Chapter 8

Jimmy slipped through dreams of cascading fire and white light, and the smell of burnt hair followed. Here, he passed a Hawaiian volcano. There, a Chicago skyscraper in midday sunlight. He walked, unconcerned with the shadow that was both beside and inside him.

The shadow tickled his brain while he strolled by his high school's Home Coming bonfire in the dim afternoon sunlight of downtown Pontiac. Brilliant sunlight showed through a thick blanket of clouds. The shadow pressed on his conscious, but Jimmy thought the sky looked unusual today. He'd never seen clouds so bruised or light that seemed so solid, like a physical presence. He held up a hand to the light and watched, awed, as it set his skin aglow from the inside.

He woke screaming.

Jimmy couldn't see. He couldn't tell up from down or whether he lay on cold cement or damp brick, but the shadow inside him screamed. He could hear that. He could feel the sound spewing from his lungs in long, acrid bursts.

At first he assumed the screams were his, but they went on long enough that he eventually understood. He could never scream loud enough to fill the echoing darkness. His body was not his own. The demon was being burned out of him.

Finally, silence. The smell of burning hair and eggs and fresh blood assaulted his nose. Jimmy's eyes watered. The taste of ash clung to his breath. His head hurt.

"Sam!" His cry came out muffled around the gag and he nearly choked. In the dark, sounds magnified and disappeared like an auditory fun house mirror. The sound bounced back to him, louder and unnatural.

Silence dragged on until time both raced and crawled. His heart raced. The room was dark, cold and remote. Maybe abandoned. He didn't know where he was or where Sam was - if Sam was even alive.

Jimmy gasped for air, his hysteria building behind the gag. What would he say to his boss, who'd expected him back? Would he die before he apologized to Tom? He thought he couldn't breathe fast enough to clear his head. Dizziness washed over him, the undertow dragging him out. He was drowning. Tears spilled down his face. Sam wasn't going to save him. Nobody was coming.

When the feeling passed, he found himself alive with his face pressed against a cold metal pipe. The room smelled like mildew and rust. Jimmy thought he might smell engine grease, too, but it was difficult to guess. The metallic smell could just be his head wound, still trickling blood into his eyes.

He tried moving but rope dug into the bare skin of his wrists. He needed a knife or something with a strong edge. Brick would do. A pipe could work. He hummed psalms to himself, struggling to maintain cheerful song as he worked the rope against his holding pipe. His wrists bled freely.

"Greetings."

For a moment, Jimmy couldn't tell whether the voice was in his head. The air remained still and he heard no movement. He froze, searching for the shadow from his dreams. Then something brushed his face. Jimmy jerked backward. He hadn't felt a breeze or an entrance. It simply appeared. He struggled to speak.

"You think we are unaware of you, Prophet?" the Voice said in a rasp that chilled Jimmy to his soul. He fell silent. "We have seen what your words can do. Calamity. Desecration. You reek of the Unspeakable One."

Jimmy smelled the stench of sulfur now, rising out of the darkness in a tide of must and blood. He heard many whispers buzzing within the one voice but could not see the demon before him.

"Father said we couldn't kill you, but that doesn't mean we can't have some fun," It said in its voice of multitudes. "You will do as we command or we will ruin you."

The presence vanished, but something remained. Jimmy felt it lurking in the darkness, its malice spread before it like an intangible banner. Paralyzing fear stole over him. He wasn't alone.

/A.H.O.F.\

Sam hurried to Dean's room. Bobby was already calling in hunters from the area, but Sam needed to make sure Jimmy's book was secure until they could rescue the prophet. The safest place for it now was in the Impala's trunk, not under his brother's pillow.

A woman called his name. Sam turned and saw Kristen filling a cart by the supply closet. She waved him over. Sam knew he could ignore her – should ignore her – but didn't want to be rude.

He shifted his papers to one arm, preparing the lie. "Hey, sorry, I'm actually on my way to see my brother," he said as she stepped forward. He jerked a thumb toward the cardiac ward. "He might be able to get on the donor–"

A knife pressed against his side, the tip just below his ribs. Sam stopped cold, the hair on the back of his neck raised. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for the cute stranger trick. Dean would laugh when he heard this one.

