Author's Note: In Lazarus Rising, Bobby and Dean find Sam in Pontiac, Illinois. From there, they go to meet Pamela, who lives "about four hours down the Interstate." That would put her in Missouri, right? If not, oh well. :-)

SPN

(Missouri … Sunday, December 6, 2005)

"There you boys are!" Pamela welcomed the five hunters, their vampire, and Cyrus to her home with open arms—literally. She grabbed Bobby in a bear hug, and followed suit with Sam and Dean. "I was starting to think you weren't going to make it."

After Bela—citing safety concerns—kicked them out of her condo, they began driving west. Unfortunately, they hit bad weather, prompting them to seek shelter and wait for the snow to clear. Sam was naturally shaken up by the delay, and spent every wasted moment pacing around in a cold sweat. Not even the fancy accommodations—which they could afford since Bela paid Sam handsomely for rescuing her—brought him the slightest relief.

"Well," Dean quipped. "We still have a couple weeks for the world to end, so what's the rush?" It was a bad joke—especially in front of Sam—and Dean instantly regretted it. While the three older hunters glared at him, Pamela grimaced and only steadied herself by clutching Sam's jacket.

"You better tone it down, Grumpy," she warned the young man, albeit kindly. "It's hard to function with all that panic." Sam mumbled an apology while supporting her weight—he wasn't used to other psychics absorbing his emotions. Dean, on the other hand, was practically a pro at guarding himself, and Pamela noticed his improvement. While shepherding them all inside, she gave him a quick double take. "That's quite a wall you've built in just a month. I'm impressed." Something about her flattering smile made him blush.

The next ten minutes were spent on introductions. Pamela flirted with Rufus, warned John not to cross her, and offered Benny a disposable coffee cup filled with blood—which she had the decency to procure after taking their call on Thursday afternoon. Then, last but not least, she peered down at Cyrus. "So you're the little tyke everyone's worried about. Come on, let's have a look at you."

Cyrus glanced doubtfully at Sam, but when he nodded his encouragement, the boy stepped forward. Pamela steered him away from the others and squatted so they were eye level. "Don't be afraid. No one's gonna hurt you." She brushed a hand through his hair, contemplating the nature of his thoughts, emotions, and overall energy. During this silent examination, Dean noticed Sam struggling to hide how hurt he was by his family's lack of faith. After all, by trusting Pamela's judgment above his own, weren't they implying he had little credibility? Dean wished he could somehow reassure his brother—they loved him too much for unnecessary risks. If Pamela could determine the quality of Cyrus' character and corroborate Sam's opinion of the boy, why wouldn't they consult her?

Eventually, the woman sighed. "You poor thing. I'm so sorry." She wrapped him in her arms, holding him tightly while meeting John's gaze. "There's nothing enhanced, magical, or remotely supernatural about him. He's just a normal, traumatized kid who needs protection."

John still wasn't convinced. "Even normal, traumatized kids can grow into monsters."

Sam scoffed. "You mean like me?" No one could miss the accusation in his voice—he was bracing himself for an argument. Damn. Why did they always have to argue?

"You're not a monster, Sam," John countered softly.

"Then neither is Cyrus!"

"All right, you two, that's enough!" Bobby sidled between them, ever the referee. He cast John an aggravated look. "We already agreed Pamela's the expert, and if she says the kid's innocent… End. Of. Story." John crossed his arms, but his friend had a point. With the crushing weight of Jacob, Azazel, Elizabeth and Shax hanging over their heads, they couldn't waste time questioning Cyrus. They had to focus on the real threat, and Dean was never more grateful for Bobby's interference.

"So what's next?" Pamela asked, hopping to her feet while Cyrus scurried over to Sam, clutching his hand. "You said something about a séance on the phone?"

"Yeah," Bobby affirmed. "We're hunting a high-level demon who's preparing a ritual for the solstice, which gives us about two weeks to stop him."

"That's not much time," Pamela pointed out. "What's the ritual?"

All eyes turned to John, who apparently decided to keep Sam's secret. "I'll say this much—the spell comes from the Book of the Damned, and it will lead to hell on earth." Pamela blanched, glancing around the room in mounting alarm.

"You're not serious?"

"Oh, we're serious," Rufus assured her. "So smoke 'em if you got 'em."

Benny shook his head. "We just need to figure out a way to kill the demon, that's all."

"Oh, that's all, is it?" Pamela sneered. "You have any idea what it takes to kill a demon? I don't. Exorcizing them is hard enough. And this one's high-level?" Sam opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and looked away. Pamela, however, obviously read his mind and inhaled sharply. A moment later, she erupted. "All right, you listen to me, young man! If I ever hear you consider that again, we're benching you. The last thing we need is Jacob's help!"

Dean groaned. Damn it, Sammy!

"But I didn't actually suggest it," Sam exclaimed, flustered and defensive. "I stopped myself, didn't I?"

