Cryptic

Disclaimer: I don't own anything SN related, but I'm working on it, however I doubt Kripke takes my threats/pleas seriously. I mean I did get that restraining order but I think he was joking.

Note: The story is a continuation of Dean and Sam's states from my other stories. However, this can be read stand alone. Just letting you know that I will reference them.


Sam extended his neck, his glassed eyes fixed on the review mirror that revealed an exhausted Dean stretched out along the backseat, his head propped against the door by the stolen motel pillow and his body hidden under the ratty blanket Sam had taken as well. Most people would define the image of his sleeping brother as serenity or sweet slumber, Sam would argue against that wholeheartedly because he knew the real reason for the sight playing out behind him.

The younger chose instead to label the sleep as forced, a sign of the elder's body refusing to function unless he granted it rest. Dean's face was pale and drawn; a mirror of the weakened and tired state the last job had left him in. His face etched with the remnants of pain, both physical and emotional, that hadn't had time to adequately heal.

Sam settled back down in the seat and threw another glance over his shoulder before focusing back on the empty black road ahead. He clenched his jaw in frustration and wished like never before that his brother were awake so he'd have someone to yell at, his anger level was reaching critical mass and he needed an outlet and he needed it now.

He couldn't believe his father had sent them another set of coordinates so soon, but then again, how the hell would he know what all they'd been through the past week? Sam was livid at his father's appearance of not caring about their well being, their need to recuperate and regroup, to mend the wounds that ran so deep. Dean had almost died, for Christ's sake and the man hadn't even flinched when issuing a new hunt and to the youngest, the man's lack of knowledge concerning their present state was not an excuse and never would be.

But Sam had made sure his father knew that and had told him exactly how he felt about him sending them another mission. The phone call had only caused Dean to stir, but had awakened him completely. From the minute he read the message Sam adamantly refused to go, yet knew Dean never would. So, for the benefit of his older brother and his personal vendetta, he quietly sneaked out of the room and left the voice message from Hell for his doting father and upon returning, stuffed Dean's phone deep into his backpack concealing it from his brother's loyal eyes.

But his plan had backfired, not more than a day and a half later, in a major way. He'd left an awakened, bored out of his mind Dean alone in the room forcing him to rest while he showered. John had replied and Dean had answered. Sam cursed himself for his carelessness the minute he exited the bathroom finding his wavering brother, one hand clenching the table to steady himself, the other grasping the loathed cell phone. Sam had cringed when he saw that Dean was looking at him as if he was Judas himself.

Dean refused to rest after that. Instead, the elder insisted he was fine, and ready to go on to the next job. Within the hour, Dean had all his stuff packed and in the Impala. Sam was still baffled as to how his brother had pulled that off. He'd looked like crap, and still did for that matter and could barely hold himself upright, and Sam knew he must've felt ten times worse. Dean wouldn't speak to him, save for the initial yell and threat to kick his ass if Sam didn't get them checked out and on the road within ten. Sam had complied, not without stating his peace, but conscious of the fact that to argue further was nothing more than wasted breath. He had managed to snatch the keys though, and that was a victory in his book.

Sam almost laughed when he'd exited the gas station to find his brother curled in the back. He would've if it were anyone but his brother. Dean hated to ride in the back, always had, and wouldn't do it unless he just couldn't remain in a sitting position any longer. So the fact that he had even dragged himself back there, proved Sam's point that they were diving back in too soon.

That had been over eight hours ago. And now here they were, driving down yet another back road to another quaint town to rid the clueless residents of their unexplained problems. Upon entering the town of Atchinson, Massachusetts, Sam couldn't help but entertain the thought that one-day people may actually grow the balls to save themselves. He just hoped he'd be around to see it.

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The St. Pius X Cathedral cast its long dark shadow on Main Street. It's winding spires appearing as elongated black claws on the cement below. The limestone building glimmered in the afternoon sun, its ancient years revealed by the weathered stone. The large red door was propped open, a beckoning to come and partake of their faith, but none entered.

They were other churches in town but each failed to produce the captivating quality St. Pius resonated. On Sundays, the ornate wooden pews were packed with followers, believers. Father Andrew preformed the Mass and then sent the congregation home always before noon. It was ritual, and in towns like Atchinson, patterns and consistency are held in regard. Everything is as it should be, everything is perfect, and no one imagines living anywhere else. Or so it is said.

But it is in the quiet halls of towns such as these where the deep secrets lay hold. And they are guarded with ferocity and will that rival any known to man. There are some secrets men will lie, cheat, and steal for. In Father Andrew's case it is one the man kills for.

It is among his fellow parishioners he reads from the ancient Latin text, a blood-red insignia adorning his forehead. It is responsorial, and they respond, their voices echoing throughout the halls. But their meeting place is safe, hidden, behind the old stone walls laced with stained glass and faded paintings. It is the place of death, where those that have served their Church are buried and honored in eternity beneath it. The vault that hears and watches their deepest secrets unfolded and the dark magic wielded in silence.

The stained altar holds a lifeless young man, chest bare, a deep, black symbol blazed over his still heart, the marking a perfect replica of the one that graces the follower's foreheads. A sickening stench fills the air as a dark thick substance bubbles from the mark. The chant is completed, the book slammed shut, and the seven members encircle the altar.

A wizened, decrepit man steps out from the circle, his straggly white hair plastered haphazardly to his pale, contorted face. His hunched form moves slowly towards the sacrifice. He reaches out his frail bony hand and traces the thick black streaks along the offering's side back towards their origin. His mouth twists into a snarled, yellowed smile as he places his hand over the symbol with a quickness and force not known to his age.

The air grows cold, and a wave of black encompasses the circle, the pale flicker of burning candles all that dimly shines through. A heinous laughter is heard, at first it resounds in gasps from the aged man but then gains strength and youth as the ritual wears on.

A solemn word is uttered, and the darkness flees. The man draws back his hand and turns to face his fellow worshippers who are bearing the same wicked smile as he. He takes in a deep breath and brings his hands to his face, watching as the gnarled worn skin melts into a smooth shade of tan. His heart beats strong, the life and energy of the slain coursing through him, latching onto every piece of his being. He feels the shifting of his features as they return to their lost youth. He stands tall, full height, and strides over to his place among his brethren. His old years vanished.

All attention falls on Father Andrew, who nods, pleased with the outcome. Another member steps forward into the circle and the leader sighs deeply, before stepping out and meeting his faithful follower. He raises the man's hand, bringing into the light and view of the others. The tight skin bears red lesions, the edges the ashy gray of deteriorating flesh. The solution is simple and the timing urgent, but Father Andrew shows no sign of this as he gently drops the extended hand. He merely turns and with a voice as clear as daybreak, addresses his flock.

"We will need another."

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Okay got this up faster than i thought i would. I appreciate any feedback, criticism, whatever. So, please lemme know what you think and thanks for reading.