"How 'bout we get that drink now." She pushed him into the supply closet.

The small room clearly wasn't built to hide in. Sam felt awkward, clumsier than he'd felt since junior year of high school. His elbow knocked over a box of syringes as he turned to face Kristen. She pressed close against him, their breath mingling as the scalpel dug into his side. He edged back against the wire shelves. She twitched her wrist, and the blade moved a fraction of an inch. Sam felt blood trickle down his side and stilled.

"Whoare you?" This was why he never got involved on jobs. That was Dean's area of expertise. He never had problems with women – at least, not this type of problem. Sam took a small breath. He wanted to kick himself.

Maybe she could be reasoned with. He tried again. "What do you want?"

"What did you do to our brother?" Her eyes never left his. "What did you do to Jimmy?"

The question threw him. "I didn't know Jimmy had a sister." Her scalpel was still poised, the blade hidden in her grasp. If anyone opened the door, it would look like an intimate embrace, not a death threat. He sucked in his stomach until his chest felt tight.

"Funny." She didn't laugh. "He's the youngest, so I'll forgive his stupidity in trusting you. He doesn't see what you are."

What he was? Sam momentarily forgot about Jimmy. The nagging feeling he'd had since childhood that he was different had returned. He remembered how nobody acknowledged it, even though he saw it in his father's eyes: fear and blame. The look on Kristen's face – revulsion – confirmed it. "What am I?"

"A mistake."

She wants to hurt me, Sam thought. In better circumstances, he could have taken her. But he still felt like his entire body was being crushed. His arm was bandaged and his back was in pieces. His phone was still in his pocket at least, but Sam didn't dare move. She might skewer him.

She'd insinuated that she had backup, and if so he needed their help. They could help him find Jimmy. He might even be able to get some answers from them about what made him different. He could make the weight on his chest disappear, get a trail on Yellow Eyes … prove he wasn't the reason Mom and Jess died.

"Believe me, I didn't hurt Jimmy," said Sam. He nodded to his papers, hoping she would listen. "We're trying to find him, too."

/A.H.O.F.\

Pain wracked Jimmy's body. He strained but couldn't cover his face. His bonds held as another whip lashed his bare skin He screamed, jerking hard enough that he bit his tongue. He tasted blood.

The lashings continued, sudden and skillful, until he thought he might consider the demon's offer - if he knew what it wanted. His body trembled, his muscles as disjointed as his thoughts. When he tried to move his arm, his foot twitched instead. He could still see nothing.

It occurred to him that he'd been blinded, and he was tempted to blame Sam. The kid had tricked him into walking into a trap. He'd been so eager from the get-go, so quick to rush into danger wearing Jimmy as a shield that anyone would be right in assuming his guilt.

Jimmy wanted to hate him, but he knew in his heart that he couldn't. Besides, it was wrong to wish ill on the dead.

He slipped into his thoughts, fleeing the pain. He thought of Amelia kissing him under their college pizzeria's neon lights. He remembered hearing Claire laugh for the first time. How long had it been since he'd spoken to them? Anything could happen in that short time - or maybe he'd been trapped here longer than he knew. Amelia and Claire were in danger, and Jimmy knew it was his fault.

He missed them. The hurt ached in his gut, twisting his stomach until he felt ill. He thought of Amelia making dinner with one eye on the phone, waiting. Claire would be upstairs practicing for her recital.

The memory wasn't enough. Jimmy concentrated until he could hear the music, dim and distant through her bedroom door. He stood in his kitchen, somewhere between memory and dream. Amelia chopped an onion, pausing occasionally to wipe her eyes. Sometimes she glanced at the phone.

Jimmy knew this scene, knew the call she was waiting for. "Ames, I'm so sorry," he said.

She didn't look at him. This was their first big fight, only in the suburbs instead of a college campus.

"I meant to call," he said. He waited for her to speak, anticipating what she would say next when she was composed.