"I'll give you that, but you've got to do better!" Pamela retorted. "It wasn't just a passing thought, Sam, it was an actual desire. You want Jacob's help, and he's not even here! If he has such influence over you while he's absent, how much worse will it be if he's present?" She stopped short, inspecting Sam with renewed urgency. "Wait… Something's different. Your connection to Jacob…" She cringed. "He reinforced it, didn't he?"

"What?" Dean asked, glancing from Sam to Pamela and back again. His brother was staring at his feet with a broken expression. "What does that mean, he reinforced it?"

"It's not a big deal," Sam whispered. "We have more pressing concerns. The demon…"

"Sammy," John began.

"No! I don't want to talk about it!" Sam shied away, dropping Cyrus' hand to keep from crushing it. "I just want to kill the thing that killed mom!"

Silence. Dean tried to imagine how Jacob might have 'reinforced' his bond with Sam, and the possibilities were sickening. He glanced at Cyrus, but the kid seemed to share his horror, and gave no indication of inside knowledge. Son of a bitch. Even when he was free, Sam remained Jacob's prisoner. When would this nightmare finally be over?

After a beat, John nodded. "Okay. The demon first. Jacob later. Pamela," he glanced at the psychic, "we need a weapon to kill a demon, and the only one I can think of is presumably a fairytale. So we need some guidance, and as it turns out, the boys and I are descended from 'the ultimate authority on all things supernatural.' We need to speak with the Men of Letters."

SPN

(Missouri … Sunday, December 6, 2005)

"But why do I have to go?" Cyrus whimpered as Sam ushered him to the door with Rufus and Bobby. Back in the living room, Pamela was setting up a round table with a black altar cloth, white candles, a small clay cup, a ceremonial blade, and a package of medical dressing—all for the séance—while John, Dean, and Benny watched in fascination. It was almost time, and everyone agreed Cyrus would be safer somewhere else. Everyone, that is, except Cyrus. "I'm a part of this, Sam. It's my fight, too!"

Sam crouched down in front of him. "I know you want to help, but it's too dangerous. This demon…"

"I'm not scared," Cyrus lied. "And I'm almost eight! I'm big enough!"

Rufus chuckled. "Kid, I've seen cocker spaniels bigger than you."

Cyrus pouted, but Sam wasn't swayed. "I didn't start hunting till I was nine, and even then, those hunts were relatively normal. This one's different. The fate of the world's at stake, and it might get very bad, very quickly. I don't want you anywhere near that demon. I want you safe."

"I'm safe with you!"

Sam smiled weakly, glancing at the tattoo on his wrist—practically a demonic tracking device. Cyrus didn't have one yet—as a rule, the Stynes waited for puberty to brand themselves—which meant they could hide him from Shax and Jacob, but only if he left the Winchesters. "I don't think anyone's safe with me. Bobby and Rufus can protect you better than I can. Please, Cyrus. Go with them. Just for a couple weeks."

And after that, then what? Sam quickly pushed the question aside. He couldn't be contemplating the future right now. Every time he did, he either visualized a grotesque devil with giant, bat-like wings, or his brother—Jacob—dragging him back to their home between realities. No matter what happened, he was going to lose, and the only way he could remain calm was by immersing himself in the present. He might not get to stay with John and Dean, but at least for now they were together.

With tears in his eyes, Cyrus gave Sam one last hug; then the hunter stood to embrace Bobby. The others had already said their goodbyes—they weren't comfortable with long, drawn-out, emotional situations—though Sam could sense Dean watching from a distance, regretting their old friend's departure. "You take care of him, okay, Bobby?"

"I took care of you and your brother, didn't I?" Bobby smiled sadly as they released each other. "Don't worry about us, kid. We got the easy job." He couldn't hide his reluctance—he didn't want to leave anymore than Cyrus did—the upcoming fight was too important. But he also knew how readily their enemies would manipulate Sam by exploiting Cyrus, and that would be devastating. Someone had to keep the child from harm, and Sam didn't trust anyone but Bobby.

"See you 'round, Sam!" Rufus said as they shuffled outside. "Don't let those bastards ruin Hanukkah!" They proceeded down the walkway and crammed into Bobby's Chevelle. A few minutes later, they were gone, leaving nothing behind but traces of their deep anxiety, which haunted Sam like phantoms. He might never see them again. How quickly and casually they walked out of his life, perhaps forever—but if it meant saving Cyrus, it was worth the loss. Sam closed the door and returned to the living room, where John, Dean, Pamela and Benny were waiting patiently.

"You did the right thing, Sam," Dean told him as he wearily sank into a chair at the round table. "You know, you're probably the first person who's ever put that kid's needs ahead of his own. It's for the best."

Sam met his gaze briefly, then looked away, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "So, are we gonna do this, or what?"

