AN: I'm a day late and a dollar short, since this is yesterday's prompt: Possession / Magic Healing / Science Gone Wrong. Too many details, too many words, as is typical me. *shrugs* This is set in season 1, as requested by Jenjoremy, et. al.

I expect to get today's out actually today!

Lena: The ferry wasn't enough; now you want a cruise ship? LOLOL Too many great plot bunnies in your comments! I kind of figured Bobby "always prepared" Singer would bring dive suits to any hunt that involved creatures of the water. I thought about interrogating the cat, too. Cracks me up every time!

Scealai: My three therapists have four legs and purr when I talk to them, so it seemed appropriate to have Cas talking to a cat again. *grin*

Will o' wisps were usually nothing more than annoyances and most people who saw them figured they were seeing fire flies. Some places, they were more prominent and became local legends. They looked like little floating lights and had just enough magic to make you want to look at them, make you feel a slight desire to follow them.

But when they were together in a high enough concentration like here, in a quiet corner of West Virginia, their magic could cause real problems. This bunch was getting onto a road and causing car accidents and, lately, leading hikers off cliffs.

"It doesn't say how to kill them, but there's a spell that will make it so they can't go in this woods any more. It will scatter them, and they aren't dangerous unless they're in big groups." Sam was reading Dad's journal while sitting cross-legged on his bed on top of a lurid purple comforter in their latest ugly motel room. "He actually lists two different ways to work the spell, but one of them calls for – " he broke off, wrinkling his nose, and Dean hid a snort. It was the same expression baby Sammy had pulled whenever they tried to feed him peas. "—killing a cat or rabbit. The other we can probably do." He read in silence for a minute. "I thinks we have everything, except prantar. It's pretty rare." Dean looked over Sam's shoulder.

"Is there anything we can substitute for it?"

"Maybe." Sam spoke slowly. "Mint might work, since they're both used for cleansing."

"Let's give a shot. Better than killing Thumper."

Soon they were at a roadside park near the center of most of the incidents. Sam was arranging what they needed while Dean kept watch. They'd both seen flickers of light, but knew better than to look at them straight on. Wisps couldn't hurt you physically, only draw you away if you looked at them too long, so the biggest danger was being seen by other humans. "Okay, here goes," said Sam, kneeling in front of a battered metal bowl. By unspoken agreement, he would be the one working the rite, as he was better at pronouncing Latin.

Sam pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall into the bowl. "Non enim id solum. Relinquatis: et non revertetur. Non sic suscipit. Ego dispergam vos."

"Is that it?" asked Dean skeptically. He could still see the lights flickering at the corner of his vision. "Doesn't look like it worked." He sighed. "Dammit."

Sam shrugged. "So we either catch a bunny and kill it or we find some place to buy prantar." Dean pulled out his phone as Sam gathered their supplies again.

"Yeah, Caleb. Wondering if you have any connections out here for supplies."

By the time Sam was finished packing things up, Dean was off his phone. "Caleb had a couple suggestions for places to find supplies. He said there's weird guy named Al Gonzo about two hours from here who sells all kinds of stuff for hunters, or we could call…Bobby."

Sam dropped his eyes at the second suggestion. When John had essentially kicked Sam out, he and Bobby had had a horrific argument. Since then, Bobby stayed in touch with Sam, and not the other two. Both boys suspected that Bobby would have been willing to forgive and forget, especially if it was Dean that called, but they also knew Dean wouldn't go behind Dad's back to do it. "So, we call this Al guy?"

Dean gave the head tilt equivalent of a shrug. "Caleb didn't have a phone number, just an address. But he says this guy's the real deal. And it isn't far. He did say not to bother looking at anything in the basement, cuz we won't be able to afford it anyway." He closed the Impala door and itched his ear. "I just can't believe we're going to get help from a guy named after a Muppet."