"Something always comes up, doesn't it?" Amelia said. She wiped her knife on a towel and held it at her side. "Where are we in all of this?"

"We're right here, and I'm asking your forgiveness," he said. He was parroting his own apology from eight years ago. Something was wrong. The dream felt too solid, the memory too vivid. "Please."

Amelia turned without speaking and walked down the hallway. Music swelled from the second floor. He ran after her. "Stop!"

When he tried to grab her arm, she twisted away easily and pushed him back. Jimmy hit the far wall hard enough to crack the plaster. His vision flickered and he fell.

She walked upstairs with measured steps and paused outside Claire's door. She listened, smiling, the carving knife in one hand. Jimmy scrambled for the banister and pulled himself upright. His knees wobbled as he climbed.

"Ames!"

She put a finger to her lips and shushed him, a gentle reprimand. "You can't hide from us in here, Prophet." He swallowed hard and forced himself to move faster. Amelia turned the door knob and glanced back with a knowing smile. Her eyes were black.

Jimmy found his legs, but it was too late to do anything but scream.

/A.H.O.F.\

Kristen walked Sam out of the hospital at knife point. He didn't try to fight her - he needed her help – but was starting to worry. Not the anxiety he'd felt before but real, down-in-your-guts dread. He was out of his depth.

"I should tell my uncle –"

"Make a move and you die. Slowly."

"Don't hurt my brother."

Kristen snorted. "He doesn't need our help with dying."

She didn't let him go until a van pulled up. When the side door rolled open, Sam got in with only a moment's hesitation. The interior smelled of old leather, unpolished and cracked. The seats groaned as he slid across.

A middle-aged Indian woman glanced at him in the mirror and grimaced. That wasn't the usual reaction people had to him. Sam felt his face. It was swollen, but hardly disfigured.

"I didn't believe you, Kris," the woman said.

Sam looked between the two women. What could they see in him? What was he? "You're not Jimmy's sisters."

"Observant," the driver remarked.

The drive was long, winding between Kansas and Missouri before the van pulled up behind a graffiti'd brick building. Kristen pulled Sam from the vehicle, spun him and pushed him along ahead of her to a metal door. She knocked four times.

A man answered and ushered them upstairs past spray painted walls and three solid green doors. Sam grasped for details, door numbers, décor … any visual clue where he was. He couldn't see much with only one good eye.

Kristen pushed him through a door on the fourth landing, and the man followed, shutting the door behind him. He held out his hand. "I'm Ben. I hope Kris and Jen didn't cause too much harm?"

Sam accepted his hand and winced at the strong grip. "Not in so many words."

Ben nodded. "You know where our brother is."

He studied the man, sure they weren't blood relatives. But then, he knew firsthand that family didn't end with blood. "I know where I saw him last: The Westgate Mall." He looked between the three of them. "I'm looking for him, but – I'm sorry, are there any more of you guys?"

"More?" Jen crossed her arms. That's a yes, Sam thought.

"Prophets," Sam said. "That's what we're doing here, right? Trying to stop the Hell Gate?"

Kristen grabbed his bad arm. Tight. "Tell us what you know."

Sam twisted away. He took a step back, breathing heavier than he would have liked, and sat on Ben's couch. His ribs ached. "I know demons stole my relic – and my prophet." He massaged the bandage over his arm. He was tempted to explain Dean's situation but decided not to. The less strangers knew, the better. "I know evil spells harness evil deeds…" He paused. He knew they were going to kill him when this is all over, just like Jimmy killed that demon. But he didn't know why.

His cellphone rang in his pocket. Kristen was on him in a second. She fished it out and looked at the caller ID. "Bobby S.?" she said, seemingly glad to have her suspicions about him proven right.

"It's important," he said. No one moved, and the phone continued to ring. Sam's thoughts went to Dean, dying slowly in a hospital bed miles away. His brother had never failed him; the least Sam could do was return the favor.

He lunged for the phone. Ben flicked his wrist, pressing Sam against the sofa cushions without moving an inch.

