Chapter 5 Holy Water
Bend, Oregon
The crowds weren't thick, exactly, but Dean could feel the press of people around him, making his nerve ends prickle uncomfortably. Everyone there was dressed for warmth, parkas and scarves, gloves and boots in bright primaries and eye-searing neons, bright as a flock of tropical birds against the white snow cover. Settled on his shoulders, John shifted and jumped as each motorbike passed them, accelerating up the smooth curved ramps, hanging for a moment against the brilliant blue of the sky, the riders contorting themselves or the machines into unlikely positions before gravity exerted its inevitable influence and they dropped onto the down ramp and rode away.
"Wow! Dad, did you see that one? He was upside down!" John was bouncing with excitement, and Dean grimaced, grabbing his son's heels as they drummed against his chest in an attempt to hold him still. He shot a sideways glance at his brother, also burdened by a small boy, and Sam met his gaze with a cheerful grin, Marc sitting transfixed and still.
"Awesome."
Beside him, Ellie snorted into the thick scarf wrapped around their daughter's neck. The Winterfest was an annual event, halfway through February most years, and the children adored it, watching the flame-throwers, ice sculpting, and daring trick riders, devouring the sugary concoctions from the market vendors with a relish unfelt since Christmas.
When the motorcycles had finished their death-defying performance, Dean turned, starting to walk down the road toward the Kids Area, Sam walking to one side him, Marc and John discussing the unbelievable feats of the riders from their fathers' shoulders at the tops of their voices. Trish wandered slowly a little ahead of them, her head bowed as she talked to her baby daughter. Ellie walked on the other side of Dean, watching Rosie and Laura running this way and that as they checked out the vendors' stalls to either side of the narrow road.
"We don't have to come here, you know, it's not compulsory."
Dean glanced at her, letting out a deep breath. He gestured around them. "No, they love it. I can deal."
She smiled. He continually surprised her with this acceptance of the parameters of their semi-normal life. Sam hadn't been surprised. He'd told her that, growing up, Dean had frequently put aside his personal preferences and the dictates of their father to make sure that his little brother got some normality in the towns they'd drifted through. Fairs or fireworks, or whatever Sam had desperately wanted to do, Dean had found a way to accommodate it, even if it meant disobeying a direct order.
For a man who readily admitted that his best times were either at home, surrounded by his family, or on the open road, following a trail, events like these, or the shopping trip up in Portland they'd done before Christmas, were an enormous sacrifice. That he did them at all was astonishing. That he did them with a rueful smile and the minimum of grumbling, always contained until the kids were out of earshot or asleep on the back seat as they drove home, was almost miraculous.
She shook her head. She couldn't talk, she was no more comfortable in the press and noise of crowds than he was, ready to go at the slightest suggestion that the day's fun was done.
"There's some kind of meet and greet at the school tomorrow," she said as they crunched over the snow to the huge marquee set up near the river. "When are you meeting Twist and Garth?"
"Uh, whenever. Twist said he'd do the first look around." Dean looked down at her.
"Can you go Wednesday?"
"Sure."
"Dad! Lemme down." John tugged on his ear. Dean stopped and crouched on the slushy snow, grabbing John's foot as it swung towards his jaw. A few feet ahead of them, Sam was kneeling in the cold slush like a convert to Islam, Marc slithering down his back and racing after his cousin.
Straightening up, Dean groaned as he flexed his shoulders. "Thinking that this is the last year we'll be doing the shoulder thing."
"He can't weigh more than that pack you lug around on the runs." Ellie laughed. "You just get all hunched up when he's up there."
"Yeah, well, he wriggles around so much, I can't relax into it." He stretched out a bit more, and dropped his arm around her shoulder. "So, what are we doing at the school?"
"Just meeting the new teacher, I think." She tried to remember the details of the note that had arrived last week. "Mrs Koteas retired."
"Really? What a shame," Dean's voice was dry. He and John's teacher had taken an instant and deep-seated dislike to each other the second they'd met last year, resulting in many awkward and sometimes outright hostile encounters at the little elementary school.
"Yeah, I can see you're all broken up about it."
He shrugged. He'd devised a number of tests for the teacher, based on his feelings. Some of them hadn't worked out all that well, making the tension between them a lot worse. He'd had no idea that some hair dyes were really just temporary, washing out when the hair got wet. He still thought there was something off about her.
"What time do we have to be there?" He pushed the memories of the old bat out of his head.
"Just when we take John in. It's not supposed to be a formal thing," Ellie said with a light shrug. "We could go see Jimmy afterwards, see if he's got that new Glock in for you?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Wednesday, Cascadia
The classroom was an explosion of colour, artwork pinned to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, the desks and chairs in primary colours, the children who filled the long room, dragging their parents this way and that, dressed like a rainbow. Dean stood still, looking down at the chair that came up to his knee, feeling a peculiar juxtaposition of nervousness that he was going to break something, and the surreal sense he'd become a giant overnight. He shook it off when John grabbed his hand and dragged him across the room to see the classes' drawings done last week.