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The address Caleb had provided led to a long dirt driveway that disappeared into trees. Both boys noted a security camera mounted to one of the trees. Dean drove up the driveway slowly, trying to be considerate. It was never a good idea to surprise a hunter, especially on their own turf, and Caleb's description of the man as "brilliant, but a nut job" didn't inspire recklessness.

The driveway curved left and led to a yard that had to be a couple acres. The entire thing was surrounded by a 10-foot tall iron fence with another camera mounted to the gate. The wasn't locked, so Sam simply opened it, then closed it again after Dean had driven through.

The yard was dotted with large gardens, all neatly roped off with iron stakes and slender yellow rope, except one, which was surrounded by chicken wire. Sam craned his neck to look at the last as they rolled slowly past. "Whoa…yarrow, fox glove, wormwood…poisons and plants for heavy magic." He looked up as they pulled to a stop in front of the house. "But the stuff up here is all for protection. I think this guy is the real deal."

The house itself was very tall and narrow with a steeply pitched roof. If said roof had been orange, the house would have looked perfectly at home lined shoulder to shoulder with its fellows along the side of a canal in the Netherlands. Alone, it looked oddly fragile despite the fact that it was well maintained.

Dean looked right at yet another security camera as he knocked. Best let Mr. Paranoid see them nice and clearly.

The door jerked open to reveal a tall, gray-haired man who was at least fifteen pounds underweight. His mustard yellow cardigan hung heavily, emphasizing his gauntness and the olive tint of his skin. "I'm Dean, and this is my brother Sam. Caleb gave us your information. We're – "

"Hunters. Come in. Call me Al." Two Dobermans watched the three men, silently attentive. "Stai jos," Al snapped at the dogs, and they laid down, still watching but at ease.

Though Al's attire was straight out of the 70's the house was modern and neat. It was very normal, except for the paintings that lined the long hallway that Al led them down. They were stylized depictions of Americana – balloons floating away over the roof of a rural church, a colorful bunting spanning a dirt road to mark the finish line of a footrace, etc., and they should have seemed cheerful. But there was something just a little bit off about them. The colors were a little too bright, the corners of buildings were too drastically foreshortened, and Dean thought the faceless runners looked more like an amoebic mass than individuals. "Horrifying, aren't they?" asked Al from ahead. "But people pay a crapload of money for 'em. They hang 'em in their kids' bedrooms. Can you imagine? But, hey, it pays for all of my shit, so who gives a crap?"

The brothers hid their smiles as they followed the eccentric man up a sharply twisting metal staircase. He certainly was…unique. "You looking for herbs, potions, artifacts, or inventions?"

The entire second story was open, lined with shelves of bottles and jars. Long tables formed an "L" in front of them. It looked like an entire apothecary. Sam gave a list to Al. "Can you tell me how much all of this would cost? The first item is the one we really need."

Al scratched his head and began to put together packets of powders and dried plants. "Three ounces of each, $185. Five ounces of each, $265."

The Winchesters were surprised. The prices were low. "Do the five ounces then, Al," directed Dean.

Soon finished, the excitable man, who was remarkably spry for all his apparent age, convinced them to come up to the third floor to see all of the "weirdo stuff." It was full of the strange, the kooky, and the totally disgusting. The brothers bought a few small charms and admired a lot of the rest of the items. Then Al waved his arms. "You have-have to some see the best of all. The basement," he insisted, stuttering in his excitement, and the boys couldn't resist following. They might not be able to afford anything, but this guy had some seriously unique stuff and they were curious.

The basement was lined with workbenches covered in circuit boards, soldering equipment, and all kinds of electronic components and gadgetry. So cool. Al was showing off a salt grenade he claimed would dissipate twenty ghosts and Dean was playing with a slide whistle that emitted a sound too high for human ears, but that Al swore would disorient a Chupacabra. Sam ignored them, his attention diverted by a gadget that resembled a metal version of a lady's clamshell compact lined with tiny spikes like teeth. Sam tapped in gently. "Al, what is this m – Hey!"

