The story continues as Abacad contemplates getting revenge on Dean, Crowley reveals his inner grammar Nazi and we finally meet Sandeep, the doctor's husband.


"Out, damned spot – out I say!" ~ Lady MacBeth, Act 5, Scene 1


"I know the drill here," sighed the summoned demon standing in the Devil's Trap. "You want me to spill my guts about demon killing."

"Nope," replied Cole casually, "this here is an experiment. You're going to suffer for science" He folded his arms and leaned against the corrugated metal wall of the storage container. "Ain't that noble?"

"Why do you say 'in-wo-cado'?" sneered the demon. "Are you Russian or something?"

Cole looked at Luke, who made a face. "That's what my textbook said the pronunciation was like," offered the boy. "Is Classical Latin not the way to go?"

"I'm not Roman, and neither are you, smallfry," replied the demon scornfully.

Luke squirted a water gun at the demon, who writhed and smoked.

"Thank you sir, may I have another?" roared the demon, clearly in pain, but relishing the fruitlessness of the boy's efforts.

Cole shook his head at his son and scolded him quietly, "it's no use."

The demon snort-laughed at Cole. "He's right. Torturing a demon? What are you, new? I just came from Hell. Your world is Club frigging Med. What am I gonna do, complain that the Mai Tais aren't very sweet? Use your head. There's nothing you could do to me that I haven't already been through before, worse, longer… while being blasted with remixed Slim Whitman hits. So go ahead, do your worst. I dare you. It'll be funny."

The demon grunted as Luke splashed it again.

Luke smiled and shrugged. To his father, he added, "it felt good."

Cole frowned, shook his head, pulled the water gun out of his son's hand and pointed to the corner of the storage container. "Go stand over there. Learn something."

Luke resentfully did as he was told and took in the scene with a silent glower.

Cole turned the metal folding chair around and sat backwards on it, leaning against the backrest. He faced the demon, just staring, blinking slowly and projecting utmost calm.

The demon returned his gaze, raising its eyebrows and taking a deep breath. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

The silence between them lingered. Cole nodded thoughtfully and the demon shifted its weight, looking around, uncomfortable. "What?" Cole simply smiled and shrugged in reply.

Luke was confused. What was going on? We're supposed to pump this creature for information. What is anyone getting out of this? No one is saying anything. He was seized with the compulsion to step in and exorcize the damned thing, and he was about to chime in and say as much, but he froze when his father opened his mouth.

He watched as the demon froze as well.

Cole took a breath, smiled as if he were about to tell a joke, then stopped.

Luke hung on every second. It was agonizing. The silence that hung in the room was stuffy, thunderous and oppressive.

The marine was in total control of the situation.

"Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush here," began Cole deliberately. Luke remarked that the demon look relieved that someone had said something. That relief disappeared when Cole continued.

"You're screwed. I mean that. Your existence as you knew it is over. You got only one of two things in your future: the shaft or the jar. There ain't no winnin' here, not for you. You ain't never goin' home. You gotta know that. I'm here to help you make the best of a bad situation. So either you don't cooperate… and I kill you…"

Cole picked up a clay jar and looked at it pensively. "…or you do cooperate… and you live to fight another day."

The demon chirped, then cleared its throat. Luke was fascinated by its transformation – all its swagger was gone, its shoulder had started to slump, its eyes looked a bit misty and overall the demon appeared completely defeated. "What happens if I cooperate?" it asked loudly, trying not to seem timid.

"We exorcize you," said Cole to the jar. He looked up at the demon. "You live, that poor meatsuit lives, no broken bones, no problems. Everybody's happy."

The demon looked at the Devil's Trap, the walls of the shipping container and finally at the marine. Cole awaited his reply, his expression neutral. The demon saw no malice, no apparent subterfuge, no emotion of any kind. The guy hadn't told a single lie, and seemed to genuinely not care whether or not the demon helped him. Honesty like this was refreshing.

"What was this experiment you mentioned?"


