Or do you need to learn how to think through it, think beyond it?" Sam looked away because, yeah, half the time when the anger took control of him he didn't think clearly.

"Anger isn't bad," Dave said, "In its milder forms we'd call it aggression, which we like in our pro-sports stars, or determination, which we encourage for success in business. It's all in how it's applied. Love can lead to obsession and murder, just like anger, but nobody says love's bad."

"'There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so'?"

Dave snorted, "Exactly. Shakespeare got it right again."

Sam stood, looking at the twisting smoke of the incense, listening to the gentle murmur of the water, and thinking about the things Dave had said. He wanted there to be some quick fix, like have an angel come down and zap his anger away and tell him it was all Azazel's fault; that really, under all the demon's blood that had been forced into him, he was a kind, gentle soul and always would be.

"So what you're saying is that this anger—my anger—feels out of control because I don't want ownership of it."

Dave nodded, "That's essentially it."

"And it's that easy?" No fucking way was it that easy.

"It's not that easy," Dave laughed, "It's that simple but it's not easy. It's being aware, every minute of every day, of what you're thinking, what you're feeling. Monitoring yourself for triggers and habits that contribute to your lack of control and changing them. I've been doing this for more than fifteen years and I still need to step back at times and decide not to punch the lady at the counter."

"You?" Sam asked, frowning. Dave was one of the most peaceful, calm persons he'd met. No way did he have anger issues. "No way."

"Uncontrollable rages, getting into fights, punching things; the whole sh-bang," Dave confirmed. "I had an excuse; a messy childhood. It let me justify a lot when I was a kid or on my own but then I got married and took on the role of a responsible adult; became a father. Guess who I took most of my anger out on?" Sam's mouth opened but nothing came out. Dave still nodded knowing Sam had guessed right, "My family."

"What made you decide to get help?" Sam asked.

Dave shrugged, "The Court ordered me into counselling and various treatments, including meditation, but it was my daughter, looking up at me from where she was kneeling in her mother's blood and calling me a monster, that made me decide to stick to something. My dad was the monster, not me, never me. I was an abused child so I couldn't be the monster. It was like a rule. Except to her I was."

"I don't want to be a monster either." It was a bleak statement.

Dave patted his arm, "And every time you don't punch the lady you take one step farther away from becoming one." He got up and headed toward the door. Sam just stood and watched.

"The longest journey begins with a single step." Self help platitude, Sam wondered, or ancient wisdom rediscovered?

"Lao-tzu," Dave nodded in recognition. "It doesn't work for everyone but maybe it will help you fight your demons."

It was just as well Dave closed the door when he left or else he would've wondered why Sam was laughing his head off.

In keeping with all the monster stories going around, Annie and I went and saw The Wolfman.
All we can say is don't bother. –It was really dumb and it didn't even have any hot guys to look at.
If you want good action—and cute guys—you'd be better off rewatching Transformers or the Pirates of the Caribbean
—first ones only though—yeah, the sequels were pretty meh.
This is Annie—and Katie—with your Thumbnail Movie Review for March 11th.

For people with clean homes, clean cars, and clean offices, the members of the Wellness Center sure could be pigs, Sam thought as he put on the gloves to, once again, clean out the toilet stalls. The used towels that were left on the benches rather than tossed into the laundry bag were annoying but expected. The used condoms and empty KY containers? Not so much. And it wasn't just in the guys' side. He found this kind of stuff in the ladies' room as well, which was completely eye-opening. He'd lived with Jess for over a year, had been forced to listen in on her and her friends talking about things that no man should ever have to know about their girlfriend—he'd had sex with a demon for god's sake—so he'd kind of thought that nothing could shock him.

He'd been wrong.

"Sam," said a voice from behind him, "Sam Winchester."

He spun around. "Mitzy," he said in cautious acknowledgement. Her voice was soft and female but not flirty and bubbly which was her usual tone. "Where's Cliff?" He figured this was another one of the weird 'make'em jealous' games that the pair liked to play on each other.

"He's not here right now. It's just you and me." She smiled but the smile was absolutely misdirected because that was the smile she used on her boyfriend who was about 400 pounds of muscle and who was, despite the stupid little games they played, the centre of her world.

"What's going on?" He was already cataloguing the many ways this could go very, very wrong up to and including Cliff snapping his spine like a toothpick then Mitzy's eyes went black. Fucking shit!

"I saw you through the window and couldn't believe it was actually you: Sam Winchester, the Vessel." It took a step closer. "I wanted to speak to you. I had to speak to you..."

"You're not Mitzy," Sam said which was both stupid and obvious but he had to stall. They'd found him which meant it wouldn't take long for Lucifer to come calling. Shitshitshit. He had no weapons, not even holy water or a rosary.

