The small metal door around back of the hulking stained-glass and brick church structure was mildly misleading. Instead of a small service passage or maintenance closet, it opened into the cavernous choir loft. Sam stowed his lockpick away inside his suit jacket as he and Dean blinked, adjusting their eyes to the dim lighting of the big airy space.

"How many kids on this campus think they can sing?" Dean asked, looking over the rows and rows of chairs on the risers in the loft, facing a small raised platform for the conductor and a shining grand piano. Sam shrugged, flipping through the sheet music and papers on the conductor's stand, looking for any clues.

"Actually they sound pretty good."

"Wait, you know this how?"

Sam shrugged as if his shirt was a size or two smaller than was comfortable.

"Research," he murmured, a little defensively, Dean thought. He scoffed.

"Ok, choir-boy. Maybe you should audition."

"Shut up. Dean, look at this."

One of the sheets, slightly behind the others, had a dark smudge in one corner like a fingerprint in what looked like old blood. Dean furrowed his brow.

"That's weird. It feels kinda...planted. Don't you think? Who does a blood ritual and then flips through tomorrow's offeratory red-handed?" he said. Sam looked thoughtful, setting it back down and arranging them how they were.

"Yeah...exactly," he said, moving off to the little alcoves on the sides of the main room where the bright, blue-green choir robes hung packed together on racks. Dean grinned, taking one off the rack and holding it up.

"Sammy. They come in your size."

"Shut up."

Dean turned back to hang it up, chuckling to himself, when something caught his eye. He squinted, shoving some of the gowns out of the way. Painted on the wall, bleeding down it in sickening streaks, was a sigil he'd never seen before, but he knew enough to tell that was some dark stuff. He took out his phone and took a picture.

"Sam. It's still wet."

Sam looked up quickly, reaching behind to pull the handgun from the back of his slacks. The metal rattle of a push-bar door being opened had them both backs the the wall, weapons ready. Footsteps moved closer, echoing oddly in the large space with the foam panels all over the walls. Dean's grip tightened on the 44 magnum he was packing. He traded a glance with his brother. Sam nodded.

"Stop right there!" Sam shouted, both of them stepping out, armed and ready. There was a startled yelp that morphed into an undignified scream when the stranger came face-to-face with two handguns.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Dean groussed. "Really?"

"Patrick?" Sam asked. The kid was picking himself up off the floor, shaking like a leaf. Dean glanced down and then up toward the ceiling, looking completely done, turning around and walking away. Patrick himself didn't seem to notice the wet spot growing on the front of his jeans right away, still gasping like he was about to suffocate.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked, quickly putting the gun away.

"I was just practicing for leading the music in church tonight in the orchestra room...What was that?" he asked, his voice breaking into falsetto. "Was that a drill? Are you guys cops? I thought you worked for a camp?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's part of the interview," Sam said. "We wanted to make sure you were a...pacifist. Great job." He patted Patrick awkwardly on the shoulder, pointedly trying not to look at the humiliating stain around the guy's fly and not really succeeding. "Good luck on your music leading."

Patrick looked down, horrified.

"I can't go up there like this! I don't have time to change…"

Dean had rejoined them, an ingratiating smirk on his face.

"It won't be too bad. You can hardly notice it and you'll be behind the podium anyway. Knock 'em dead. You better get moving, kid."

Patrick blinked rapidly, but didn't say anything, shouldering past them and hiking his backpack higher up on his shoulders as he hurried from the room. They both watched him go and then Dean turned back to Sam, eyes wide.

"Okay. I can smell the estrogen in the air. Literally. We are both taking silkwood showers tonight. And I think we can cross him off the list. Definitely not demon-summoning material."

Sam squinted, cocking his head a little to one side.

"Actually, Dean...that blood on the sheet music. It felt really planted, right? The sigil on the wall… it's like it was there for us to find. Freshly painted."

"Yeah, and the upside-down crosses? Those have been happening for a while," Dean said. "But the only person who tipped us off was that kid. Which means he might have been setting us up. But why would that," he gestured toward the door Patrick had left out of, "be messing around with stuff like this? And framing someone else for it?"

"He said his family has worked for the school for years. Maybe with all the power changes around here, he feels like they should have had some promotions or recognition. You heard him in the display room; he's got his hands in everything, trying to excel in everything, be the best. His whole life is run by being first. Can you imagine the pressure and fear of failure that would create?"

"So what, you're saying that he...made a deal with Fear so he could feel like he had some kind of control over it?"

Sam shrugged.

"I mean, it would make sense. And if he could cover his tracks by pinning it on the current music leader, if someone had to take the fall and it happened to be him, there would be an open space for Patrick's dad or even Patrick to get promoted."

"Freakin' church politics, man." Dean said, then smirked, trying so hard to control the grin spreading across his face. "You know the one good thing about the mandatory service? We get to see him lead singing with pee on his pants. ...No?"

Sam just walked away.