"Crap.

Fuming, the demon pulled the patrol car over to the side of the road and glared as the semi-truck pulled into an already packed truck stop and parked in one of the few remaining spots.

After a minute, the driver – fiftyish, bald and packing a sizable beer belly - hopped down from the cab and sauntered into the restaurant.

The man bore absolutely no resemblance to either of the Winchester boys. That meant - unless they were hiding in the back of the truck with the load of cut-rate electronics heading for the Canadian border - those two little wood lice had discovered his tracker and were hightailing it in the other direction.

The demon huffed out an annoyed breath. It was his own fault. He should have checked on the little buggers earlier, kept a closer eye on them. He briefly considered waiting until the driver came out, having a talk with him about where he might've picked up the tracker, but odds were the man would have no idea.

Besides, while it might have been fun trying to dig the nonexistent information out of the man, he had better things to do right now. Like finding a new vessel. This policeman was getting boring.

Ready to leave, he paused and leveled a stern eye at the truck he'd been tracking for hours. After a few seconds, tendrils of smoke started seeping out from underneath the hood, followed soon after by flames.

With a snort of laughter, the demon smoked out, leaving his unconscious vessel slumped over the steering wheel of the patrol car.

SUPNSUPNSUPNSUPN

Dean wasn't quite sure he'd heard Pamela correctly.

"Tattoos," he repeated slowly.

Pamela smiled. "Tattoos." She poked a finger at the worn book on the kitchen table. Specifically, at the incredibly detailed sigil splashed across an inner page. "I found this a few years ago in an occult bookstore in Denver."

"Weiser's?"

She nodded, pleased. "You know it?"

"We used to stop in whenever we drove within a few hundred miles of it," Dean answered. "Dad loved the place. Said any book that came from Weiser's was the real deal. But they closed last year."

"They didn't close. They've just gone online." Pam pulled over her tablet and brought up a website. She clicked on the site's catalog, then pushed it across to Dean. "See?"

Dean's eyes widened in appreciation at the preliminary listing of books. "I wonder if Bobby knows."

Pam snorted. "Are you kidding? He's my main competitor! I'm lucky to get one out of four of the really good stuff they put on here." She smiled a sly cat's smile at him, green eyes glinting in the kitchen's bright light. "We cut a deal, though. I send him copies of everything I get and he does the same." She turned back to the book.

"According to this, sometime in the late thirteenth century a philosopher and teacher in Italy by the name of Alessandro Ricci was possessed by a demon. After being ridden for more than six months, the demon deserted him, left him for dead in the mountains near Montecassino."

"He lived?"

"He got lucky," she said flatly. "The nuns at a nearby Benedictine order found him and took him in. It took him more than eight months to recover."

"Huh."

"He spent the next twenty years traveling the world, learning all he could about demons and spreading word of their existence." Her mouth twisted. "They burned him as a witch almost twenty-one years to the day that the demon deserted him."

Dean didn't bother commenting on the monumental stupidity of early witch hunters. He tapped the illustration. "So tell me about this."

Pam drew a breath. "Well, according to this, a priest in Florence told Ricci that this sigil is guaranteed to keep out any and all demons. Ricci was running scared at that point because someone told him that demons sometimes like to repossess old victims. He was afraid he'd be taken again so he wanted to believe this would work."

"Can't blame him. But how do we know if it works?"

Pam smiled and turned a few pages in the book, pointing to a particular passage. Dean read it. His mouth dropped open and his eyes rose to hers, full of hope. "Seriously?"

Pam nodded. "At the priest's instructions, Ricci had the sigil tattooed on his back. It ran from the base of his spine to the top. Three years later the demon tried for repossession and failed."

"Holy shit."

"Ricci was burned the very next day. The local magistrate accused him of witchcraft. Right before he was burned, the demon revealed himself to Ricci. He was possessing the magistrate."

Dean studied the grisly etching of a man wrapped in agony on top of a fiery pyre, then thumbed back to the picture of the symbol. "So this could work."

"What could work?"

Sam stood, dark hair standing on end, at the door of the basement. Smothering a yawn, he came into the kitchen and took a look at the book on the table between them. "What's that?"

Dean stabbed a finger at the illustration. "That is what is going to save your ass, Sammy."

Sam's hazel eyes widened. "What? How?"

Casting a grin at Pamela, Dean smirked and leaned back in his chair. "Tattoos."

Sam blinked at him, then at Pam. "Tattoos?" he echoed.

"Tattoos, a spell discovered more than seven hundred years ago and proven by an accused witch."