Abacad took her time opening the door and joining the demon in the operating room. She deliberately and quietly shut the door behind her. She looked Dean in the eye and held his gaze as she lifted her examination glasses on their chain, unfolded their arms and put them on.

"Hey, it's Doctor Sexy, MD," said Dean, hoping to sound casual. "What's up, Doc?"

"I know what you are. I can see you."

Dean slumped back. "Great. Awesome." He tried to raise his head. "Okay, I'm sorry I broke into your place…"

"You smashed a hole in the wall. With explosives."

"Will you let me finish?"

"It's clear to me how meaningless all your apologies are," interrupted Abacad. "As I said I can see you…". She touched his right elbow, then his sternum. "…and this. I know what it is. I can see the grand destruction in your future. I can see the scale of the butchery you'd bring. You are a monumentally fearsome weapon, Mister Winchester. And it brings me great, great amusement to see you here now, on my table, completely helpless."

Dean stiffened and tried to begin to struggle. His limbs were dead.

Abacad continued. "Am I right in understanding that it was you that asked Mister Crowley to ask me to remove your brother's soul?"

"Oh. Yeah. I guess. I wasn't sure how he was…"

"Quiet," she commanded. The Knight obeyed. The doctor seethed, then snarled through her teeth, uncaring whether or not her words were heard. "You didn't care about anything but your own interests. You… forced me to… soul-rape your brother. Your own brother. I violated him so profoundly that there simply are not words. I have never done anything like that. I pride myself on my integrity. In my line of work, all I have is my ethics; my respect for the will of others. I was forced to compromise everything I am… everything I care most about… because of you."

"Yeah, but see," interjected Dean, "I'm trying to fix all that. I'm here to get his soul back so I can put it right back in, just like before." As an afterthought, he added, "and I'm sorry about that, by the way."

Abacad gripped his chin angrily. "Stop apologizing. You have no idea what the word 'sorry' means, you corrupt and worthless wretch."

"Sorry," burbled the demon lamely.

Abacad reeled, spinning on her heel in a tight circle. It seemed to Dean that the air around her rippled with the doctor's rage. "Sam is your brother. You grew up beside him; I know how much you love him. You had me defile and vandalize the core of his being… on impulse?"

The air rippled again. Dean's chest seized with dread.

"You are the most miserable degenerate I can imagine. You deserve all the hate and punishment in the world. I hope you are crushed from above by a terrible force, and that you live long enough to feel your own bones pulverize and grind together under its boot heel."

She leaned in close to his face and sneered, "Azat motenafferam."

As Abacad spoke the words, Dean felt as though he were walking face first through a hailstorm. His cheeks, nose, chin and forehead were sheared with the pain of a thousand needles pelting his face like icy wind.

Dean panted and stared fretfully at the doctor, who loomed over him like a hungry wolf.

Abacad thought back to performing the animectomy; cracking open her patients' sternums and pulling out their rooh. She looked at her hand and wondered if she really needed all her medical equipment for the procedure. Out of curiosity, Abacad casually plunged her arm elbow-deep into Dean's chest and grabbed at the swirling smoky mess that was his soul.

Dean could feel her fingers fishing around in his perverted being with her acute and scrupulous humanity, and the disparity was agonizing. The painful tendrils of everything he used to be waded through his centre and lit up his being with shame and shortcoming.

Abacad's fingers grasped Dean's demon soul.

The pain racked him. He screamed.

He screamed in grief for the life he'd left, the brother he'd failed, the world he'd abandoned, all the beauty he'd have happily smashed.

Abacad could feel Dean's suffering soul squirm in her hand like a whipping, thrashing eel. She relished his agony, the tears rolling down his crow's feet into his hair. His stubbly cheeks stretched into a rictus of anguish – anguish he so richly deserved.

She squeezed her fist, wrenching his being. Feel…shame. Feel regret. Feel all the guilt that I carry, having done what you bade me. Let this stain sear you.

"Maybe she's in the bathroom," came Charlie's voice from the doorway as she let herself into the OR, calling down the hallway. "I just want to check on…"

Abacad pulled her arm out of the demon, leaving his chest intact.

