SPN

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

"Sam, would y'just—"

"Just WHAT, Dean?!" Sam whirled on his brother, his face full of anger. "I swear to god, if you say, 'calm down'..."

"Hey! I'm not the bad guy here!" Dean objected, his hands raised as he tried to rein in his own temper, but he was losing his grip on it, fast. "I didn't tell Dad to go and leave me the note!"

"I'm not… I'm not blaming you," Sam growled through clenched teeth, exhaling through his nose as he tried to claw back the anger coursing through him. Dean was right: it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't even the fact that John had left that upset Sam — he always left at some point. It was the way he went about it. Sam had been awake, working down in the basement; if John had bothered to check on his boys before bailing, he would've seen that Sam was out of bed. He would've said goodbye. Unless he was deliberately sneaking around.

"If he didn't want back-up, then it's not a big job," Dean said with a shrug, but that was wishful thinking, and they both knew it. More than likely, John was out there hunting the Carrigans, or the yellow-eyed demon. He didn't say goodbye because he wanted Sam to stay behind. He didn't trust him on such an important case — and because he didn't trust him, he couldn't take Dean either. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the psychic.

The thought made Sam fume.

Suddenly weary, he dropped down on Bobby's battered sofa and pushed his hair out of his face, resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. The silence weighed heavy for a moment, but then, with a sigh, Dean sat down beside him.

"Look, maybe it's for the best," he said, the sofa creaking as he tried to get comfortable. "You and Dad haven't said a word to each other in the past week — hell, it's bad enough when you're yelling at each other. I kinda think the silent treatment's worse."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been hurting Dean and that was never his intention.

"Don't worry about me, man. This is about you. What's goin' on with you? Really?" Dean stressed the last word, prompting Sam to glance up at him properly. In Dean's eyes, he saw the same weariness that he felt: the ache that had settled into his bones. It was a fatigue born of a life on the run. Not from hunting — he knew how much Dean loved their work — but from constantly looking over their shoulders for signs of the demon. Or worse. In his brother's expression, Sam realized, maybe for the first time, how much of a burden he had become. Guilt rushed through him, bolstering his resolve.

He needed to end this. He did. Not his dad.

Without really meaning to, Sam found himself opening up to his big brother. "I'm just… I'm sick of feeling like the screw-up all the time. Everything bad that comes our way happens because of me." He held up a hand, stopping Dean before he could interrupt. "It does, Dean — the Stynes, the demons… hell, even the damned Carrigans! I'm the one making our lives so damn complicated. I'm the one who should be out there fixing it."

"Okay, first of all, you shouldn't have to deal with any of that crap on your own — no one should," Dean pointed out, holding up one finger before holding up another. "Second, we're family: this is what we do."

"Dean, it's not your job to protect me."

"Course it is," he retorted, a gentle half-grin on his face. "What else am I supposed to do, if I'm not watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

His words had the desired effect and Sam found himself smiling and shaking his head.

"You're ridiculous, you know that, right?"

"Hey, it's always been that way. You know that." Dean shrugged, his easy smile turning somber. "Look, I know the stuff Dad said set you back on your heels, but, Sammy, you can't let it get to you. Your abilities… they're a part of who you are. I know that, you know it, and deep down, Dad knows it too."

Sam dropped his gaze, the shame burning inside him. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that he's got zero faith in you?"

"Yeah, I do," Dean whispered. It sent another pang of guilt through the younger Winchester. Of course he knew: how many times had he been blamed for accidents when they were kids? Sam hated that, no matter their age or experience, one word from John could make them both feel less than dirt. He loved his sons — of course he did — but sometimes Sam wondered if John ever realized the effect he had on their emotional well-being.

"Wouldn't you do anything to make up for your mistakes?" he asked quietly.

Dean sighed. "Sam…"

"Wouldn't you?" he pressed again, and Dean couldn't deny it. They knew each other too well, and Dean understood Sam's frustration.