As Sam had turned to look at the older man, the apparatus had slammed closed on his forearm. "Ouch! Dammit!" Sam used his right hand to try to pry it off, but it was biting deeply into his skin.

"The hell?" asked Dean stepping forward. Sam's eyes swung up, looking shocked and glassy. Sam stumbled into the cabinet behind him and slid toward the floor. Dean was barely there in time to grab the lapels of his coat and keep him from landing hard on his ass.

Behind him, Dean vaguely heard Al call, "Vin, fetele. Paznic." The dogs' nails clicked sharply on the stairs.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Just that fast, Sam slumped the rest of the way over.

"What the hell? Al, what is that thing? What's going on?" Dean turned to the older man and saw that he'd backed across the room, and the dogs were between Al and Winchesters now, hackles raised. "Al? Help me here!"

"Dean, you-you have to move away from him so we can help him. There's a demon possess-possessing your brother." Al was clutching his phone like a lifeline.

"Bull. We've been on a hunt. Kid hasn't been out of my sight except to use the can for three days."

Al shook his head wildly, sending his gray hair flying. "The demon must have come while you slept. I don't know. I just know-know that he is possessed."

"You're wrong. We put up protections and salt lines everywhere we stay. Why would you even think that?" Dean finally lowered Sam gently to the floor, carefully staying between him and the dogs, that were quietly snarling. "Shit! Look what your thingamajig is doing to him. How do we get it off?" Blood was flowing from the spot where the strange contraption seemed to be embedding itself even deeper into Sam's arm.

"Th-that's how I know…Dean, there is a tiny microscopic change in the blood of a possessed human. After only 10 minutes outside the body, it disappears. But I made something that could detect it in even the smallest drop, and Sam set it off." Al gestured toward the unconscious man. "I thought – I hoped – that the injection would render the human unconscious so we could exorcise the demon and it worked! Step away from him so I can get some help here." He flipped open his phone, but Dean didn't move.

"You're wrong, Al! I would know! What did that thing inject him with? Is it safe?"

"It's just a…sedative."

Dean stopped patting his brother's cheek and bared his teeth at the man who was nervously inching toward the stairs. "I don't like that pause, Al. What kind of sedative?"

Al swallowed hard. He was still backing away. "A…big game sedative. It's designed to flood the body with enough pharmaceuticals to stay ahead of a demon's ability to purge the, uh, vessel."

"And what would this do to a human who was not possessed?" demanded Dean.

"It's, uh, it's a prototype, but it would not make that mistake checking his blood…" Al gulped at the look on Dean's face. "It's supposed to recheck his blood every 15 minutes and, um, injectmoreuntilhisbloodisclear. It could be some time before a non-possessed system would shut down …but he is definitely possessed! We should focus on helping him!" he waved the phone like it had all the answers they needed.

"Two more questions," said Dean with a quiet patience that someone who knew him would have recognized as very, very dangerous. "First, why does a prototype have actual drugs in it?"

"Some hunter friends promised to bring me a demon-possessed person if they could catch one," offered Al weakly. "It's the only real efficacious test…"

"And how do we get this off Sammy because it's fucking hurting him?!"

"I d-don't…there isn't a way…"

Dean looked straight at Al for a long moment. "Wanna find out if your dogs are fast enough to keep me from shooting you in the face?"

There was a loud pop and Dean instinctively threw himself over Sam and slammed his eyes shut as he was pelted with what felt like sand. By the time he could open them and squint through the foggy air, Al was gone, and he heard a heavy latch clank shut. He licked his lips without thinking and realized what had happened. "Al used the salt grenade on me!" Dean shot out the two cameras he saw in a fit of pique and spent the next few minutes swearing creatively.

Prioritize. Even as Dean looked around the room for escape routes (only one – not so much as a window) and things that could help them (too many options), he was also evaluating his brother. Blood was flowing steadily from his arm now, but nothing would help that until Dean could get that damn gadget off him. He had no idea how much of a sedative the thing could hold, but for many medications, even a tiny amount could be dangerous. So that was priority one.