"…Dean."

Dean bleated, his face damp and crimson. He choked and gulped air.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Abacad said coolly. "You made excellent time."

Charlie looked at the abject, teary misery on her friend's face. Though she could see no injury, he was clearly in pain. She stepped forward. "What did you do? Get away from him!" She shoved the doctor aside.

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't… I just can't." He sniffed his running nose loudly.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner," Charlie told him.

"You are a confused ball of furious blurry rage," scolded the doctor breathlessly. "The world doesn't need you."

"I know." He opened his eyes and looked past Charlie to Abacad. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be this. Please help me."

Abacad looked down on his tears and pleading with contempt. She pursed her lips and muttered "Bache-naneh."

Dean continued. "I feel like I'm on fire. I'm pissed off all the time. It's exhausting. I can't do it anymore. I don't know how anyone could. I don't want to be angry anymore, but I don't know how to stop. You said you can remove the Mark? I need you to do it. Otherwise I'm gonna… I'm gonna end up killing Sam."

Charlie gasped.

Abacad regarded him dispassionately, and after a pause she raised her hands and began clapping slowly. "What a loss to the stage you are, Mister Winchester. Bravo. Bravo." She stopped clapping. "Spare me your ashke-temsah. You're not fooling anyone."

Charlie gawked at Abacad. "How can you be such a stone cold…"

"My mistake," said Abacad, cutting her off. "It seems that you do have one person fooled. You don't give a toss what happens to your brother."

"Yes I do! I've been trying…"

"Chert-o-pairt!" boomed Abacad. "Keep your tears, keep your excuses and keep your Mark. After all, you need it to absolve yourself. If I were to remove it, on what would you blame your own behaviour then?"

Dean leaned back and looked despairingly at the ceiling, offering no answer.

"I can't believe you're just lying there taking this," said Charlie.

Abacad turned over a corner of the lab coat revealing the devil's trap pattern.

"Why are you lying there? How did she overpower you?"

"I saw him slip in the hallway," answered Abacad. "I trapped him while he was supine."

"I did not slip," snapped Dean, "because I'm not a freaking klutz. She hexed me."

Charlie looked accusingly at Abacad, who scoffed. "No, I didn't."

"You said something in Latin or whatever and I wiped out. That's called a spell."

"Don't be ridiculous. I called you an idiot in Persian," replied Abacad scornfully. "You clumsiness is no fault of mine."

"Right. I'm sure when I swear at people, it feels like an ice storm, too."

"What are you talking about?"

"Doctor Abacad, what were you doing when I walked in here?" asked Charlie.

Dean turned to her. "Dude, you have got to get me away from here. From her. She's, like, a witch or something."

"And he's 'like, a bomb, or something'," countered Abacad to the hacker. "I'm not the dangerous one here. I'm not the one who blows things up to get my way."

"He needs your help."

"He doesn't deserve my help," spat Abacad. "All we can do is neutralize him."

"What?" said Charlie.

"Fine," said Dean, to Abacad's astonishment. "Whatever keeps me from hurting anyone else. Because I know I will. Do what you gotta do."

The doctor frowned critically at the demon through the glasses. She slowly raised her eyebrows, but remained wary. "You agree to remain inert until we find a solution?" she asked skeptically.

"Consent is really important to her," added Charlie.

Dean nodded.

Abacad's apprehension was obvious, but she softened.

"I really didn't just slip," Dean said quietly to Charlie. "I don't know what she is, but I don't think you should trust her. I don't."

The surgeon sighed. "Miss Bra'bury, I hate to ask you to choose sides, and I know how much you care for this… man. But rest assured, he is a much bigger problem than I am." She took off her glasses and allowed them to dangle on their chain. "If only you could see what your friend has become."

"Please don't!" blurted Dean as Charlie objected.

"That's okay!"