"So what do you have in mind?" he asked reluctantly.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I wanna go after the Carrigans. Put right what happened," he admitted. "We know their strengths now, and their weaknesses. We might even catch them off guard. I mean, they probably think I'm dead. I lost a lot of blood. So they won't be expecting it."

Dean winced at the reminder of Sam's injuries, and his eyes unintentionally traveled down to his wrists. Sam ignored the look.

"We do it right this time," he insisted, growing more animated. "We go in fast and clean." Dean was on the verge of saying yes — he could feel it — but old habits were still hard to break.

"We'd be disobeying a direct order," he muttered, not to start another fight, but to wrap his head around the idea. It wasn't an easy decision for him; when it came to their dad, he was obedient to a fault. But he also knew what Sam was struggling with, and besides, the Carrigans had it coming. If they had a chance to kill them, sooner rather than later, then Dean was all for it. "So how do we find them?" he asked.

"My blood," Sam quickly replied. "They called my blood valuable, right? Said they were gonna sell it. With a map and a crystal, I can scry for my blood. Assuming they haven't sold it yet, I can track it right to them."

Dean frowned, but Sam could practically see the cogs turning in his head. He was in full hunter mode, mentally running through possible scenarios, his green eyes almost flickering as he played them out in his mind. "What about you? The Carrigans said they could smell psychics. They'll see you coming. Not to mention, they can block your abilities."

It was a fair point, but Sam was not deterred. "Don't worry. Bobby and I have been brainstorming, and we've come up with a few ideas."

SPN

(Fargo, North Dakota… January 4, 2008)

"Isn't there a way you can do this without, y'know, bleeding?" Dean asked, his voice a low rumble. Sam rolled his eyes.

"If there was, you think I'd be doing this?" he pointed out. "It's fine, Dean — it's just a scratch." He proceeded to nick the pad of his left middle finger with a jackknife, barely wincing at the slight pain. He folded the blade and shoved it back in his pocket before using his thumb and forefinger to squeeze a small drop of blood onto a local map of Fargo, which sat on his lap along with a marble-sized silver-obsidian crystal.

"Why'd they have to come here? Freezin' my ass off," Dean grumbled. He jammed his hands under his armpits, despite blasting the car's heat, and glared out at the snow-covered street ahead of them.

"Will you quit your whining?" Bobby chided from the backseat. "Let the kid concentrate." Sam shook his head, ignoring the pair of them.

After removing his brother's stitches back in Sioux Falls, Dean had asked Bobby to assess the kid's health — to judge whether or not he was fit to travel. Bobby gave him the all-clear as long as Sam went easy on his arms, but only if they let the old hunter join them on their clean-up mission. Dean was grateful for the stipulation — their dad told them to 'stay put,' and if they were going to ignore him, at least they had Bobby watching their backs. Sam had no objections either. Unlike John, Bobby was always a welcome presence; he offered his aid without assuming command, and he treated Sam with respect.

Subsequently, they scrounged up a world map and Sam used his psychic abilities to scry for his blood. The process led them to Fargo, where they presently sat in the Impala, trying to pin down the exact location. With Dean and Bobby watching, Sam settled back in the passenger seat, relaxing his muscles, focusing on the crystal.

Gradually, his eyes glazed over, and everything blurred together. He breathed deeply, letting his body sink into the seat, grounding himself to the car as he transitioned from his physical vision to his psychic sight. It was never an experience he could fully explain, but it was like glimpsing objects through a glass, the colors refracting in a strange, mystical way. The more he gave into it, the stronger it became, drawing from the crystal as a conduit to quicken the droplet of blood.

Gradually, the droplet began to move along the map, meandering westward without leaving a trace of its path on the paper. The crystal remained perfectly still, refracting a haze of blue and gold after the liquid.

Finally it stopped.

"There," he heard himself say, but the sound was distant, as if echoing through water in the darkness around him.

