AN: Yes, I completely made up the demon and the book, but it works for my story.

Chapter 8

Sam sighed and rolled his head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks. It was just like his brother to rush off on some mysterious errand and leave him with the boring job. But he'd had just about enough cryptic Winchester bullshit for one night. First their dad leaves some old hymnal, or whatever it was, and then Dean takes off without any explanation.

He flopped down on the floral spread of his twin bed and propped The Servant's Prayerbook on his raised knees. Upon closer examination, the book was actually older than he'd first speculated and a fine mist of dust puffed up into his face as he opened it. He coughed and waved a hand to disperse the particles, having trouble keeping the heavy volume open with one hand.

After the dust settled, Sam tried to read the elaborate print on the first page. The ink had faded over time and he shifted positions on the bed so he could hold it closer to the light.

At the top of the page were the words "We are the servants of Cristolokar, and live only to serve his purpose."

"What the hell?" he mused aloud. He scanned down to the bottom of the page and read the date: 1692. It was going to be a very long night.

-O-

Dean wasn't sure why he'd felt compelled to return to the Russell home, but he'd been pulled, urged by some invisible force to watch out for Emily. Maybe it was because his father had left another clue, like this was some twisted guessing game that he was losing. Maybe Sam was right, maybe they couldn't stop this thing. But he couldn't accept that, he couldn't live with himself if he did.

But none of his speculation explained why he parked his car down the street and crept under the cover of darkness to the Russell's' front porch. He'd moved slowly and silently, testing every board on that porch for squeaks before he rested his full weight on it. He'd found Emily's window at the far left end of the porch and had settled in one of the white rocking chairs. Emily's window was open, despite the chill of the night, and the moonlight fell across her bed, illuminating her sleeping form. He just sat there, like her damn guardian angel he thought.

He let his eyes wander from the window to the yard. It was dark and quiet, just like the house, and the leaves of the trees brushed together in the light breeze. Two glistening specks, the eyes of a fox or raccoon, shone from a clump of bushes. Dean raised an imaginary rifle and took aim between specks. He grinned slightly ", Gotcha."

A sudden noise from inside the house caught his attention. It had been a rustling, a fluttering almost, and then silence. He looked through the window and noticed that Emily's bed was now empty, but the rest of the room was an expanse of blackness.

Where the hell did she go?

His unasked question was answered by the soft, yet distinct click that could only bemade by cocking a hammer. "Whoa! Emily, don't shoot," he whispered in earnest.

"Dean?" Seemingly from out of nowhere, Emily stepped into the beam of light that fell across her room and landed on her bed. She was in her pajamas, a tank top and boy-short underwear, and held a 44-magnum lever action rifle. Her skin seemed eerily pale in the moonlight, but her eyes glittered even more brightly because of it.

Dean was stunned; he couldn't imagine a sweet, innocent girl with a gun tucked under her bed, let alone a 44. He realized he was sitting in the rocking chair with his hands in the air like an idiot and quickly tried to adopt a casual pose. "Nice outfit," he cracked lightly.

Emily gasped, and ducked back into the shadows. Seconds later she reappeared, wearing a robe much to Dean's dismay, and had the rifle slung over her shoulder on its strap. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Where did you get that gun?"

"I asked you first."

Dean sighed. "I just, wanted to make sure you're okay, I had a bad feeling."

"Hmmm, well I have a bad feeling that you're stalking me. Start talking."

Dean grinned, his white teeth glowing in the dark. "Not fair, you didn't answer my question."

Emily pulled the rifle from her shoulder and placed the butt on the floor so that Dean could only see the tip of the muzzle. "Dad gave it to me. He taught me how to shoot, said I needed to know how to defend myself." She arched an eyebrow. "Now please tell me why you're sitting on my front porch."

Feeling fairly confident that she wasn't going to shoot him, Dean scooted the chair closer to her window. "I really did come to check on you, I don't think you're safe."

She let out a single "ha-ha" of a laugh and hefted her gun. "I promise you I know how to use this thing."