Awestruck by the man's power, Sam managed to gasp, "Please."

Ben nodded his head, and Kristen flipped the phone open. She held it to Sam's ear.

"Dean okay?" he asked immediately.

"Better question is where the hell are you?" Bobby growled on the other end. "I've got psychics claiming unrest on the other side, omens popping up from here to west Texas and six hunters on the way."

Sam apologized.

"It's a damn Hell Gate, son, not a Sunday barbecue. We're talking sites of calamity. Stop thinking hocus pocus and start thinking massacre."

"I got held up." He forced himself not to look at his captors. "It's Savannah all over again."

Bobby's voice went deadly quiet. "Sam?"

"I'll catch up with the errands later, Bobby," Sam said. He paused and forced a chuckle. "See you in three – or four."

Bobby exhaled deeply. "Okay."

"Call me if anything changes with Dean."

Kristen disconnected and removed the phone's battery. She handed the pieces to Ben and stalked from the room.

"Don't suppose you have a laptop or a history book," Sam said. He tested his limbs and found he could move again. "We're looking for a place where lots of people died. Think murder. Think carnage."

Think, he pleaded with himself. The demons were likely storing Jimmy near the ritual site. Once they located the building, Sam could set up a cooperative task force to sweep the spot. With Bobby and the other hunters alongside these prophets, a bunch of demons might be dealt with without casualties. Sam just hoped Jimmy could make it that long.

/A.H.O.F.\

Jimmy sobbed on the floor of his daughter's room. Tears ran down his face, the loss so raw - so horrific - that he couldn't express it. There was no word to touch pain so deep. It felt as though a hole had torn out his heart.

The gentle melody on Claire's CD player turned to static. Jimmy wiped his hands on his pants, leaving blood streaks, and stood. The room was empty. Their bodies were gone.

He switched off the player. It turned back on. He frowned and pressed the power button. The volume increased. A whisper played beneath the noise. Jimmy leaned closer. He couldn't make out individual words, but he understood the voice. It was clear, bright, angelic – like the holy fire he'd felt before.

The angel parted a curtain drawn in his mind. Jimmy remembered where he was. The vision felt real, but it couldn't be. This room, this music was a trick. "I'm not at home. I'm in the dark. I'm a prisoner. I'm scared, but my family is alive." He closed his eyes. With the angel's help he couldn't be blinded by lies again. "They're alive."

He understood the implied threat, however. If he didn't do what the demon wanted, his family would suffer. But Jimmy knew Amelia and Claire wouldn't be safe even if he helped. And then who would he be? Someone who helped evil?

The room faded, and Jimmy found himself back in the dark. His body burned from the abuse, but he was alone. He rubbed his wrists tentatively, noticing they were free but raw and bloody.

He stood, his legs weak, and felt around in the dark until he found the door. It screeched on rusty hinges when he eased it open, but no one came. The overhead pipes dripped dirty water on the unfinished floor. The hall stayed silent. He crept down corridor, staying close to the wall as he felt his way.

He inched through the dark carefully, each footstep measured so he didn't throw sound or send debris crashing. Water dripped on him every now and then; it smelled foul, left to stagnate in rusted pipes. At least he knew he was in an old building – even if he didn't know where it was.

The darkness seemed impenetrable. Everything about this place had a certain wrongness about it as though the building itself had been steeped in evil. The air was suffocating and thick with a greasy feeling that didn't come from nature. He groped down the corridor, passing barred doors, and nearly lost hope.

Then he found the stairwell. The steps had crumbled years ago and been lost under rubble, but the air smelled promising and he thought he could see light above. He sat down on the bottom stair, his lungs burning with dust and exertion. The swollen lash marks criss-crossing his body pulled taut as he moved. He decided to allow himself a moment's rest before climbing.

He didn't want to be caught or to find out why the demons really wanted him alive. They wouldn't want him that way for long, and he needed to long gone before they changed their minds. Jimmy pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the cramps that stole into his chest as he began to ascend. He needed to find light – and the exit.

He needed to survive.