"Ramona Avenue," Dean noted, the rumble of his voice pulling Sam out of his trance. He blinked, exhaling sharply, and glanced over at his brother, who looked back at him carefully. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, pleased to have control again, if only to show Dean and Bobby his capabilities — to demonstrate his usefulness. He knew they didn't doubt him, but sometimes, he still felt like a novice, anxious to prove his worth. Wiping off the blood with his sleeve, Sam passed the crystal over to Bobby, who returned it to the small leather pouch where he kept his collection. Meanwhile, Dean took the map and examined the roads to get his bearings. More snow had begun to fall, adding to the darkness, but Dean had an excellent sense of direction. Nodding to himself, he dropped the map, put the Impala into drive, and pulled away from the curb.

"Here," Bobby offered, reaching forward to pass a small black bag to Sam. Tied shut with twine, it was surprisingly lightweight and pleasantly fragrant. "It's for you," Bobby explained. "I did some research, cross-referencing psychic barriers with pagan herbs, and I think I know what the Carrigans used against you. So I found my own blend to nullify theirs. Made you a hex bag for protection."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said, a rush of gratitude enveloping him. Despite his part in their plan, he still feared Dean would change his mind at the last minute, benching him from all the action. The hex bag, however, assured him that he was still in the game, and he smiled, tucking it away in his coat pocket.

"But he's not gonna need it, right?" Dean asked, casting a sideways glance at his brother. "I thought we agreed — astral projection only."

"That hasn't changed," Bobby confirmed. "It's strictly in case of emergencies, Sam. You can barely hold a stake, much less stab a god with it."

Sam huffed, but there was no sense arguing. His stitches were out, but his strength had yet to return, and it still hurt to make a fist.

"Technically I don't need to hold a stake," he nevertheless muttered, making Bobby roll his eyes. True, Sam's telekinesis could do the job, but why risk it? Astral projection meant zero strain to his wrists, and that was preferable.

"So we stick to the plan?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's comment, his eyes glued to the road as he drove slowly through the accumulating snow.

"It makes the most sense," Bobby agreed, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as he sat back against the seat. "We've got a street name, but not an address. We don't know which house they'll be in, and we can't go knocking on doors. Hell, they might not even be here. If they already sold the blood, we could be looking at the buyers. There's just no telling… We have to be stealthy, and there's nothing stealthier than astral projection."

They had been over the plan several times already, but Dean was still hesitant. If Sam could allay his nerves by one last review, he might as well. "I'll scout ahead," he told his brother. "Project from one house to the next till I sense my blood, and then I'll figure out who we're dealing with — the Carrigans or the buyers. They won't even see me — I'll stick to concealed projection only."

"And you'll come right back," Dean interjected firmly — it was not a suggestion. "Your job's reconnaissance, got it? Once you have the intel, you come back and we all go in together. Don't do anything stupid."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"Just wanna be on the same page…" Switching on the blinker, Dean turned the Impala towards Ramona Avenue. He flicked a grin at Sam. "Now what do you say we go spoil their New Year?"

SPN

For most psychics, astral projection was an extremely difficult skill to master. It took years of training, and one lapse in control could mean slipping into a coma. Typically, the risks out-weighed the rewards, especially when the psychic travelers had no one to watch over their physical bodies. It made them vulnerable — virtually defenseless. But Sam was not like most psychics. Astral projection came naturally to him, allowing him to save Dean's life on more than one occasion. When his spirit entered the Veil, he took on the nature of a ghost — a powerful, untethered ghost — and they never would have killed Jacob without it. Since then, his abilities had grown and developed far beyond what he'd ever imagined he'd be capable of when they were first awakened two years ago.

Detaching from his body, which he left asleep in the Impala, Sam's spirit ventured from one house to the next along Ramona Avenue. He took care to conceal himself — a skill he had recently acquired and patiently mastered. Now was not the time for him to 'blink' in and out; he didn't want anyone to accidentally see him and panic.