Dean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and licked his lips. "You probably won't believe what I'm about to tell you, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. The thing that killed all those people, the thing Sam and I are chasing, it's probably coming after your family, and the bullets in that gun won't do a thing to stop it." He was expecting the baffled expression she gave him. "I know because I've tried. Hell, just a couple of months ago I unloaded on some ghost bitch that was after Sam, but it didn't even phase her. Can't tell a woman in white anything."

Emily was looking at him as if he'd completely lost his mind. "Ghost?"

"Yeah, ghost." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, searching for a way to explain things in a believable way. Unfortunately, there wasn't one. "Sam and I, well, something real bad happened when we were just kids, something happened to our mom. We…hunt things…evil things."

Emily propped the 44 against the wall and kneeled down, resting her arms on the windowsill. "Are you like those 'real Ghostbuster' guys they have on the Sci-Fi channel?"

He grinned wryly. "I guess you could say that, except this job's not like Hollywood, it's for real. We hunt real evil, and this thing that killed the Finches, it's real evil."

He hadn't expected her to believe, no one ever did, and he wasn't sure if she actually did, but her tone was far from mocking when she asked ", What do you think it is?"

"Honestly, I think it's a demon, and a nasty one at that."

He waited, waited for her to laugh or explode with anger for harassing her. But she just stared out into the night; features somber as the wind ruffled her hair. She sighed, a small sound, but it carried a heavy sadness with it. Finally, she turned to Dean, her eyes shimmering. "I always thought…always wondered…if there were…if," she sighed, not able to believe her own words. "I don't know why I trust you, Dean, but I somehow know that you're telling the truth. Thank you for caring."

He didn't quite know how to respond, but he reached out and touched her arm softly. "Go back to bed, I'll keep watch."

She smiled, collected her gun and returned to bed. He heard the rustle of the sheets, the sound he'd heard earlier, as she climbed into bed and leaned his head back against the chair. Wow he thought. I sent a girl to bed and didn't go with her; I must be losing my touch. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of pine and freshly mown grass. I'll just rest my eyes for a minute…

-O-

Sam had flipped through the antique book for about forty minutes, scanning the lines about worship and faith. He assumed that it was a Christian manual, seeing as how it was written in Puritan times, but had not seen any mention of God or Jesus. He had, however, noticed repeated use of the name Cristolokar and decided to resort to Internet research.

He pulled up his laptop and typed in the book's title The Servant's Prayerbook. He clicked on the first link that appeared and gasped.

-O-

Dean wasn't sure what had awakened him. It must have been Sam shuffling around or something. The sunlight coming in through the motel room windows was bright, too bright, and he clamped his eyes shut even harder and squirmed against the mattress. No, wait, not a mattress, a chair. He didn't remember there being a chair in their room. A door slammed. Sam always slammed doors. The he heard footsteps, footsteps on a wooden floor. Their room didn't have a wooden floor…

Dean's eyes snapped open and he was still sitting in the rocking chair outside of Emily's window, and Emily's father was walking across the porch towards him. He didn't look happy.

Russell's face was clouded with bewilderment and rage. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Um…Mr. Russell…Sir, if you'll let me explain…" Dean clambered up out of chair, simultaneously trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.

"Explain what?" Russell's brows were pulled so low that his eyes were no longer visible. "Explain how you're not actually a police officer and how you're sitting outside of my daughter's window?"

"Sir, I know this looks bad, but I'm just trying to help…"

"Help what! Help my daughter become a slut?"

Dean's calm protest died in his throat, he couldn't believe Russell was talking about Emily in that way. "Emily is in danger, and so are you and your wife. I'm just trying to protect all of you," his tone now matched the older man's.

If it was possible, Russell became even more enraged. "Get the fuck out of here! Do you hear me? Get the fuck away from my family!"

"This is not the time for denial, James. You know exactly what's going on here…"

"Dean!" The urgent whisper caused both men's heads to swivel towards the window where Emily was leaning out, face creased with distress. "Dean, just get out of here, he won't listen to you," she pleaded.

Dean turned back to Russell, jaw clenched with anger. "This is far from over," he said quietly. "It's coming for you, and you better hope I'm around to save your ass when it does." He shot Emily an apologetic glance and sidestepped a trembling Russell. He'd hit a nerve, the man was quiet. Dean just hoped he actually could save them all.