Abacad looked from the demon to the hacker and decided that she couldn't trust the redhead not to pull off the warded lab coat. "Alright. Mister Winchester, spot foul, fifteen yard penalty. Your friend and I are going to regroup in reception. Come with me. Charlie. I understand that Freddy made tea."


Cole and Luke had introduced a new drill to their training: recitation of the exorcism rite. They both knew it backwards and forwards, and were now starting to expand its capabilities.

Luke had the idea of trapping disembodied demons in warded glass vessels and after a few tries, the man and his son were met with resounding success. The dollar-store jars were easily stoppered and once imprisoned, the demon wasn't going anywhere. The possessed person even survived and the demon didn't go back into circulation.

Cole and Luke's modus operandi became to summon crossroads and enforcer demons just to exorcize and trap them, and they were prolific enough that their efforts were noticed as a manpower deficit in the Pit.

"Why are all my field agents having a meeting in a warehouse in Nebraska?" asked Crowley irritably, looking at his map of the continental United States. "If I have to stamp out another bunch of Abaddon loyalists, I'm not going to be pleased." Not that doing so isn't a pleasure in and of itself.

"I don't believe they are having a meeting, my liege," answered a suited underling. "They all left for Earth on work visas and never returned. We believe they may be trapped."

"Very well. You, take Vincent and the big guy and go retrieve them." The suit flinched, turning to move then turning back to the King. "Something on your mind, bootlick?" prodded Crowley.

"Not that I'm not happy to undertake this task," began the underling, prompting Crowley to raise his fingers threateningly, "but before we expend this manpower, perhaps you could simply contact warehouse's proprietress."

Crowley lowered his hand and leaned forward. "And who might that be?"

"Well, we can't be sure, but who do we know that likes to horde disembodied spirits in a storage unit?" said the underling, nervously. "If the King would be so kind as to have a word with his… consort…" He trailed off.

Crowley scowled at the demon, propping his face on his hand, mashing his cheek and allowing his servant's implication to hang in the air, untouched. Finally he asked with considerable prickliness, "Yes? What then? I'm waiting for the apodasis of your sentence." The underling stammered, scrambling for a diplomatic way to posit his point.

"Allow me to demonstrate for you how conditional sentences work," continued Crowley, clearing his throat. "If you, or any other snivelling devil ever bring up any 'consort' of mine again, then you will be fed to the Winchester. The surgeon is no concern of ours and she will not be interfered with. Do I make myself clear?"

The underling nodded emphatically and made to leave. "Sorry sir, which 'big guy' would you have me take?"

"You know, him with the chin," Crowley waggled his fingers curtly. "Run along."

Ugh, another day in Hell and the sky rains problems, thought Crowley. He did indeed phone Doctor Abacad within the hour, but the number claimed to be out of service. Oh well. Something to mention to her the next time they meet.


There are things that make the world seem big and others that make the world seem small. When you have nothing and are all alone, the external world seems huge and cavernous, and looms over you like a magnifying glass over an ant. If you have a purpose, the world seems snug and cosy. If you're missing something and searching for it, everything stretches out around you to keep you from what you seek. But if you know where it is, all that separates you from it is your own will.

If you have purpose and will, if you know what you're looking for and where it is, then space will shrink and the world will become small and your target will glow before you, like a glimmer in the dark.

The walk, the journey doesn't matter. It's a blur and I barely remember it. My feet brought me to the dented black muscle car, which pointed to the ladder, which then pointed to the hole. Climb me, said the ladder. Crawl through, said the hole. I followed the arrows and found Dean with black eyes. Such a pretty butterfly pinned alive to a collector's mat. Oh, he certainly wasn't smiling then.

He looked at me like an ant looks at a magnifying glass.

This must be how he felt when I was on the rack and he looked at me.

Now I know why he smiled.

Oh what fun. I can't help but smile too.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"I know."

"…you look good."

"The artist admires his sculpture."

Dean hadn't thought about it like that. He regarded her more critically. "Do you feel like a different animal?" It hadn't been his intention, but wouldn't Alastair be proud? "If this is a revenge mission, I'm not in the mood, so just take a num…"

"You have something of mine," interrupted Buttercup.