There were no external hinges or screws on the device, because that would be far too easy.

"Sorry, Sammy," he apologized, and began to carefully work the tip of his knife between the metal and Sam's skin. That made the blood flow even faster, but Sam didn't so much as flinch. Dean had no leverage, and he wasn't doing anything except gouging his brother's arm. That prompted more swearing.

Dean began to search for whatever in the room might help him. The dogs, though covered in a fine coat of salt, were still on guard, so Dean figured he'd better stick with what he could reach without standing up. The cabinet Sam had bumped into now hung open. Most of the stuff in it was of incomprehensible use, but he pocketed a few items. Then – jackpot. He pulled out a small tank of liquid nitrogen. It had a precision nozzle at the end of the hose. Holding his breath, Dean carefully painted a line of the freezing liquid along the point at which the contraption folded. He had learned to weld in some of the many pick-up jobs he'd held over the years, but never had he laid a bead more carefully. He accidentally touched his own finger at the end of the line, but didn't jump. He switched off the tank, counted to 10, then used the butt of his knife to make one precision strike to the center of the fold.

The contraption broke neatly in half. Hot damn. Dean didn't wait for the metal to warm up before grabbing the new edge and pulled the pieces of the fucking thing off his brother's arm. Not only was Sam's arm bleeding from all the little "teeth," the stupid gadget had clamped down so hard that it had cut through the skin around its entire perimeter, top and bottom. Dean had no way to clean the wounds, so though he thought it could definitely use some stitches, all he could do was wrap it in a bandana. The kid wouldn't bleed out, but Dean wasn't pleased.

"Hey, Lassie and friend, go tell your douchebag master that my very human brother needs medical attention, will ya?" Dean addressed the silent dogs. That was another thing. Even if he thought he could kill both dogs before they got him, Dean really didn't want to have to kill the innocent animals because their owner was a paranoid prick. "Every part of this blows," he muttered.

It was at least two hours before Sam showed evidence that he might stir soon. While he waited, Dean filled his pockets (and Sam's too) with anything he could reach that might be even the slightest bit useful. He talked to Sam: mocking him for drooling, exhorting him to wake up, complaining about the hard floor, threatening Caleb's life for sending them there, questioning Al's parentage, and so on. But mostly he got angrier and angrier to see his little brother injured and so deeply drugged because of a misfiring invention and its creator's inability to admit to its failure.

As Dean checked his cellphone for the five thousandth time (no signal on Al's property; probably some kind of blocker), Sam's eyelids lifted fractionally. "Sammy? Hey, Sammy? Can you hear me?" asked Dean immediately, voice rough with relief.

It was another 10 minutes before those eyes tracked Dean and 10 more before there was awareness in them, none of which helped Dean's temper. Dean was talked quietly, none of his anger in his voice, just giving Sam something to hold onto as he fought past his unintended acid trip. As Dean explained that he was calling the dogs Cheech and Chong, Sam broke in hoarsely, "Don't tell me. It was tequila."

It was a joke between them. When one woke up disoriented, he'd say that. It was a light-hearted way to say, hey, the world's on a merry-go-round right now, but I'm okay. Dean was so relieved he could hardly give the requisite answer. "Yeah, man, and you did karaoke." That was Sam and Dean code for I'm here, and you're alright.

Sam even offered a bit of a smile. "Gonzo?" he asked with a whisper, his eyes still crossing but starting to fire on more cylinders.

"Yeah, his psycho invention thinks you're possessed by a demon, and shot you full of elephant tranquilizer."

Right on cue, the door at the top of the stairs opened slightly, but the only thing that appeared was the nose of a gun. "Put your weapons on the floor and move away from the demon or I'll just shoot you from here." The voice didn't belong to Al.

"You a hunter?" Dean asked, ignoring all the orders. "Cuz I didn't think hunters shot ordinary humans. And by the way, my little brother's not possessed. You gonna just believe crazy Al?"