-O-

Sam could hear the loud, throaty growl of the Impala's engine as is pulled up outside their ground-level motel room. Tired of waiting on Dean, he crossed the room and opened the door before his brother could knock. "Where the hell have you been? I've called you six times!"

Dean pushed Sam aside roughly as he entered and slung his jacket onto the first bed. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he noticed that it was set on silent, so as not to make any noise at the Russell house, and he did indeed have six missed calls.

Sam had closed the door and came around the other side of the bed to face Dean; arms folded and lips set in a thin line. Dean glanced up from his phone. "I was at Emily's."

Sam seemed to accept his explanation and let his arms fall. "Was she alright?"

Dean gave a humorless laugh andlet his phone drop to the bedspread. "Oh yeah, that girl's probably got more ammo under her pillow than I've got in the trunk."

Sam was curious as to what Dean meant by "ammo" but didn't want to waste time asking. "Well, look what I've got." He took a seat on the other bed and picked up his laptop. Dean joined him.

"I looked up that book Dad left for us, and turns out it isn't a prayer book."

"Well what is it? Are you trying to keep me in suspense here?"

Sam gave a small smile and turned the laptop towards Dean, revealing the article he'd found the night before. "This thing is old, from way back when the first colonists came to America."

"That's old."

"Yeah. Anyway, it talks about being faithful and being a servant, almost like a bible of sorts. But these 'prayers' are actually summoning spells." He used the computer's cursor to highlight a particular paragraph of the article and motioned for Dean to read.

The spells contained in the book were used to raise Cristolokar, a demon of great power and great evil. The root of his name, cristo, suggests that he was a savior for those who summoned him.

"Who the hell would think that?" Dean asked incredulously.

"A Puritan minister named Charles Blackwood," Sam said, pulling up a different article. "Old Charles thought that there was a warlock in his Massachusetts village who was controlling the townsfolk. It says here that they tried to hang, burn, and drown the warlock and none of it worked. So Charles decided to fight fire with fire, and he and five other church members used this book to raise a 'savior'."

"But where did they get the book?"

"I don't know, theirs is the first recorded use of it. But I do know that it worked. Cristolokar came alright, and he possessed every man who helped raise him, strangled his family, and then moved on to the next host."

Dean jumped off the bed and began pacing back and forth. "So this is definitely our demon. Did any of them survive?"

Sam grimaced. "Well, not exactly. You see the townsfolk caught on to what was happening. Blackwood was the demon's last victim, and before it could jump ship, the 'warlock' had the bright idea of burying Charles alive with this book."

Dean curled his lip at the thought.

"The good news," Sam continued ", is that once the demon killed Charles, it stayed buried. That must mean that when Cristolokar is finished with the last of his servants, he goes back to whatever hell he came from."

Dean stopped pacing and looked at his brother. "So that means that…"

"Way ahead of you," Sam opened the book to somewhere in the middle and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The paper looked much newer than the book's pages and Sam held it up for Inspection.

We are the Servants of Cristolokar; we live only to serve him. We shall watch as he cleanses the earth of all that is unholy. This we solemnly vow:

James Russell

Daniel McPherson

Simon Finch

William Freemont

Sarah Hawkes

Joseph Wilkins

Dean sighed heavily and sank down onto the bed once more. "Even if we find Cara and exorcise her, the demon won't stop until it kills Russell."

Sam closed the laptop and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, but we have to try, you said it yourself that we can't…"

The chirp of Dean's phone, which he'd taken off silent mode, interrupted him. Dean dove for it, praying it was their father calling to give them another clue as to how to fight this thing. But he was disappointed when he didn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Dean…Dean…"the voice on the other end was weak, but it was definitely familiar.

"Emily? Emily what's wrong?" he rose, heart suddenly thumping.

"I…Cara…help me…please…"

"Emily?"

He could hear a thump, as if something heavy had hit the ground. Then he heard a different voice, a cackling voice, and it sent chills up his spine.

"Emily, I'm coming!" he yelled into the phone and slammed it shut. Sam was already at his side, pulling on his coat and the two raced for the car, praying that it wasn't too late.