"It's on my To-Do List. You'll get it back soon enough."

"Not soon enough." Buttercup rolled up her right sleeve.

The look on her face startled Dean. He would have expected anger, rage, vengeance… anything hotter than the empty chill he saw permeate the broken blonde woman in front of him. As the fluorescent light from the supply cabinet fell across her face, he spotted the stain of a curse on her brow. Dean cringed in shock. "What's that on your forehead?"

Buttercup smiled and grabbed his right forearm with her dominant hand.

He could feel the Mark on his elbow squirm, burn and slither toward her hand. "Wait-wait, stop! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Sh-sh-sh," she breathed serenely, patting his chest gently. With her other hand, her grip tightened.

His veins lit up with an angry sizzle and the Mark of Cain slid down his arm onto Buttercup's glowing hand.

"Amanda, that's your name, right? Amanda, listen to me. You don't want this. Trust me. It will crush you."

Buttercup wasn't paying him any mind, instead humming blissfully to herself as the Mark crawled up her arm and settled on her inner elbow. She nodded in time with the tune. Dean's ear followed, the song seeming strangely familiar.

"Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill…" whispered Buttercup, letting go of Dean's arm and flexing her right hand. She admired the Mark.

A great tension suddenly unknotted from Dean's chest and neck. He didn't realize how tight he'd been carrying his muscles until all at once they released. He looked back at Amanda, and she was still singing that imaginary lullaby to herself. "How do you know that song?"

"The scar-Cain sings it to me," answered Buttercup, gesturing idly to her left eye. "I used to hate it, but now it's my favorite song." She glanced around the room. "Where's my knife?"

"Not here. Okay, look, you have every right to be mad at me…"

Buttercup quickly hit Dean hard in the throat, silencing him. "That's right. Tell me more about what I feel. I'm not angry with you. And I'm not going to kill you. You don't deserve it." Buttercup patted his chest and turned to leave.

Despite being unable to stop the armed nuclear warhead from wandering out into the world, Dean felt as though a great weight had just lifted from his shoulders. The stress that had been clenching his chest and constricting his breathing for the better part of a year was gone. He lay back on the padded table and took a deep breath. He turned toward his former victim. "Thank you."

Buttercup walked away without turning around, and closed the door behind her.


"What the hell does that mean, 'neutralize him'?" prodded Charlie as she clumsily followed the doctor to reception, afraid of her question's answer.

"My first impulse?" mused the doctor, looking from Van to Maritza, Sully to Freddy and back to Charlie. "Extract Dean's rooh. Pull his entire being out of his body, put it into a jar, leaving an empty husk which can hurt no one."

"Then what do we do with his body?" asked Maritza.

"Woodchipper?" suggested Freddy.

Abacad shook her head and waved her hand dismissively as Charlie stared speechless at the orderly, jaw agape.

Sully wriggled against his tied hands and wondered how much force it would take to just smash through the glass wall with his body.

"We are not going to woodchipper anybody!" squawked Charlie. Then she whirled and pointed a finger at Freddy. "And he doesn't get a vote about this."

"It was just an idea," said Freddy.

"I vote that you remove the Mark of Cain," said Charlie.

"What's the Mark of Cain?" asked Freddy.

"I thought I could, but now I'm less certain," replied Abacad, running a hand through her short hair. "It's part of him and even if I separate it from his rooh, it will still exist. I think perhaps it must; it appears to be a permanent fixture. I believe it's locking something in place."

"You!" said Vandaveon turning to Sully and seizing his shoulders. Sully had been hoping that the staff had started to forget he was there – especially Van, who'd seemed particularly bitter and wrathful since the explosion. "You're on his side," continued the receptionist, shaking him emphatically. "Where did he get the Mark of Cain?!"

Sully shrunk and shrugged fretfully. "Um, from… Cain?" he offered, hoping that he wouldn't get yelled at or slapped again.