For the most part, he sensed nothing unusual about the homes he passed through. The families were all normal, with their own quirks, hopes, and anxieties. Some were still basking in the joy of their recent holiday, while others were eagerly anticipating the year ahead. However, one house felt strange from the outset: not a single fairy light twinkled from the roofline, and the yard lacked any form of decoration. When Sam made his way inside, he felt it immediately: the overwhelming grief that inundated every room, pouring out from the heartbroken family. Their youngest had been killed — a little boy, taken in a single tragic moment. It wasn't fair. How could their neighbors celebrate Christmas when their whole world had crashed down on top of them?

Sam grimaced, retreating as quickly as he could back to the previous house. He took a moment, reeling from the family's intense despair; it was like the hospital all over again. When he dropped his guard, opening his mind for psychic readings, sometimes it backfired. Empathy has its drawbacks; he often stumbled under the weight of other people's suffering. No amount of training or experience could lessen the pain — it was the downside of his abilities.

But now was not the time to falter. He had a job to do. Regaining his composure, Sam steeled himself and resumed his search, moving past the grief-stricken home. The next two houses were calm and peaceful, so he hastened on his way.

And then he found it.

He entered a large house with an open-concept floor plan where he could see everything from the dining table to the kitchen to the common area. The floor was hardwood, the appliances were brand new, and the Christmas decorations were still up. It was a nice place — affluent and well-furnished — but tainted with the depravity of pagan gods. The Carrigans were definitely here, along with Sam's blood. He could sense it… like a bad taste in his mouth. But something wasn't right… How could they settle in so quickly? Not to mention, how could they afford it? The whole point of auctioning off his blood had been to fund their relocation, but if they hadn't sold it yet, then how did they pay for all this?

They didn't…

The truth plowed into him like a battering ram. He doubled over, succumbing to an unexpected, unwanted vision.

Madge and Edward knocked on the front door, for all appearances a friendly, harmless old couple, new to the neighborhood. They were welcomed into the house by an unsuspecting young woman with long red hair, dressed in a business suit an attorney who loved Christmas, and always kept her decorations up until Epiphany on January 6.

They'd chatted, exchanging merriments and seasonal salutations, until she completely dropped her guard. She offered them hot chocolate and, as she'd turned to the kitchen, they sprang on her. Edward clutched her throat and dragged her effortlessly down into the basement. After tightly binding and gagging her with duct tape, they covered her with a blanket and left her to stew for hours while they went back upstairs and made themselves at home. Then, after treating themselves to her food, they butchered her, slowly, making sure every slice, every crack, was as agonizing as possible.

It wasn't necessary… The season for tributes had come to an end, and mild weather would only expose them to hunters. They could have killed the woman quickly and cleanly… but where was the fun in that?

Sam yanked himself out of the vision, and he reeled backwards with a breathless gasp. It took him a moment to recover. He had to center himself to keep from pinging back to his own body or becoming visible. But grappling with his anger proved difficult. The Carrigans were abhorrent and vulgar: two stains upon the earth.

They deserved no mercy. No compassion.

Stalking towards the common area, Sam sensed their power emerge before he saw them, climbing up from the basement. A moment later, they entered the kitchen, with nothing but a large island separating them from Sam.

"I'm just suggesting that we start to think… bigger, darling," Madge spoke emphatically, bustling past her husband towards a teapot. "We've toured America, what, seven, eight times now? Don't you remember the fun we had in Norway three centuries ago? The Norwegians were so much more… lean."

As she spoke, the pagan goddess went about pouring two cups of tea, looking for all the world like an ordinary wife discussing ordinary plans with her ordinary husband. It was perverse, and as she rambled on, passing a cup to Edward and sitting with him at a round breakfast table, Sam seethed with fury. After everything they'd done, after all the suffering they'd caused, they had the audacity to sit drinking tea like a sweet old couple!

It sickened him.

Looking over to his side, Sam stared up at a huge eight-foot Christmas tree, trimmed with colorful ornaments and white lights, with a beautiful star on top: a decorative masterpiece showcasing the attorney's love for the season. She had been killed for nothing but sport, and now she would never experience Christmas — or anything else — ever again. It wasn't right, and Sam felt his anger shifting into hatred.

The Carrigans needed to die. Now.

