Author's Note: I'm back, bitches! Why am I calling you bitches? Because I'm channeling my inner Charlie. I apologize for the long delay, but a combination of terrible writer's block, the break between SPN seasons, and a generally high level of adult-type business precluded this chapter from being written any sooner. Still, I hope most of my readers are able to rekindle their interest in this fic and enjoy the next several chapters. As always, I love to hear you guys spin theories, ask questions, or drop a note on the things in the story that do or don't work for you, so feel free to PM or Review – I respond to most, if not all.

Without further ado, please enjoy the latest chapter in SoHSoC!

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Eleven

With his denim collar pulled up around his ears, Sam hitched his hip higher up onto the hood of the Impala, feeling the fading warmth of the engine block under his rear. Squinting his eyes at a distant pair of bobbling headlights, he shivered, pressing his hands deeper into his pockets.

The night had gone from cold to colder almost as quickly as it had gone from bad to worse, but he didn't feel like waiting inside—it was too empty in there. Something about the vacant bunker was more chilling than the breezy outdoors, so after making his desperate call from the floor of his brother's demolished bedroom, he'd dragged himself back outside to watch for approaching cars.

The pair of headlights he'd spied in the distance did a sudden bounce-dip-bounce before steadying. As they crept forward, the lights began to shine brighter as they blinked between naked trees.

Someone had turned up the dirt road towards the bunker.

Sam straightened, pushing off the car. For a wild moment, he wondered if maybe it was Dean returning home, wild-eyed and felonious, in some poor sap's hotwired junker, a bag of burgers in one hand, a pie in the other. Really, though, he knew better.

His phone started to buzz in his pocket. He glanced at the ID before answering.

"Hey, Charlie."

A thin voice petered through the sour connection.

"Hey, there, Samalot. Just wanted to confirm—you don't have any, like, booby traps set up on this driveway to doom, do you? No landmines or, or pits with spikes for me to worry about?"

Sam couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ah, no," he said, "No booby traps. Potholes, yes, and they're hell on your suspension, but I promise they don't have spikes in them."

"Oh good," Charlie signed, "I'm comin' to you then. Hey, come outside, would you? I don't feel like waiting around in these spooky woods for you to answer the door."

"I'm already out here waiting, right next to the Impala. Have been for a while, actually."

"Oh," there was a hiss of static, "Okay. Here I come. Standby."

With a click, she hung up. Sam pocketed his phone again and took a few steps down the road.

He heard Charlie's car well before he could make out its shape.

Well, well before.

Once, years ago, he and Dean had been parked at a gas station eating gut-rotting tacos when a cobbled-together jalopy rolled stuttering up to a pump. The old junker's tail pipe coughed clouds of black smoke while the engine screamed for a new belt. The frame, it looked like, was held together by nothing more than duct tape and back-country faith. Sam remembered, clear as day, his big brother turning to him with a mouthful of taco and saying, "If that thing were a dog, I'd take it out back and shoot it."

Anything making a noise like that, he'd said, needed to be put out of its misery.

Sam winced as the sound of grinding gears and old brake pads screeched up the dirt road.

Whatever automotive nightmare Charlie was driving, it certainly qualified for a Dean Winchester mercy killing.

There were a few cringe-worthy thuds as Charlie tried—and failed—to negotiate the craterous potholes that dotted the dirt access road, then the headlights rounded a sharp bend and illuminated the bunker entrance. When the beams swung towards him, Sam raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting through his fingers.

He had to laugh.

Charlie was driving an old, old Volkswagen Beetle. The thing looked pre-WWII era, though Sam knew that was probably an exaggeration. It was a patchwork of replacement parts—one red door, one white, a blue roof, a sandblasted hood—and it looked as if a sharp kick would knock it to pieces.

He shook his head as it watched it totter up the driveway, gravel pinging in its rusted wheel wells.

Charlie stuck a hand out the window to wave at him as she parked. The Volkswagen's engine chuffed once, twice, and a third time before dying with a congested splutter.

Walking over, Sam grabbed the top of the driver's side door as Charlie shouldered it open, grimacing against the sharp keen of rusted hinges.

"Geez, Charlie," he said as his friend clambered out of the car, "You're willing to ride around in this death trap but the woods have you spooked? You might want to reorder your phobias."

The hacker raised an eyebrow as she walked around the front of her car.

"I can handle a clunker," she said, popping the VW's hood—or rather, the trunk, since the car was so old the engine was still in the rear.

"Blow-outs, overheated radiators, sticky transmissions; I can handle those things," she went on, "But, no offense, you and your brother are total monster magnets. The supernatural freak-show sort of follows you guys around, and I didn't want to be waiting alone on your doorstop if it chose to come a-knocking."

Sam shrugged.

"Fair point," he admitted.

With a huff, Charlie hauled a canvas rucksack out of her trunk. Adjusting the strap across her chest, she turned and looked up at him. For a moment, she didn't say anything. She just smiled. Then that smile started to wobble.

"It's good to see you, Sam," she said, "Circumstances aside."

Sam took a deep breath, and then let it out all at once. He suddenly felt upset again. The reality of why his friend had driven as far as she had to be standing in front of him now dragged his heart down into his feet.

"Yeah, it's good to see you, too, Charlie."

He stooped, pulling her into a firm hug. Without meaning to, he held onto her longer than usual, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she stoutly refused to be the first to let go. When they finally pulled apart, Charlie put it into words.

"Bad nights need good hugs," she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Yeah," Sam agreed shakily. He pulled a hand across his mouth. His eyes felt wet.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," Charlie assured him. She patted her rucksack, "I have a few ideas on how to find him."

Sam blinked rapidly.

"Yeah?" he asked, "'Cause I can't, uh… I can't think of any tracking spells, or ways to scry for him, and even if Cas were here, he's warded against angels."

Charlie's smile twisted a little.

"You know there are ways to track people down without voodoo and hocus pocus, right? I mean, cops do it all the time. It's called 'Good 'Ol Fashioned Detective Work.'"

"Right…" Sam was skeptical, but nodded, clearing his throat, "So what, uh, what do we have to do?"

"Well first," Charlie threaded her arm through his and steered him towards the bunker, "We go inside. It's colder than a witch's titty out here. Then you're gonna show me wear to set up shop, and you're gonna put on an enormous pot of coffee because my caffeine levels are way, way too low to handle a crisis of this magnitude. And, while you're doing all that, you're going to tell me everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

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~DWC