AN: Okay, this chapter is my longest yet, so if you fall asleep from boredom in the middle, I won't blame you. But if you do manage to stay awake until the end, please drop me a note and tell me how I'm doing. It will be greatly appreciated. Thx Uzi

Chapter 12: Shades of Evil

"Tell us everything you know," John prodded, measuring a double shot of the Jack Daniels into his oversized glass. He offered the bottle to each of his boys. Sam waved it away politely, but Dean helped himself to a single. To all of their immense surprise, Missouri took the whiskey from Dean and poured herself a tiny splash.

"Alright," the psychic caved with sudden and unusual weariness. She spread her hands palms-down on the table, staring idly at the way the overhead light glinted off her red nail polish. "I don't know too much, but seeing as how y'all won't let me be," she looked up, dark eyes fixing each of them with a pointed frown. "I'll tell you."

She scooted her chair up a little closer to the table, propped her elbows on its surface, and began. "For the past six months or so – ever since you boys left," she indicated Sam and Dean with raised brows. "There have been more…disturbances here in Lawrence. I've exorcised four homes, each poltergeist nastier than the last, just in the past three weeks alone."

The three Winchester men frowned collectively.

"I'm used to dealing with cheating spouses and love-struck kids," she continued ", just simple truth readings, nothing this heavy. Up until the spirits at your old house, I haven't dealt with the supernatural for years. It's almost like you boys stirred up the dust around here, reminded the place of the evil it's known before."

John nodded as if he'd expected such news. "Any deaths?" he asked, the word "mysterious" heavily implied.

Missouri shook her head. "Not here in Lawrence. But…there's been a rise across the rest of the country. I've been watching the news, keeping an eye out for anything…unexplained. Things ain't right, boys. I can feel it, like the way you can feel a storm coming on in your bones," she shuddered and pressed a palm briefly to her forehead. "Something's stirring and it ain't pretty."

Dean swirled the contents of his glass and downed it quickly, without so much as a flinch. "The war," he said flatly. "You can feel it coming."

She nodded grimly, lips pressed in a hard line. "Yes, that's what Bobby kept calling it, "the war", like it was something new," she snorted. "All you crazy white boys runnin' round with your guns, shootin' anything that says 'boo' and calling it a war."

"Hey!" Dean started to protest, his manly pride wounded.

Sensing an argument, Sam jumped in, silencing his older brother with a wave. "Missouri, you just said this war wasn't new," he wet his lips in a pointed effort to ignore the kick to his shin that came from under the table. "What do you mean? How long has this thing been going on?"

"For a long, long time, baby," she sighed. "For far too long. We were lucky for a while; things had gotten quiet on our end. That is…" she flicked a quick, sympathetic look to John before returning her gaze to Sam. "…Until your mama died." She rubbed her arms vigorously, trying to ward off the invisible chill that plagued her spine. "Sam, honey, where's the Colt?"

"What?" Sam pulled back, brow crinkled at the question Missouri had seemingly pulled from thin air. "Up…upstairs with my things…why?"

"Go get it, please."

"Wha…"

"Now, Sam," his father ordered. "If she wants to see the gun, go get it."

Sam rose from the table, torn as to whether he should do as told or demand a better explanation. Deciding that he was beyond too tired for putting up a fight, he shuffled off toward the stairs.

"The Colt?" Dean looked at his father in confusion. "How do we still have the Colt? And how…" he turned to Missouri. "…Do you know about it?"

"Your brother held on to it," John explained first, dragging a tired hand through his hair. "He thought maybe we could melt down the slug they pulled outta my leg," he patted the breast pocket of his shirt and the plastic inside crackled in response. "Pretty damn smart, huh?" he smiled faintly.

"Hell yeah!" Dean's hazel eyes twinkled to life and his lips parted in an incredulous smile. "Are you serious? There could be another bullet? One more shot?" The momentary rush of adrenaline seemed to shake Dean out of his slump and his face twitched with its usual animation. "Dad, we could kill this son of a bitch after all!" he said in earnest, voice dropping almost as if he were afraid the words might prove false if spoken aloud.