"Might as well," Pamela said, taking the seat across from him. She motioned for Benny to sit on her left and Dean on her right, with John between him and Sam. Then, she began lighting the candles. "Ideally, to invoke a particular spirit, I require something tied to it—something it touched or owned during its life. However, we don't have that luxury, so we're going to try a blood ritual. If you're descended from the Men of Letters, your blood should be sufficient to summon one." She offered John the ceremonial blade. "Perhaps your father."

"God, I hope not." John snatched the weapon and extended his left hand over the clay cup. As he brought the blade to his palm, Benny narrowed his eyes.

"Should I be here for this?"

"Are you still thirsty?" Pamela asked. "I can refill your drink."

"Might be wise."

Pamela bounded from her chair into the kitchen, eager to accommodate the vampire. When she returned, and when everyone seemed satisfied, she motioned for John to proceed. Without so much as flinching, he sliced his palm and allowed his blood to pour into the cup. Once he applied some medical dressing to the wound, Pamela instructed them to hold hands. Sam was grateful not to be on his father's injured side—he didn't want to accidentally squeeze too hard and hurt him.

"Close your eyes," Pamela advised, and a moment later, she began. "Amate, spiritus obscure, te quaerimus." Even with his eyes closed, Sam perceived the lights flickering around him. The table began rattling, and like wisps of smoke, the energy in the room billowed into the periphery, making space in their circle for the arrival of a mysterious new entity. "Te oramus, nobiscum colloquere, apud nos, circita!"

The flames from the candles flared into blazing pillars—Sam felt the heat on his face even as the temperature began plummeting—and when they finally receded back to normal, he could sense the spirit inhabiting Pamela. No! His eyes snapped open, and he nearly jumped to his feet—every instinct urging him to combat this supernatural possession. His heart was pounding, and Benny peered over at him with a stern expression, silently warning him to control himself. Pamela was a medium—this was their goal.

"What forsaken land is this?" she asked, obviously in a trance. Her voice was low and monotonous—her eyes were dull. "I have seen it once before, long ago. Who calls me back to this ungodly realm?"

Sam glanced at Dean, who returned his gaze in equal discomfort. They were trained to hunt ghosts, not consult them. This went against everything John taught them, and nothing in the world could have prepared them for it—no matter how benevolent the ghost might be.

Of course, their father wasn't fazed. He leaned over the table, regarding Pamela with his customary grit. "My name is John Winchester; I am Henry Winchester's son."

"Henry?" the spirit asked through Pamela's lips. "Yes, Henry. Such a promising child. Did he ever find his way back to you?"

John hesitated, torn between sorrow and resent. "No. I was four years old when he disappeared without explanation, and I still don't know why. As far as I'm concerned, he's dead."

"He is not dead. He is lost deep within the flow of time."

Sam furrowed his brow.

"The hell does that mean?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing," John spoke over the spirit. "It means he can't help us. We're not here for my father. We're here for the demon, Azazel. He's conspiring with a fortune-teller from the house of Frankenstein to break the seals to the cage in hell, using dark magic from the Book of the Damned."

Dean dropped his guard enough for Sam to feel his curiosity about the cage. Surely he could imagine how monstrous a demon must be to deserve such extreme incarceration. As for the spirit, it certainly understood the danger—Pamela whimpered, and profound agitation filled the room.

"There must be a way to stop them," John continued. "Did the Men of Letters leave any weapons or knowledge behind that can help us?"

"The supernatural mother lode," the spirit replied. "But you can't reach it. The doors are locked, and the key is lost deep within the flow of time."

Benny chuckled mirthlessly while John's shoulders sagged. "Throw us a bone, eh chief? Got anything that wasn't lost deep within the flow of time?"

Pamela cast the vampire a blank stare, cocking her head. "You aren't human. Do legacies now fraternize with monsters?"

Benny shrugged. "Desperate times. From what I understand, we're facing the end of the world." Sam flinched. "It'll be curtains for everyone, humans and monsters alike. We're in it together, and we've got nothing to lose."

"Help us," John added.

Pamela sighed. "The Men of Letters were destroyed in a single night… But there were survivors. One in particular has sufficient experience to render aid. I should not recommend him. His stubbornness, arrogance, and irresponsible license make him a threat to everyone around him. He was expelled from our ranks in 1956 following the deaths of two colleagues. You must never trust him. And yet, if you're desperate enough to enlist a vampire, why not the Master of Spells? He was always fond of Henry. Perhaps he'll attend to Henry's children."

John nodded. "Where can we find him?"

SPN

Author's Note: Okay, so I know how much time and energy it takes to leave reviews, but keep in mind how much time and energy it takes me to update regularly. I don't ask for anything else in return—and I need your comments for morale.

Thank You Fiery Charizard! As of this update, you are the only person who reviewed Chapter 20.

I am craving feedback! Please Review!