Pam smacked Dean on the shoulder and when he yelped in surprise, she said to Sam, "Brothers are a pain in the ass, aren't they?"

"Hey"! Dean said with a wounded look.

"I had three," Pam said confidingly to Sam, pulling him down in the chair next to hers. "They spent most of their time messing with me; the rest of the time messing with each other."

Sam grinned back at her, unable to resist.

Seconds later, all three were on their feet, facing the back door as it swung open and two men strode in.

"Babe!"

The first man, big and burly with a clean-shaven face and a huge grin, held out his arms to Pamela. With a happy cry, she threw herself into his arms; he lifted her up and swung her 'round in a tight circle, his long blond hair sweeping across her face.

After a long, smacking kiss, he put her back on her feet and tossed his jacket toward the kitchen counter. He missed and it slipped to the floor, drawing a snort of laughter from his companion.

Jesse shot a middle finger at his friend and then advanced toward the boys, blue eyes warm. "Hey. Jess Walken."

The two boys glanced quickly at each other, then both shook his hand.

"Sam."

"Dean."

Jesse jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the man in the doorway. "This is my buddy, Darren. Pain in the ass from way back."

"Screw you," the man retorted good-humoredly. "See if this pain in the ass picks you from the airport next time."

Pam gave Darren a quick hug. "Thanks for saving me from airport traffic."

"No problem." His eyes traveled carelessly over the boys. "Look, Jess, I gotta get going."

"Thought you were going to hang out for a while," Jesse said, surprised.

"Nah. I'm gonna head over to The Pony, meet up with some of the guys." Darren raised a hand in farewell and was out the door.

Jesse looked at the Winchesters and shrugged apologetically. "He's not too much into strangers. No offense."

Dean shook his head. "None taken."

Jesse poured himself a cup of coffee and flopped down at the table, pulling Pam down onto his lap. Giving her a tickling kiss under the ear, he pulled the old book to himself, taking in the heavily-detailed illustration. "This it?"

She leaned back against his chest with a sigh of content. "It is."

He studied it closely. "Doable. Who's my victim?"

The boys sat back down at the table and Sam answered him, looking glum. "Me."

"You have any other ink?"

"No!"

Jesse grinned at Sam's emphatic answer. "Not a big fan of needles?"

When Sam shrugged, Dean elbowed him in the ribs with a snicker. Sam glared at him.

Jesse turned to Pamela, who was watching the boys with unconcealed amusement. "Okay, babe. Spill."

The boys watched as Pamela brought Jesse up to speed. It had gone against all their father's teachings for Sam and Dean to tell her the details of their mother's death. Admitting to Sam's demon-initiated dreams and the fact that said demon was trying to recruit Sam for a satanic army had been difficult, to say the least.

Listening now as she shared their lives with Jesse had both boys thrumming with tension. How would he react? Sure, Pam was a friend of Bobby's and well-versed in their world. But Jesse? Who was he? A stranger.

And even if it was necessary for this stranger to have this information - even if he was trustworthy - who's to say he wouldn't tell someone else? Maybe a few someone else's? With each person that learned their secrets, their world got even more dangerous.

As they listened to the all-too-familiar story, the boys' faces were expressionless. But, as Pamela had said before, she was a damned good psychic. Once she finished running down the situation to Jesse, she looked across at the boys and said exactly the right thing.

"Don't worry. Once Jesse finishes the tat, you two can be on your merry way." At their startled faces, she said wryly, "That's what you want, isn't it? Just the two of you - on the road, saving people, hunting things?"

Dean shrugged unapologetically. "It's all we know."

"No offense," Sam added.

"None taken." She turned to Jesse, who was studying the illustration again. "How long do you think it'll take?"

He drew in a deep breath, frowning as he figured it out. "About a week. Maybe a little less."

"A week!" Dean exclaimed, clearly dismayed. "Why so long?"

"Hey, man, this is a spell. We take it slow, do it right. Otherwise, it's just a pretty picture."

Sam nudged Dean and he subsided.

"Plus," Jesse added, "I've got to find a priest to bless the ink."

Even Pam looked surprised at that. "You think that's necessary?"

"There's a phrase in there about 'bletsian' ink. Old English, yeah? Better safe than sorry." Jesse shrugged. "Can't hurt."

"Blessed ink?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Where the hell are we gonna find a priest who won't object to blessing tattoo ink?"

At the absurdity of the question, the four stared at each other for a long moment. Then, as one, they started to laugh.