"Do you think he'd be willing to take it back?" piped up Maritza. Charlie gasped and the Pischtacco continued. "If Dean was given this Mark by a man, perhaps we could simply return it to that same man."

"Oh my god, of course!" gushed Van. "Where can we find Cain?" he growled at Sully.

"How the hell would I know?"

Abacad clapped twice, relaxing visibly. "Wonderful, we have a plan. Vandaveon, please do your utmost to locate this Cain. The boy on the couch will help you."

"Aw, come on…" moaned Van and Sully in unison.

"Don't argue with me," replied Abacad without anger and they both fell silent.

Sully hunched. Apparently Abacad was his boss now. Okay.

"Maritza, would you please fetch a dolly and some duct tape from maintenance?" continued the surgeon. "I'll see if Mister Winchester might assist in our hunt for this Mister Caine."

"I'm coming with you, Doc," interjected Charlie. "I don't trust you not to smack Dean around. I'll supervise your interrogation."

Abacad shrugged assent, then turned to the large orderly. "Freddy, would you please tend to the building's damage, to the best of your ability? Block the hole, remove the ladder, gather any explosives?"

Freddy nodded, then added, "is it too late to suggest that we wrap that guy in Flypaper and throw him down a well or something?"

"Yes!" snapped Charlie.

"We'll call that Plan B, shall we?" Abacad replied encouragingly.


Sandeep Nahali shot his cuffs. He had finally decided on the steel-grey suit, the raspberry necktie and the Tennessee Texans blue shirt (wouldn't his wife be proud?). If he stood up straight, he looked like a million bucks – the rich, cosmopolitan (plastic) surgeon he was. If he slouched, he looked like a wealthy meathead working in programming, which was still pretty good. He nodded to the mirror.

Niall and Mark would be there soon for some cocktails before they met up with Isaac and what's-her-name at the bar. Sandeep had bought some rail vodka to make cocktails with, but he was really hoping his friends would give his Russian sipping vodka a try. The Absolut was in the freezer but the special stuff was in the ice bucket, and he'd be damned if he was going to let them make seabreezes with it.

Fitting a vodka bottle into a freezer isn't particularly easy; the horizontal shape of freezers don't lend themselves to the fitting of tall objects upright, and it's hard to put them on their sides without them rolling out and onto the floor. It didn't make it any easier that Behrooz had brought one of her disgusting rotting specimens home for storage. What the hell was wrong with her own damn freezer?

Sandeep really didn't care for her whole side of the business, what with the witches and demons and soulless corporate sharks. It was all a bit too dark for his liking but that's where the real money was, it seemed. Knowing that he and his spouse have each others' backs, both professionally and personally always makes him feel better, but whenever Sandeep saw something like these slimy living slugs, he couldn't help but feel like a mob wife.

Good thing a vodka bottle fits just as well in the freezer door.

"Mark, I'm sure your eyebrows look fine," said Niall with an irritable knock on the bathroom door. "Other people need to get in there."

"Why don't you just use the bathroom in Rooz' apartment?" said Sandeep, handing his friend a cocktail. "It's through this door, and down the hall, on the right."

"Won't she mind?" asked Niall.

"No, it's fine. Just don't spill anything while you're over there."

Niall swayed. "Don't worry, I'll take very good care of your beard's precious…"

Sandeep gently took the glass out of his hand.

"Oh, I see how it is," said Niall petulantly as he walked though the door into Abacad's apartment.

Sandeep checked his phone for any notifications that the plan had changed and heard from next door a scuffle, a stumble and a thump. He smiled. Aren't Irish guys supposed to be able to hold their liquor? "Niall, are you okay baby?" he called over. "I can't give you back to Chris bruised. He'll have my ass."

Niall walked back into Sandeep's foyer, standing very tall and looking very purposeful and clear-eyed. "Yes… baby. I'm fine." He took the glass out of Sandeep's hand and drained it in a single gulp. "Mm. You make a mighty fine Mai Tai."