"I've been hunting since before you were outta diapers, kid, and I do what I have to do. And yeah, I believe Al over some kid who's too dumb to recognize a demon. Now move. We'll give you your brother back when we'll done, and he'll probably even be alive, if you don't make us wait too long."

"Yeah? Then why don't you just recite an exorcism and take care of the demon from there?" Dean might never have come up against a demon (and hoped he never would), but he knew the only way to deal with one was to send it back to Hell as soon as possible. "Or toss me some holy water. Better yet, check this out: Christo. See? Not a demon."

"It ain't always that simple, kid." A bullet smashed into the cabinet above Dean's head. "Last warning."

Dean ground his teeth and wondered if it were possible to get so angry your head actually, literally exploded. But he had no moves, and he knew it. He set his gun on the floor and whispered to Sam, almost inaudibly, "Don't let them know you're awake." He had no idea if Sam heard him or could comprehend the words. Then he cautiously crab-walked to the opposite corner of the room.

Not one or two but four men, three of them armed, came down the stairs. Al wasn't with them. Two of them kept Dean covered with their weapons – and one grabbed his pistol – and the other two looped iron chains around Sam, who flopped like a rag doll. They each hooked one of Sam's armpits and began to haul him up the stairs, his feet thunking on each step. "You do as you're told, boy, and you'll get outta this alive," said the tallest man. He was one of those guys that had a long ponytail in complete disregard of his drastically receding hairline. Dean recognized the voice that had taunted him from the top of the stairs.

One of the other men, a bookish twenty-something with glasses who didn't fit in with the leathered hunter vibe the rest of them gave off, stopped their progress to peel back one of Sam's eyelids.

"Look at those black eyes," sneered Dean. "Oh, wait, they're not."

"The central heterochromia might be a sign, though," the man said thoughtfully.

"Sam's had that since he was eight months old," scoffed Dean. "Maybe his height is a sign of demon possession. Or – I know! It's why he has such white teeth. Maybe he flosses. Maybe he's possessed!" He mocked them for their erroneous conclusions, hoping to plant seeds of doubt. Glasses looked at him in surprise. Yeah, I know what that is. Yeah, I know it's unusual that Sam's eyes are so much lighter around his pupils than at the outside of his irises.

"Bring him upstairs and get him ready," ordered ponytail.

With utmost sincerity, Dean said, "If you hurt him, I will kill all of you."

Ponytail laughed. "Ooookay, tough guy. You work on that, and we'll call you when we're done with your brother."

They took one of the dogs with them, and Dean heard the heavy latch slid across the door. That was unfortunate, since Dean couldn't pick the lock, but he had a plan for that. He tempered his impatience. They'd expect him to try and burst out immediately, if at all. He needed to wait long enough that they were surprised. To stop himself from imagining what the dickwads were possibly doing to his little brother, Dean decided to count all of the mistakes they'd made.

First and biggest mistake: screwing with Sammy. They might not survive that mistake. Second mistake: underestimating Dean. Nobody had secured him or checked him for other weapons. They'd left one dog behind to keep an eye on him. Third, they had no idea what they were dealing with; they obviously had no idea how to identify a demon. Fourth, they'd left Dean with all this gadgetry. "Where does he get those wonderful toys?" Dean muttered under his breath, wishing Sam were there to mock him for the quote. "Okay, that's enough waiting, Cheech." Dean had reached the end of his patience. "Time to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight."

Dean reviewed his plans for getting the hell out of there, feeling a little bit like Kevin McAllister. "Stai jos," he told the dog, doing his best to imitate the command that Al had given the dogs when they'd first come in his house. Unfortunately, it was too well trained to listen to a stranger. Option two. Dean blew on the Chupacabra whistle, pulling the slide all the way up. The dog whined and crouched as if in pain. Dean kept blowing, backing the animal into the closet, shut the door, and pulled the edge of a workbench in front of it. He was pleased that he didn't have to kill the creature, but with Sam's life at stake, it wouldn't have stopped him.