John frowned. "Let's not get our hopes up, Dean. I hate to play devil's advocate here, but we don't know if a used bullet would even have the same effect. Hell, this asshole may not slip up like that again."

Dean mirrored John's expression, realizing that the 'slip up' had been the demon's cat and mouse game that had landed them all in the hospital. If that was a judgment of error, he hated to see what happened when the enemy was at the top of its game.

"There's an awful lot of cussing going on at my table," Missouri interrupted, drawing both men's attention.

"Me, cuss?" Dean feigned innocence with one hand swept against his heart, a hurt expression on his face.

"Boy, lightning's fixin' to strike," Missouri chided good-naturedly, having trouble masking her laughter.

Sam returned startled to see the table's occupants in a much lighter mood than when he'd left. He spared them a puzzled look, then shrugged and took his seat, carefully setting the Colt .45 on table.

"Ah, very good," Missouri said, patting Sam on the wrist with a brief, warm smile. "Now, Dean, I want you to touch the gun and tell me what you feel."

Dean arched a single brow in a "what the hell?" face. He looked at Missouri a bit warily and reached out for the antique revolver. His fingers closed around the wood and polished steel and he pulled the weapon closer, taking in the craftsmanship with an appraising eye.

"What I feel?" he asked, giving the psychic another look.

She nodded.

"Well, what I feel is a damn – I mean darn – nice gun. Heavy, good quality steel; smooth and cool to the touch. The grip's a sturdy hardwood; I'm not sure which type…"

"Is that it?" Missouri asked, seemingly impatient with the exercise.

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Dean griped defensively, pouting a little.

"Give the gun to your brother," she instructed, pointing to Sam.

Rolling his eyes, Dean handed the Colt over to Sam and mouthed She's crazy behind a cupped hand.

"No I am not!" Missouri scowled at Dean before turning her attention to the younger man. "Okay, Sam. I want you to hold the gun, close your eyes and tell me what you feel."

"You didn't tell me to close my eyes."

"Dean, shut up," John grumbled.

Sam closed his eyes as told and tried to ignore the voices of his father and brother. At first, he felt nothing but the solid weight of the weapon in his hands and wondered if maybe Dean hadn't been right about the whole crazy thing.

"Take a deep breath and concentrate," Missouri encouraged.

He did, wondering what exactly it was that he was supposed to be concentrating on. He thought about the gun; the way they'd acquired it and the lives it had claimed. In his mind's eye he could see the vampire his father had used as a test subject; just making sure the Colt would live up to legend. He could see himself wasting another bullet as his query dispersed in front of him and the demon lived to claim another life. He could see the cabin, could recall his own indecision as his father begged that his youngest son take his life. He could smell the blood and sweat; he could hear Dean's pleas for mercy. He swallowed hard, feeling the bile rising in his throat and tried to will the memories away. But they only became more solid, more real.

"Don't you let him kill me, Dad! Don't let me die!"

"You shoot me son, shoot me now, shoot me right through the heart!"

"Stop," Sam whispered, a fine sweat springing to the surface of his skin.

"Sam! Don't you do it!"

"Stop!" This time it was a shout and it seemed to wipe the images from Sam's mind. They were replaced instead by an overhead view of a man dressed in old fashioned western attire: button up shirt, tan belted pants, a broad-brimmed hat. He stood at a workbench of some kind, holding a revolver in one hand and loading it one bullet at a time with the other. The gun's barrel and grip were inlaid with elegant carvings, almost like some elfish script. It looked familiar, very familiar…

The image flickered and in its stead was one of darkened alley. The buildings were a hard plaster or stucco, low to the ground and impossibly close together. Sam was seeing the night through someone else's eyes, hearing it through someone else's ears. He could feel the hard paving stones beneath his feet and the roughness of the wall that brushed his elbow, but he was powerless to move; trapped in another's vision.