"Dean?"
He turned his head, seeing Ellie standing next to a tall, thin man near the door, and scooped John into his arms, holding up a finger as he looked at the drawing John was pointing at. The house was unmistakable, and Dean leaned closer, one side of his mouth curling up as he saw that John had even included the faint outline of the devil's trap that protected the front windows. He lowered his son to the floor and took his hand, walking back to Ellie and the teacher.
"Mr Winchester? I'm Todd Mackleson, your son's new teacher." He extended a long, delicate-looking hand, meeting Dean's eyes as he took it. Behind the wire-framed glasses, Mackleson's eyes were magnified, the irises a golden-brown, almost the colour of sherry in the sunlight.
Dean let go of the hand as he felt John pressing against the back of his legs. He glanced down, seeing the usually outgoing little boy looking down at the floor, one small fist clenched in the denim of his father's jeans.
Mackleson followed Dean's gaze and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Apparently the previous teacher was reading "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" to the children before she left. So far, I've had six complaints that I look like Ichabod Crane."
Ellie smiled. "I'm sure they'll come around in time."
"Yes." He turned to her, a hint of gratitude in his face. "I hope so. We're reading "The Little Engine That Could" now; I didn't think Irving was particularly suitable for this age group anyway."
He shifted, long legs that did bear a resemblance to those of a stork, bending as he looked from Ellie to Dean. "Well, this is just a chance for us to meet, and for parents to see what the children have been doing." He looked around the room. "John seems very bright and his drawings are truly wonderful. Are either of you artists by any chance?"
Ellie shot a look at Dean and he stifled the snort at the back of his throat, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head.
"No, we're not." She smiled. "We run a small, specialised consulting firm, in pest removal."
"Oh." Mackleson's smile faltered slightly. "Well, he's very talented. We do have a program starting in fall for children who show talent in the arts, perhaps we could talk about John starting that after summer?"
"That would be fine, Mr Mackleson," Ellie agreed, glancing around the room. "We won't keep you; you've got a lot of parents to see this morning. It was very nice to have met you."
The teacher looked around, seeing another couple staring at him expectantly. "Yes, only one of me. It was a pleasure to meet you both, and I hope that you'll be happy with John's progress this year."
"I'm sure we will be." Dean nodded. John's hand had crept into his, and the little boy was tugging at it. He watched Mackleson turn away and looked at Ellie, turning and leading John to the wall by the door.
Ellie followed, crouching down beside her son. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"
"I don't like him." John looked at the floor, his voice just a whisper. "His eyes are funny."
Dean glanced at Ellie, brows drawing together. "I think that's just his glasses, John. They make his eyes look bigger than they are."
The little boy shook his head, bottom lip protruding slightly. "No."
"John, is it because he looks like the man in the story?" Ellie shifted closer to him.
John shook his head. "No, that's just a story." He looked up at her. "Wasn't even very scary, not like the ones Uncle Sammy tells."
Dean felt his brows rise, and shunted the question aside for another time. He turned, watching Mackleson moving around the room, talking to the parents and children. No one else seemed to find the guy worrying. He saw a little girl run over to him, tugging imperiously at his trousers and handing him a drawing when he looked down. He looked back at Ellie.
"You run a background on him?"
She nodded. "Clean."
"John, maybe you're just not used to him, yet." Dean tried again. "Maybe in a couple of weeks, when you get to know him a bit better, he won't seem strange anymore?"
The big green eyes looked up at him imploringly. "I don't want to stay here, Dad."
"John, you loved coming to school." Ellie slipped her around her son, pulling him close. He nodded for a moment, then looked at her.
"Mrs K'teas was different, Mommy. She felt safe."
Dean sighed. He hadn't thought so, but what did he know? "Mr Mackleson will feel safe when you get to know him, John."
Ellie squeezed his shoulder. "How about we give it a couple of days, John? Give him a chance to get to know you?"
John nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Good." Dean looked at him. "We'll be back at two to pick you up, alright?"
"Okay."
Dean stopped at the doors of the school, looking over the snow-covered grounds. "What the hell was that all about?"
Ellie shook her head. "I don't know. I ran the background myself; the guy is as clean as a whistle. Born in Oklahoma, got his teacher's degree there, nice family, two brothers and one sister, small town. He's had two placements, one in Kansas, the last one in California. They were only temporary but his recommendations from them were impressive." She sighed. "I know you didn't like Mrs Koteas, but kids do get attached to their teachers, at this age anyway, and maybe he's just missing her?"