Pulling out the handy liquid nitrogen tank, Dean soundlessly climbed the stairs. He treated all of the hinges, then set the tank down and broke them as quietly as he could. That done, he eased the door out. He was counting on his opponents' hubris, and he was right about them. There wasn't even a guard at the door. He set the door back in place and followed the sound of voices.

The sound of a fist impacting flesh and subsequent grunt from Sam pushed Dean into that cold place beyond pissed off. "Tell us your true name, demon," ordered ponytail's voice, muffled by walls between them. Sam said something Dean couldn't make out, voice low and mocking There was another hit, another grunt. Those fucking morons wanted to control a demon. Dad believed that it was a myth that you could control a demon if you knew its real name. At best, it would be like having a tiger on a leash. It would devour you the first chance it had.

Of course, these idiots didn't even have a demon, just Sam. As Dean thought it, he heard Sam's voice, low but clear this time. "My brother's gonna kill you, you know." He grunted as he was obviously hit again. "I'm not even possessed. Hitting me isn't going to change anything." Dean was proud, even as he thought shut up, kiddo!

A new voice spoke up. "I can't – I thought we were going to help this guy." It was the geek who'd talked about Sam's eyes.

"The kid's body is already dead. Only the demon is left." Ponytail again. "If you can't handle this, get out."

Perfect. The hunter that was Dean Winchester smiled. They made it so much easier when they split up. He just wished he knew where the other dog was. Glasses man stepped out of one of the doors that flanked the hallway and closed the door behind him. And found himself pinned against the wall with a hand over his mouth and a knife to his throat. His red-rimmed eyes widened so much Dean wondered if he'd pass out.

"Are you armed?" he hissed, and the other man shook his head as much as he was able. "Don't make a sound or I'll gut you. Got it?" Another nod. Dean had hoped for a gun or at least another knife, but at least this guy would probably make it out. He didn't seem like a dick like the others. Dean made him go out on the porch, staying carefully out of sight of the camera.

"How many are in that room with Sam?"

"Three. Al took his dog and went upstairs. He – he couldn't watch." Dean nodded. "And how bad have they hurt my brother?"

"They've, uh, only hit him. But I think if he doesn't talk, uh…" he trailed off, looking sick.

Dean nodded again. He knew. And three, he could handle, as long as he could keep them away from Sam. "Listen, if you survive this, try to get the dogs out, okay? One is locked in the closet in the basement."

Glasses guy looked confused. "What?" But Dean didn't take time to explain. Instead, he punched him, knocking him out, and lowered him to the floor. Slipping back inside, Dean set up a few things and then stood by the door, listening for a moment, trying to hear where as many of his opponents were standing as possible. Taking a breath, he opened the door, tossed in a salt grenade, and closed it again.

Sorry, Sammy. It wasn't close to fatal to be, uh peppered with salt, but it was disorienting. Dean threw the door open again and stabbed the closest man. He was outnumbered and didn't have the opportunity to play nice. Someone else ran at him, gun in hand, and pushed him back against the wall. Dean got the gun loose but dropped it. He and his opponent, who had to weigh 250, struggled for a moment, then a gunshot rang out and startled them. Dean recovered first and slammed the butt of his knife into the guy's face, knocking him out cold.

Across the room, Sam was on his knees in front of a chair with a gun in his hand. Ponytail was slumped against the wall with a hole in his forehead. Nice.

Then Dean could smell smoke, even through the acrid scent of the grenade mixed with gunpowder. An alarm blared from somewhere in the house. "Uh, Sammy, we gotta go." He hauled his brother to his feet. He looked like he'd taken more than a few punches, and his eyes weren't terribly clear, but he stood when Dean hauled him up. He relinquished the gun too. Dean dragged one of Sam's arms across his shoulder and got his brother out of there. He was grateful that Sam helped quite a bit. He was unsteady but definitely strong enough to hold himself up, which was a plus, since blue smoke was now pouring down from the higher floors.