Something darker than the surrounding shadows flickered at the end of the alley and the borrowed body lurched into motion; running low along the wall. The eyes swept the blackness, the heart began to pound, and the skin was cooled by the pooling sweat. There were emotions mingling in the mind; apprehension, anticipation, doubt, fear. Sam's host was waiting for something, yearning for something, hunting for something.

"So you've decided to level the playing field, Sam." The voice came rolling out from the shadows like a chill down the spine. It was hard and heavy, carrying the weight of something more powerful than he could imagine. How did it know his name? Or was the stranger addressing the host?

An outline melted from the dark and two glowing orange balls sparked in the place where a person's eyes should have been. They were blinding, piercing the night with their fire.

The host's eyes never blinked at the brightness and the hands rose together, clasped steadily around something solid: a gun. A revolver, large caliber…it was the gun, the Colt. It was aimed with careful precision at the shadow that should cover a human heart.

"Go to hell, if I don't kill you first," the lips whispered, and the trigger was pulled…

…And the target dissolved into the night once more. The wave of despair that came coursing through unannounced was almost unbearable. The gravity of loss and suffering pulled so heavily that Sam thought his borrowed body would become sick. The eyes closed and the back of the lids seared with the image of a woman pressed against an invisible ceiling. He watched as she burst into flames, her white gown crisping away from the already burning flesh, and recognition dawned. It was his mother.

A scream pierced the night and Sam didn't realize that it was his own. The image was ungodly yet he couldn't look away. He couldn't turn from the sight that had scarred his father so badly, from the fate that his Jessica had shared as well. Smoke began to build and he could feel it filling his lungs, damaging his airways. His eyes swam, the world began to spin, the flames danced in liquid circles, the body twirled above his head…

Then the vision was gone, sucked from Sam like water through a straw, and his fingers spasmed, dropping the Colt to the table with a metallic clunk. The eyes that snapped open were wide and rolling, wildly searching to right their owner in his head-long spin through reality.

"Sammy?" John and Dean were both on their feet, coming around the table to aid the youngest member of their family.

Dean reached him first, laying a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Sammy, you okay?" he dropped to a crouch beside the chair, searching his brother's face for a sign of normalcy. Sam's fingers were still curling reflexively and Dean took the other man's wrists into his hands, stopping the movement. "Sam? Come on, dude, it's okay. Just calm down."

John reached his sons' sides, but felt a bit out of place, watching as one of his boys calmed the other. So he stood, helplessly watching his youngest struggle with something that he himself had no control over.

Slowly, Sam's breathing slowed and he blinked the film from his eyes. "Awful," he muttered. "The demon…Mom…the Colt."

"Whoa, not making any sense there, kiddo," Dean tried to catch Sam's eyes with his own. "What are you talking about?"

Sam shook his head. "I…" he looked to Missouri. "How?" he asked, wincing in confusion over his own words.

Missouri had remained coolly collected throughout the ordeal, her arms folded. "It's time you learned the truth, baby," she said calmly. "The truth about that gun and the man who made it."

-O-

"So let me get this straight," Dean paused to hiccup into his fist and glared at the half empty bottle of sour mash on the table (when had that happened?) before continuing. "You're saying that Sam gets some kinda vision when he holds this thing?" He reached out and tapped the Colt before his hands stretched further for the whiskey.

Missouri removed the bottle from view, setting it on the floor beneath the table and earning a dark scowl from the young hunter. "Boy, you're already drunk as a skunk! And no, your brother doesn't have a vision just by holding the gun; he has to want to see."

"I didn't want to see anything," Sam sighed from across the table. He looked paler than he had before, and shivered every so often beneath the decorative throw Missouri had draped across his shoulders. "I just did like you said, took a deep breath and all."

"And by doing so you cleared your mind and allowed your powers to manipulate the gun's energies to your own needs," she smiled at him reassuringly.

John frowned at his own empty glass, idly wondering if his son's "powers" could give him a magic refill. "Can you feel its…energies also?" he asked, abandoning the glass and gesturing toward the Colt.