Sandeep looked at his friend sideways, very glad he had mixed the drink with rail vodka. "That was a cosmo, but thank you."

"Whatever," he answered as he plunked the glass down on the counter clumsily. "I'll have another, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said Sandeep, making a mental note to go heavy on the juice this time. It`s never good to get sloppy before they even get to the club. He opened the freezer as Mark came out of the bathroom.

Niall spotted the specimen jar and froze, narrowing his eyes.

"Alright, I think I have achieved perfection," said Mark, breezing into the kitchen and heading straight toward the cocktail near the blender. He looked at the hungry expression on Niall's face, then at Sandeep. "Is everything okay?"

Niall smiled and revealed black eyes. He shoved Sandeep aside and seized the freezer door. He took a moment to marvel at the animus of Sam Winchester and grabbed it.

Sandeep had heard of this. He splashed the drink he'd made for Mark at the demon – a salt-rimmed Margarita.

The demon laughed. "Hell help me, this was even easier than I thought it was going to be. Like taking candy from an incredibly gay baby." He smiled and regarded the jar in his hand, but his smile vanished as some grains of salt, stuck in the sugary drink began to sizzle and burn his cheek. The demon slapped at the corrosive and fumbled the soul jar, which slipped out of his grip.

The jar smashed on the floor with a flash of light, the spiny blue slugs bursting into the air, swirling in a circle, then zipping through the window pane and out into the night.

"Rrgh!" snarled the demon, raising a hand to its smoking cheek. "Someone's going to pay for that. How about you, Indian Seacrest?"

Mark grabbed the demon from behind and put him in an arm lock. "Niall, whatever you took, you're having a reaction, okay? A bad reaction. We're your friends. Just relax. Okay? Relax."

"I'm not Niall, you pathetic queen." The demon bent his knees, reached behind him, grabbed Mark's belt and with one hand, threw him effortlessly into Sandeep's living room, where he cracked his shoulder over the arm of the easy chair. "What kind of ridiculous name is that anyway? Don't his stupid parents know how to spell 'Neil'?"

Sandeep's mind was scrambling. This is a demon, right? It's demons that have black eyes, isn't it? How do you fight off someone as strong as this? Is this Rooz' evil boyfriend now possessing his friend? "Crowley?" ventured Sandeep.

"Ugh, no." replied the demon. "Although with the soul in that jar there, I could have bought and sold Crowley's sorry hide. But now it's gone and guess who's now my own personal chew toy? You're about to find out what your colon tastes like, Dorothy. Curry, maybe?"

"But why, though?" he answered gingerly, edging away from the demon toward the door. Sandeep remembered his letter opener being pretty sharp and it was only a few feet away. "What were you doing in my... in my neighbour's apartment?" He surreptitiously wrapped his fingers around the carved antler handle while the demon continued on indulgently, oblivious.

"I was looking for leverage against the king. I'm sick of having to answer to Willy Loman... and I found useful little you. Fancy that."

Sandeep pointed the engraved weapon at the demon. He'd taken a few knife-fighting classes when he was going out with martial-arts-Graham, and he assumed a defensive stance that he hoped looked intimidating.

The demon's eyes widened and he took a step back. "Where did you get that?"

The doctor had, in truth, borrowed it without asking from his wife's mantle to open important mail when he thought required a little extra theatricality was warranted. He didn't know where she'd gotten it, or why it was now making his intruder retreat with such urgency. "You like it, do you?"

The demon sized up the sharply dressed young man in front of him. "You're bluffing. That's a forgery or a replic..." Sandeep stepped forward and jabbed the knife in the air. The demon took another step back in alarm. "Alright, I believe you. Let's not go nuts here." The demon raised his hands, shrugging and gesturing, his palms pointing nervously to the ceiling. "We can talk about this."

Sandeep shifted the knife in his grip and switched to what he remembered was an offensive combat stance.

Before he could step into slashing distance, Niall's body stiffened and his jaw dropped, spilling the demon onto the ceiling in a gulf of black smoke. The demon gushed into Abacad's apartment, past the dead and useless meatsuit it had left behind and away.