Coughing hard, the boys half stumbled out the door, down the steps, and into the Impala. Dean was pulled a three-point turn almost before he had his door closed.

Before they rounded the corner of the driveway, four explosions rang out, and the house shuddered. "I didn't do that," protested Dean. "I just started a couple small fires as diversions." He hated that he'd had to kill people, even hunters (though ponytail dude deserved it), and hoped glasses guy and the dogs at least were safe. He didn't really want Al dead either.

"Pr-probably booby trapped. Or something dangerous c-caught fire. Not your fault."

Dean studied his brother as much as he could while speeding down the road. "You doin' all right, Sam?"

"Yeah," he responded thickly. "Just a little tired from the drugs." He scoffed. "They had no idea how to throw a punch."

Dean chuckled. "Atta boy. Your arm okay?" His gaze sharpened as Sam closed his eyes.

"Yeah, it's fine, Dean. Just…seeing double a little bit, and it's making me a little sick. Don't want to puke."

"You better not," teased Dean, not entirely appeased. "We'll stop as soon as we can and patch you all up, let you sleep it off on a real bed. You don't think we need to pick any naloxone, do you?"

"Nah." Sam yawned.

"Nice shot, but the way, especially for someone seeing double. Middle of his forehead. Perfect."

Sam's lips twitched up. "I was aiming for center mass."

That made Dean laugh. Whether or not it was true, Dean was glad Sam felt well enough to joke. "Well, just lay off the tequila next time."

Sam smiled sleepily and hit play on the tape deck. "That mean it's karaoke time?" He fell asleep to Dean singing Killed by Death.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam slept most of the next two days, fighting the affects of the drugs and a minor infection in his arm. Dean hovered and plied him with Gatorade, Tylenol, and antibiotics. He also found the police report for the fire. Three bodies had been found, and police suspected a home invasion gone bad. Dean briefly inspected the many emotions he had about everything that had happened, then expertly set them aside. He'd done what he had to in order to protect Sam. He was more than a little proud of how the kid had acquitted himself. He'd even gotten out of his chains with a vial of acid that Dean had slipped into his pocket.

Dean made the difficult call to Caleb, who understood and apologized for how things had gone down. He also offered to let Bobby know, saying the older hunter had also known Al. And Dean left a message for his dad. He wasn't sure why, but he still felt obligated to report to the man.

The third morning, Dean was surprised but pleased to find a freshly showered Sam coming out of the bathroom when Dean returned with breakfast. "Look at you, showering and everything. Couldn't stand your own stink any more?" he asked, unable to stop himself from taking Sam's elbow protectively. That drug had done a number on his equilibrium.

Sam shook him off, another good sign. "Lemme go, Dean," he huffed without heat. "We can't stay here any longer."

"Where we going? Fiji?" Ignoring his brother's bitch face, Dean bullied him into a chair and inspected his arm. It was looking better, but still was red and puffy. Dean spread some ointment over it and rebandaged it.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I can do that, you know." He didn't do anything about it, though, resigned to the hovering. "And no, not Fiji. That would require you to get on an airplane. We have to go take care of those wisps."

Dean groaned. "Oh, that's right. Fine. We'll head out. After you eat your breakfast."

"And brush my teeth? And wash behind my ears?" Sam mocked Dean's motherly tendencies lightly. They ate in silence, something obviously on Sam's mind. "I just wonder…why Al's device thought my blood showed evidence of a demon…"

AN part 2: A few housekeeping issues to take care of here.

As always, I speak only English and relied on Google translate for the rest. The spell to send the wisps away is in Latin and translates roughly to: This ground is not for you. Leave and do not return. You are not welcome in this place. I scatter (disperse) you. The commands given to the dogs are Romanian, and translate as follows: stand down – stai jos, girls, come – vin fetele, guard – paznic, and be ready – fii pregǎtit.

Dean quotes the 1989 Batman movie twice, both spoken by Jack Nicholson's version of the Joker: "Where does he get those wonderful toys?" and "Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Killed by Death is a song by Motörhead.