THE IMPALA - DETROIT, MICHIGAN

Midnight in Palmer Woods. No wind, no moon. Only street lamps lit the roads, but they were damn near impossible to see through the heavy snowfall. The boy's had been on the road for nearly twelve hours. "Burnin' For You" by Blue Oyster Cult was playing quietly on the radio. Dean was over-caffeinated and anxious, and Sam had fallen asleep with a sad, slightly aggravated expression fixed on his face - the expression he wore so frequently lately, Dean could just call it "Sam Face" and strangers would know what he meant. Dean looked at the crumpled paper Garth wrote the address on:

"Atlas House Inn,
330 Benedict Drive.
Ask for Red."

They were on the right street, at the right number, but Dean was a little wigged. The Atlas House was a giant Tudor revival mansion with sprawling grounds. The architecture was dimly lit by hidden light fixtures. It was one of those houses they scout for the kind of movies where everyone dies screaming in vintage clothes. Dean drove up the mossy circular driveway, parked the Impala at the front entrance and gave Sam's shoulder a shake.

Sam took a deep, quick breath through his nose and squinted out the window at the house. "Where are we?" he asked groggily.

"Car stopped," Dean said.

"What happened?" Sam asked, sitting up straight.

"She's scared," Dean said in a facetiously grave tone. He couldn't help grinning at his own joke.

Sam laughed under his breath and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "How far do we got?" he said.

"We're there," Dean said.

"This is the place?" he asked. He smiled like he didn't believe Dean, and then like he didn't want to believe him. "Seriously?"

"Same address," he said.

"So there's just a creepy-ass, isolated mansion in the woods?" Sam asked. "In... Motown?"

"I spotted nine on the way over," Dean said in a somewhat annoyed tone. "Palmer Woods, man. Nice gated community. Sulfur in the crossroads, historic family cemeteries and, oh yeah, we're parked on willow moss."

Sam frowned. "Guess the rich really are different," he said.

Both looking a little worried, they zipped up their jackets, got out of the car and headed for the huge front door. There were stone engravings of saints praying on the facade of the house and a stone balcony above the entryway. Looming over them from the ledge of the balcony was an old, patinated copper statue. It was Michael battling Lucifer.

"What are the odds this guy is fine and we don't have to go in?" Dean asked.

"You wanna tell Garth we bailed on his friend?" Sam asked.

"Fine," Dean said. "But if Mr. Boddy caps us in the hallway with the revolver, you owe me a Coke."

No doorbell. Dean used the iron knocker, but the door creaked opened as he did. Inside the house, there was a line of salt and a line of goofer dust at the threshold. A pale blue light cast strange shadows and hot, stale air carried a sickeningly sweet perfume. A sinister melody played faintly. The boys rolled their eyes. So that's how it gots to be, eh?