Missouri wrinkled her brow. "Yes, faintly. But I'm unable to touch them like Sam. It's like there's a closed window; I can see through it, but I can't put my hand through."

John nodded with feigned empathy.

"He was a psychic, wasn't he?" Sam wiped his nose with the back of his hand with as much dignity as possible before turning to Missouri.

She smiled warmly, delighted at his understanding. "He sure was, baby."

"Who?" Dean and John asked in unison.

"Missouri sighed. "Haven't you two been payin' attention? Samuel Colt of course!"

"Whoa! Time out!" Dean made the infamous T with his hands. "What do you mean Sam Colt was a psychic?"

"How else do you think he was able to forge a weapon such as this?" She asked patiently.

"Wha…" Dean looked to his father for support. "What about Halley's comet and all that shit?"

Missouri drew his attention and fixed him with a hard look. "Your daddy's right about the comet, Dean, don't fly off the handle just yet. It is true that Halley's comet possesses certain supernatural auras…all of them having played a role in the production of other weapons. There have been spears and swords, all with the power of this gun, but I think you'll find the Colt to be the most practical. Timing the production with the passing of the comet was the easy part, harnessing that power…well, that was something only a psychic could do."

"You mean to tell me that Sam Colt had abilities like you and Sammy?" John rubbed his face tiredly, having trouble with the notion of Samuel Colt being a psychic.

"Oh no," Missouri shook her head vehemently. "Colt was much more powerful than me. I can only read emotions and thoughts. Sure I can sense a presence, evil or otherwise, but what Colt did, that takes some kinda power. Power I can't touch. But your son," she patted Sam's arm reassuringly. "He could give the other Sam a real run for his money."

Sam groaned and let his forehead fall to the table with a soft thud.

Dean scowled. "Well that's just great. We only have to wait till the comet comes back around and Sam can use his shining to make us some more ammo. Perfect plan," he slumped against his arm, completely disgusted with the situation. Fully expecting to be chastised by one of the elders, Dean was surprised when he simply heard Missouri clear her throat quietly.

"There is…another way," she nearly whispered.

Dean looked up, shocked to see her downing the small shot of Jack she'd poured at the beginning of their unending conversation.

"What is it?" John asked intently, and Sam managed to right himself once more.

Her eyes widened, the closest thing any of them had ever seen to fear touching her face. "I don't know…I don't think I want to know. But there are rumors that there is another way. Sam's connection with that gun, that's gonna find the way for you."

The elder Winchesters turned to their youngest member; John's eyes calculating and Dean's concerned.

Sam pulled the throw around himself a little tighter and shot a nervous glance to Missouri. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he sighed.

"You'll find a way, baby," she assured, only partially believing it herself.

"You're gonna have to," John chimed in. "We started this damn thing and we're gonna finish it."

Missouri's face soured in exasperation. "John Winchester, were you even listening to me? Your head's swelled so much you can't even hear good no more! You think you're so important that all these demons and such are out to get you."

"Well aren't they?" Sam asked, slightly taken aback.

"No!" Her tone softened. "Now don't get me wrong, you boys are important, but you're not that important. This is their war, not yours. They was all squabbling amongst themselves just fine until you stumbled into things. Ya'll didn't start this war, you just raised a few eyebrows is all. None of them intended to draw a human into the war, certainly not three. There hasn't been a disturbance like this since Samuel Colt made this gun. The night Mary died, that demon knew he'd messed up and he won't rest till he gets Sam."

"Why?" Sam asked.

She shook her head. "You fit into his plan somehow, honey. He wants you for your power, and he wants your daddy and your brother dead. You see, he intends to use you for his purpose in the war. He's fighting with all the other nasties out there. You boys seem to think that evil is black and white, that they're all on the same side. I wish I could tell you it was; but it's not. They don't all have the same agenda and they certainly don't all get along. It's not that cut and dry; there are shades of evil."

"Fortunately," John said grimly. "There are shades of good too." He looked to both of his boys before locking eyes with Missouri. "Some are just a little darker than others."

TBC