"I want to work for you," it said pleadingly as it ran Mitzy's delicate hands over her generous figure. "I'll do anything, anything you need..."

Sam realized that this demon wasn't a hunter; it was another fucking Ruby who wanted to be First VP when Sam said yes to Lucifer. He stopped moving away from it. "You want to work for me?"

It moved Mitzy's body closer, looking up at him with huge eyes. It reached for his left hand and he let it grab hold. "Yes, of course, I want to work for you—everyone does. When you accept your destiny it will be glorious."

Sam wanted to puke so bad...

"Christus," he said and the demon flinched. Sam used the moment to get his arm around the thing's neck. He couldn't squeeze too hard because there was a chance that Mitzy was still alive in there. "Exorcizamus te, omnis—"

The thing inside Mitzy yowled and squirmed as Sam continued with the exorcism. He'd figured out some shortcuts for the ritual in the year he'd let Ruby lead him around by his... well, nose wasn't quite right but it would do. Certain words were essential, but not all of them, and when he added a dash of demon power, an exorcism could be done in half the time it took a normal person. He may not be all hopped up on demon's blood anymore, but he wasn't normal, not since he'd drunk all the demon from that nurse—whose name he should remember but couldn't. It had changed him permanently so he could still give the demon inside Mitzy the push it needed to get out of the bubble-headed receptionist quicker than normal. "...divini Agni sanguine redemptis."

The demon poured out of Mitzy's mouth in a screeching cloud. Escaped, not dead, not even sent back to Hell.

Part of him felt cheated, wanted to feel the triumph of obliterating his enemy and he was supposed to be safe here, protected, hidden. Away from the demons that tempted him to be someone other than himself. He could feel his arm tightening around the girl's delicate throat because he blamed her for destroying his break from reality. It was the darkest, angriest part of himself that Sam routinely called Dark Sam so he could distance himself from it. It wasn't him...

"You have to take ownership of your feelings, Sam," he heard Dave's voice.

Oh shit...

The rage cleared from his mind. He took deep breath. Mitzy was whimpering and clutching at his arm. She was freaking tiny in his grip. He loosened his arm and she took a gulp of air. "Mitzy?" he asked, not knowing what the question really was.

"Sam? Oh my god!" she cried, "What was that? That thing was inside me! I was so angry because Cliff wasn't looking at my new shoes and then there was this black inky stuff surrounding me and then I was tossing him across the room and I laughed when he didn't get up. Oh god, what if I killed Cliff?" she cried and it was wet and sloppy and not the delicate, flirty tears she was known for

"It's okay, shh...shh," he soothed, or tried to—not much he could do to make her feel better. "We're gonna call Cliff, find out if he's okay. No point in panicking before we know for sure, right?" Mitzy nodded and swallowed and began to get her tears under control.

"It's okay, Mitzy," Sam said uselessly, "It wasn't you." He helped her to the break room where her cell phone was ringing and buzzing.

She ran over to it and picked it up like it held the mysteries to the universe. "It's him!" She lifted it to her ear, "Baby, you okay?" Sam was completely forgotten as the two lost themselves in reassurances and cooing, as if the whole thing had been just another one of their games. He wondered how long it would take before the two of them developed a 'completely logical explanation' for how five-foot-four-Mitzy could take out six-foot-eight Cliff.

The human mind had an amazing capacity to rationalize away the unacceptable.

This brought his conversation with Dave back because, the way Sam had blamed something else inside him for the desire to just kill Mitzy and be done with it, was exactly what the instructor had been talking about. How Sam rationalized his emotions so that he didn't have to admit to them. Except that, in this instance, he would've been the one to kill little Mitzy. Not Dark Sam, his evil alter-ego created by Azazel and nurtured by Ruby. Sam Winchester who was supposed to be one of the good guys.

It was like he was a kid, standing next to the broken cookie jar and saying 'it wasn't me; I didn't do it'. As if saying it made it true...

All the hurtful, hateful, petty things he'd done in his life where he'd blamed somebody else...and there were lots he could think of starting with not calling Dean from Palo Alto to leaving him on that hotel floor while he ran off with Ruby to kill Lilith. Not his fault, they'd pushed him, made him, changed him... If they hadn't done/said 'X' then he wouldn't have done/said 'Y' so it was their fault that he was who, or what, he was today.

Except that he'd had choices...there were always choices, just like Dave had said. He'd also said that changing the 'not me' habit wasn't easy and, if this little episode was an example, the guy was right.

Shit...

He gave his temples a hard rub as if that would help him deal with the realization of just how hard this was going to be. He heard the boss calling his name and suddenly remembered the half-cleaned change room. He went back to finish his job and if the Serenity Prayer ran through his mind in time with the swishing of the toilet brush only he had to know.