Recon only, Sam, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. Go get Dean and Bobby.

No, screw that. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to kill them now, and he couldn't contain it.

"Norway is such a—" Edward abruptly stopped, his cup halfway to his mouth as he slowly glanced around the room. "Honey, can you feel that?" Madge frowned, following his gaze. They couldn't see Sam — that much was obvious — but they suddenly knew he was there, and their eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, my, someone's got a temper," Madge remarked, rising from her seat. "Come on out, dear. There's no need to hide."

Her condescension was the last straw, snapping Sam back into view. He glared at them, fuming in unchecked rage while they processed his appearance.

After a beat, Madge smiled, any concern she might have felt quickly evaporating. "Gosh, it's been a long time since we've had a vengeful spirit on our hands… I did wonder if you survived, dear. I hope your death wasn't too painful."

Sam smirked. "Not as painful as yours will be."

Edward laughed, the sound a throaty bellow, while his eyes remained cold. "Well now, you couldn't kill us when you were alive. What makes you think it'll be any different this time around?"

"I'm psychic," Sam pointed out, channeling his anger. Edward scoffed while Madge's smile tightened.

"It's a shame," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on Sam while addressing her husband. "Edward, be a dear and fetch the poor boy's blood. I hate putting it to waste, but what can you do? It's clearly contaminated." They actually thought he was a ghost, anchored to his own blood. He wasn't even wearing the same clothes! But like everyone else, they mistook him for a weakling — after losing so much blood, his death seemed inevitable. They were so sure of themselves, so damn arrogant, they didn't even consider astral projection.

With a sigh, Edward lumbered to his feet. "If you ask me, burning his blood is too good for him." He proceeded back to the basement, and Sam watched him go, biding his time. If they were stupid enough to separate themselves, he might as well take advantage of it.

"Don't worry, dear," Madge consoled him as she settled herself back in her chair. "We have no use for a dead psychic, so rest assured, it will all be over soon."

Sam fixed his dark gaze on her. "You're right," he snarled, the sound of wood splintering and snapping from the tree beside him. "This won't take long." With a rush of psychic energy, Sam wrenched a branch from the rustling tree. Madge's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open as the branch hovered in the air. It slowly turned in a one-eighty, pointing its jagged, broken tip at the wretched woman.

She jumped to her feet. "No—!"

It shot through the room, much like a spear, and pierced her heart before she could evade it. She toppled backwards, crashing to the ground in a pool of her own blood as Sam forced the branch in deeper.

She was dead in seconds. Sam could feel her monstrous power ebbing away. One down. Without a word, he telekinetically ripped a second limb from the tree, ignoring the rattling ornaments as the whole thing swayed.

"MADGE!"

Edward's roar filled the house as he returned from the basement, eyes fixed on his dead wife. The sight clearly hurt him. Good. Sam raised the second makeshift stake, aiming it with a hard, merciless expression.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch!"

SPN

"Damn it…" Dean grumbled, sick of waiting. As much as he loved the Impala, it currently felt cramped and oppressive, with the weight of uncertainty bearing down on him. He glanced over at his brother, who sat sprawled out in the passenger seat, head against the window, sleeping soundlessly while his spirit wandered the neighborhood, in search of the gods who nearly killed him. "This was a bad idea. It's taking too long, and I don't like it."

Bobby grunted in the backseat. "Bit late to be second-guessing ourselves." He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a swig. "Don't worry. Sam knows what he's doing."

For once in his life, Dean felt too anxious to ask for a drink — he had to stay sharp. Instead, he stared grimly out the windshield. It was a dark night with poor visibility as the snowfall thickened. Through the murky haze, house lights glistened, and Dean could only wonder which of the buildings contained his brother. It wasn't a long street — not really — and when he checked his watch for the upteenth time, his frown deepened. Sam was taking forever — it was going on forty minutes! Why? He was only supposed to—

"Dean, would you stop?!" Bobby grumbled, snapping Dean from his spiral of anxiety. He twisted around in his seat, his glare softening when he saw the worry in Bobby's eyes. "Boy, you're just making it worse. Sam is fine. No one can touch him. Hell, they can't even see him if he don't want them to! You need to relax… before you end up pushing him away."