Dean nodded. "Yeah, maybe."
He hadn't had any particularly bad vibes from the dude himself. And he didn't think Ellie had either. But it was still twisting his gut to see his son shaken and afraid like that, especially after settling in at the small school so easily.
"Wait and see then?" He looked down at Ellie.
"That's about it."
"Do you want me to stay? Sam can take care of the skinwalkers, with Garth and Twist."
She shook her head. "I don't think you need to. You'll only be gone a few days anyway."
They stopped at the car, and Dean unlocked the passenger door, opening it for her. Ellie slid into the seat, and leaned over, unlocking the driver's door automatically. Dean opened it, getting in behind the wheel, the frown still there.
"This is going to be a whole new level of hard, isn't it?" He looked at her.
The corner of her mouth lifted wryly. "Yeah, I'm afraid so."
The bedroom was still dark, an hour before dawn. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. Behind him, Ellie stirred, rolling over toward him.
"You going?"
"Yeah." He turned around, leaning on his elbow as he traced the side of her face with his fingertips in the dim light from the clock on the nightstand. Every single time. Every one. He'd get excited about a hunt, about the planning and knowing that he could take down whatever it was, then when it came time to leave, he'd feel this…this overwhelming desire to forget about it, get back into bed with her, and just stay. Every time.
"Are the skinwalkers still following the plans of the Alpha?" She looked at him sleepily.
"I guess we'll find out." He leaned down and brushed his mouth over her lips, eyes fluttering shut as she deepened the kiss, sending a rippling charge down through his nervous system to his groin. He groaned very softly in his throat and drew back, shutting away his desire.
Every single goddamned time.
"Don't take any chances." She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back, long copper-red hair spilling across the pillow.
"No." He got up, reluctantly, and looked down at her, sighing inwardly. "Make sure you keep safe too."
"I will." He saw her fleeting smile as she rolled away, sleep settling her breathing almost immediately.
He turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He was a hunter. It was what he did. It was who he was. He let go of the knob and turned determinedly for the stairs.
Sometimes, he found that hard to remember.
Ellie looked down at the files spread across the dining table, her lip caught between her teeth, a small line visible between her brows as she skimmed over the information they contained. She raised her head, turning to the two men standing beside her.
"This…looks…" she said, one brow lifting in tacit query. Frank nodded unhappily.
"Yeah, that's what it looks like, alright."
"We haven't had confirmation of the findings yet, Ellie," Trent gestured at the files. "These were just preliminary runs."
"But the pattern seems pretty clear." She turned to look back at the data sheets, shifting the top one aside and reading through the next. "This is a twenty percent increase—and that's without getting the missing persons reports included?"
Frank nodded. "It's not just vampires, Ellie."
She looked up at him. "Thrill me."
"We started looking at other attacks, the other homicides and ran a sweep of the keywords across every law enforcement database Frank could access," Trent said slowly. "It's hard to be sure because the reports end up under all sorts of tags, but we think there's same rate of increase in werewolf attacks, skinwalkers, wendigo…"
"Rugaru alone went up nearly thirty percent, and those are hereditary." Frank interrupted. "Something or someone is meddling."
She shook her head. "The Alphas are mostly all dead now. We're pretty sure Crowley took out the shifter, the werewolf and the wraith Alphas. We killed Usiku… Dean killed Eve. Nothing else has the ability to do this."
"Well, something must, because those reports are still coming in," Frank said, glancing at Trent.
"Kath and I thought we'd head down to Mississippi tonight, see if we can get some verification on the rugaru." He scratched his jaw. "Over the state, four more deaths were reported in the last three days. That's too many for one creature."
She nodded. "Dean might be able to give us an idea of what's going on with the skinwalkers—if anything is—they should find the pack by tonight." Leaning on the table, she shook her head. "Maybe this is just an anomaly."
Frank shrugged. "Maybe it is. Not going to bet my retirement fund on it, though."
"No. Alright, we'll keep an eye on it. Not much else we can do without more information. How long till you can do the next array?"
"Not until mid-month." Frank grimaced. "They're not updating the databases on a weekly basis anymore. Budget cuts."
Ellie rolled her eyes. "Of course."
"I thought I'd take a run up to Seattle. Get some local data and see if there's a correlation with the national figures," he added.
She frowned as she thought of how few hunters would be left in the neighbourhood with him gone. "How long do you need?"
"A few days. It's not vital that I do it right now, if you need me to stay?"
"No." She rubbed her forehead. "No, you'll still be in touch."
"Uh, listen, Baraquiel thought it would be a good idea if we ran this past Castiel." Trent looked down at the table.
"I thought Cas was doing something hush-hush in Heaven?"