Niall dropped onto the area rug like a cinder block, just missing the coffee table.

"Sandeep," wheezed Mark from behind the chair as he got slowly to his feet, "whatever you're infested with here, you've got to spray for it, man."

Niall curled onto his side and coughed. "You need to find a priest. I need to find a priest." He breathed. "I could feel that thing crawling around inside my head. It, like, shone a light on all my worst..."

Sandeep pulled the vodka bottle out of the ice bucket. "Brilliant. Priests all around." He pulled the stopper out with his teeth, spat it out and took a swig. It really was lovely vodka.

"Honey, maybe you should sit down," said Mark, rubbing his collarbone and planting himself in the stuffed armchair. "I think you're in shock."

Sandeep nodded, looking upon the antique dagger in one hand, the bottle in the other and the broken glass in the kitchen. "I think you're right." He put the vodka down beside Niall and went to look for the specimen. "As soon as I find the worm."

"What worm?"

"The worm! Rooz' worm. The one in the jar that smashed."

"It's gone," said Niall as he rolled onto his butt and picked up the bottle. "It disappeared when it hit the floor."

Sandeep inhaled and looked around again. "I need to make a call."

"Sarah and Isaac are waiting for us," said Mark. "What do you want me to tell them?"


Sam reclined on a red velvet chaise lounge. The room's ceiling were draped in decadent red gauze and its furniture was draped in dead demons. Sam's irises were tiny rings around his huge dilated pupils, and he was drenched in red from chin to navel. He closed his eyes and smiled as he took in a languid and serene breath of air. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed.

A flash of white light abruptly shot up his nose, crashing through his afterglow and doubling him over. Sam roared and rolled onto his hands, his body wrenching and instinctively trying to hork up the foreign, invading entity. He heaved one more time, but his adam's apple caught in his throat.

Sam realized what he had just swallowed.

He panted, horrified, as he wiped a hand across his chin and felt the sticky resistence of drying blood. His shoulders hunched and he immediately felt cold and vulnerable. There was a black cashmere shawl among the silk throw pillows and he wrapped it around his shoulders. He glanced around the room and contemplated all the beings he'd killed – and eaten.

They're demons. You don't feel sorry for demons – not really. If there's anything that deserves to die, it's them.

Isn't it?

Sam glanced upwards, trying to block out all his victims and caught sight of himself in the mirrored ceiling.

If he were in a warehouse, gun drawn, and he'd seen that blood-drunk thing staring back at him, he'd have immediately opened fire.

Sam ran into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, rinsing all that red into the sink. It was freaking everywhere. He could scrub his chin, but that just splattered blood into his hair. He got into the bathtub.

Sam pulled the curtain and took the longest, hottest and most vigorous shower of his life. His skin was red and tender when he got out, but even after he double-rinsed and towelled off, he could still feel sticky red under his fingernails and between his teeth.

He got dressed and away he walked.


BONUS: Translations

Farsi to English:

Azat motenafferam = I hate you

Bache-naneh =A tantrum thrown by a petulant child when they don't get their own way.

Aske-temsah = Crocodile tears (Which, mind-bogglingly, has the exact same connotation for the exact same words in Farsi as in English. Perhaps English borrowed the phrase.)

Chert-o-pairt = Bullshit! (more or less)

(AN: I asked my Farsi speaking friend for a Persian equivalent to 'I know you're lying and I don't want to listen to your nonsense.')

In Classical Latin (the Latin of ancient literature), Vs are pronounced like Ws, among other differences. Supposedly though, it's Ecclesiastical Latin used in magical incantation, and demons would be more familiar with it, since they're more often addressed by the clergy. I once had a long conversation with an interesting Satanist priest about the meta-linguistics of infernal forces, which kind of inspired that scene.

And Sandeep, the team that wears the light cyan uniforms is the Tennessee Titans, not the Texans, who play out of Houston. Why would Tennessee name their team after another state? So no, your football-loving wife would not be proud.