Dean sighed, his chest deflating as he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "I know. I just… It's been a crazy couple of months. Just when I think we're back to normal, something else comes along and screws it all up." He glanced over at Sam's limp form, inadvertently picturing him back in that damn hospital. They came so close to losing him. "He almost died, Bobby… And now Dad's gone. I'm trying to hold it together, but nothing I do seems to matter." He paused, the anguish clear on his face. "God, I feel so useless."

"You're not, Dean," Bobby assured him, his voice soft and affectionate. "You saved the kid's life. And believe it or not, you're the one he looks up to. You matter more to him than anyone. Why do you think he's so gung-ho to prove himself? This ain't about your dad — not really. Sam doesn't want to let you down any more than you want to let him down."

Dean bowed his head, grateful for the hunter's presence. Bobby had a way of putting things that others could not, least of all Dean's father. Truth was, if Dean tried opening himself up to John like this, he would probably get shot down.

"You know what you boys need?" Bobby asked, his tone brightening. Dean glanced up at him, curious despite himself. "A week or two off. And I don't mean hiding out at my place. I mean a proper vacation, away from the mundane."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," Bobby exclaimed, quirking an eyebrow at the younger hunter. "I've been planning a trip for myself, but you boys need it more than I do."

"What are you talking about?"

"I made a reservation months ago at a five-star hotel in Vegas," Bobby told him, catching him completely off guard. Five stars?! "And I want you and Sam to go instead."

"Vegas?" Dean asked, his jaw dropping. "You mean Vegas, Vegas? Sin City?"

"The one and only," Bobby said with a grin. "You need to blow off some steam, and Sam's still recovering. He needs to build back his wrist strength, and handling all those cards and chips might help."

"Sam sucks at poker."

"How does a psychic suck at poker?"

"He doesn't like to cheat."

"Isn't that how you boys put food on the table?"

"Yeah, well, not everyone's blessed with a salvage yard."

"Well then," Bobby chuckled. "Looks like you'll have to accept if you ever want to experience the finer things in life." He winked, and Dean rolled his eyes — a response offset by a warm smile.

A ragged gasp made them both jump, and Dean's eyes immediately snapped to his brother. Sam lurched upright, eyes wide, hair falling in his face. No matter how adept he was at astral projecting, it still wasn't easy for him to reconnect his spirit to his body, and the action always left him disoriented.

"It's okay!" Dean reached over to grasp his arm, holding him steady. "I've got you; you're okay! I got you, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass, focusing on the warm hand that anchored him to the physical realm. It took him a few moments before the floating sensation stopped.

Opening his eyes, he gave Dean a quietly triumphant look. "It's done," he announced, a satisfied smile curving on his lips. "They're dead." His expression turned beseeching — anxious for Dean's approval.

Dean froze. His heart stopped. His shoulders tensed. "Wait, what?!"

"Go easy on him," Bobby advised, but Dean barely heard him — he was too busy trying to process this turn of events. Sam killed them? But what about their plan? They had had a plan! Sam was never supposed to attack on his own. It was too dangerous.

Sam's eyes shuttered, his gaze darting from his brother over to Bobby and back again. He wasn't surprised by Dean's disapproval, and while he didn't regret his decision, he still found himself apologizing. "Look, man… I know we agreed to go in together, and I jumped the gun. And I'm sorry. But I saw an opportunity, and it was too good to pass up. They're dead. It's over."

Dean stared at him, grappling between anger and relief. The Carrigans were dead. Good. But Sam went recklessly off course. Bad. "What happened?"

"The house had a Christmas tree," Sam replied warily. "I yanked off a couple of branches with my telekinesis. Evergreen stakes, right? They did the job."

Bobby leaned forward. "Are you a hundred-percent sure? They're definitely dead?"

"I'm positive, Bobby. I sensed it. They're gone," Sam assured him.

Dean let out a slow, deep breath, struggling to rein in his temper — which he knew Sam could feel, despite his mental barriers. The kid dropped his gaze, lifting a hand to absently rub his temple. He was still adjusting back to his body, and Dean had to force himself not to let his temper lash out. That's what their dad would do, but that wasn't what Sam needed now — he needed understanding. Maybe it was enough that Sam could sense his mood. Dean's feelings about his actions were loudly received; the guilt was already working its way into Sam's expression.

"At least… at least it's done," he mumbled, aware of Sam's eyes widening in relief. Switching on the ignition, Dean shifted the Impala into drive and carefully pulled away from the curb, into the snowstorm. He raised a finger at his brother. "That doesn't make it okay though! But… tell you what…" He could feel his brother tensing beside him. "If you're gonna act like an impulsive cowboy, you just lost your say in the matter."

Sam stared at him uncertainly. "What 'matter'?"

Dean grinned, his gaze sliding back over to meet Sam's. "We're going to Vegas, baby."

SPN

(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 5, 2008)

No matter how cold it was in Shreveport, the winters in Louisiana could not compete with those in Switzerland. To Charlotte Styne, the crisp morning air felt warm and refreshing, prompting her to open the windows in her private office — a spacious room on the second floor of the house where she kept her books and artifacts.

Technically, they did not belong to her. They were her sister, Caroline's. But Caroline was dead, and Charlotte was more than willing to take her collection off her cold, lifeless hands. Now, if only she could claim the Book of the Damned, she would have the resources necessary to decimate her critics — to prove to everyone she was not her sister's laughing stock. And if she had to wipe a few countries off the map in order to win their respect, then so be it. She was done living in Caroline's shadow.

But to find the Book of the Damned, they would have to contend with the Winchesters. John, Dean, and Samuel. Infamous hunters and precious legacies of the Men of Letters. Two opposite extremes. Contradictions.

Obstacles.

Dangerous obstacles.

John Winchester was known for killing Stynes, and Samuel was the chosen favorite of Azazel, a prince of Hell. Not to mention, he was also the boy who killed Victor, Charlotte's very own son. Her lips pursed in disdain.

How could such a small, pathetic, miserable family cause so much trouble?

It wasn't that she had loved Victor or mourned his death. In fact, he probably deserved it. He was always an arrogant, sadistic young man, and he brought far too much attention to the Stynes' former name — Frankenstein. Charlotte had never shared her husband's affection for their son. And yet… he was her son. Hers. She did not appreciate strangers vandalizing her property. Samuel would have to apologize; of that she was certain.

Returning to her desk — an extravagant mahogany roll-top — Charlotte sat down and searched several of the drawers for a specific jewelry box. When she found it, she pulled it out and placed it on the desk, carefully opening the lid. Inside, the box contained an assortment of diamonds and other precious gemstones, but Charlotte ignored them in favor of a blue velvet pouch. Picking it up, she loosened the drawstrings and dumped out the small silver charms. They were of no importance.

"Grandesce," she muttered, watching the velvet pouch grow until it was a gallon-sized bag. Still too small, but she could always adjust it later. Her first priority was embroidering the pouch with the necessary entrapment sigils, using golden thread — enchanted, of course.

A knock on the door interrupted her work, and she turned in time to see Mortimer stepping through her office threshold.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said, peering down at the velvet pouch in blatant curiosity. "The children have found a potential candidate for harvest down in New Orleans. They're ready to collect him, as soon as you complete this hood of yours."

"The embroidery alone will take a day," she replied irritably. "Patience, love."

"Of course," he said calmly. "There is no rush…" He studied the pouch for another moment, his brow furrowed. "Isn't velvet a tad… risky? It's very thick."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "The fabric has to be durable, or it won't suffice. Yes, I'm sure the boy will be uncomfortable, but the enchantments will keep him from suffocating." Her entrapment sigils were effective; not even death could free the captive.

Mortimer smiled. "Well, in that case, so much the better."

SPN

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