"He is. Apparently. Baraquiel and the others are meeting him down around Big Sur, somewhere in the mountains." Frank pulled off his glasses, taking a soft cloth from his pocket and cleaning them. "They're hoping to keep it from Michael."
Ellie exhaled. "Okay, well that leaves us pretty thin here, but I don't suppose much will happen in the next few days."
Trent nodded. "We'll be back as soon as we can. Oh, and Twist said that he finally got in contact with Laney's group, in Michigan."
"That's good news. Are they all alright?"
"Said they were." Trent shrugged. "They were the ones who gave us the heads' up on the wendigo increase."
"We should probably give them a hand with that, then." She looked down at the files again. "If we're not overrun with more local problems."
"Yeah."
Billings, Montana
Sam looked up as his brother walked into the room, hair damp and sticking out in every direction after a shower.
"Okay, the good news is that the pack is definitely here."
Dean reached into his duffle and dragged out a handful of clean clothes. "And…?"
"The bad news is that it's a lot bigger than we thought." Sam swivelled the laptop around on the table. "A hundred strong, at least."
"What?" Dean hopped over to the table, dragging on a sock. He leaned against the edge, as he yanked the recalcitrant sock over his heel, staring at the screen. The security camera feed showed the ground floor of a big warehouse, shelving and pallets stacked around the walls. In the centre of the room, a wide circle of men surrounded an open space. In the space, two men faced each other, hands curled into fists, circling around, looking for an opening.
"Fight Club?" Dean looked at his brother. "What are they doing?"
"Garth thinks they're deciding on a new leader." Sam tapped the keyboard and several other windows opened, showing smaller groups heading for the warehouse, the time stamp a couple of days earlier. "If the smaller packs joined up, then they'd be fighting to see who leads the consolidated group."
Dean turned away, moving to the bed and sitting on the edge as he pulled on his boots, and picked up a tee shirt.
"Where's Dad's journal?"
Sam pulled it out of his bag and threw it to his brother, turning back to the screen. "The funny thing is, Twist was doing some recce on the place, because the original pack was using it as his base, and he swears that not all the guys in these groups are skinwalkers."
"So what are they?" Dean looked up from the journal.
"Just ordinary guys, he thinks." Sam shook his head. "They seem to think it's just a regular thing, unarmed-hand-to-hand fighting for money."
"Huh." Dean looked at his father's entries on skinwalkers, brow furrowing as he read through it. "Nothing in here suggests that a pack is ever more than about twenty of them, at the most."
"Yeah, all our research says the same thing." Sam leaned back in the chair, gesturing at the screen. "But at least half of those dudes are definitely skinwalkers, and from different packs."
"Why would the skinwalkers be running an illegal fight game with humans?"
"I don't know." Sam ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his face. "Maybe fundraising?"
"Maybe." It didn't strike Dean as much of a way to make money. "Or are they looking for new blood? Testing humans for stronger leaders?"
"Either way, we need to figure out a way to get in there—" He looked up at the sharp rap on the door.
Dean stood up and walked over, opening it. Twist and Garth stood outside, dusted with fine snow.
"Another lot just came into town," Twist said shortly, coming into the room and pulling off his gloves. "Fifteen of them."
Behind him, Garth shivered as he walked into the warm room and looked around. "Any coffee?"
Sam gestured to the pot on the kitchenette's counter. "Help yourself." He looked back at Twist. "Frank find anything on what's going on? Why these creatures are changing their patterns?"
"Couldn't get hold of him." Twist pulled out a chair and drew a bottle from the deep pocket of his coat. "Garth, grab us some glasses while you're there."
"Well, we still have over a hundred of these things to kill." Dean sat down next to Sam at the table. "We've got silver bullets and the knives, and we can get some of them long-range, but not all."
Garth plunked three glasses down on the table and drew out the fourth chair, sitting down and curling his hands around the cup of hot coffee. "Not all of those guys in there are skinwalkers."
"Yeah, I told him." Sam picked up the glass that Twist filled. "There's no way to tell which are which, either, which means blowing up the building when they're all inside is out of the question."
"Wouldn't do much good anyway." Twist sniffed, and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "We need to be in there, need find out what's going on."
"Well…" Garth drew out the word slowly, "There's one way to get in."
Dean looked at him, one brow raised.
"The fight's open to all comers." Garth looked at him. "A couple of us could go in and sign up."
Sam snorted, turning back to his brother, expecting to see Dean laughing. He wasn't.
"You're not seriously considering this?" He straightened in the chair abruptly. "One bite, Dean, that's all it takes with these things."
Dean shrugged. "Only when they're in canine form. And they're fighting as humans."
He looked at Garth. "You're out, Garth. You bruise like a friggin' peach." He turned to Twist. "And you, old man. But you're both on rifle duty. From the building across the street."
"Dean! Can I have a word with you?" Sam glanced apologetically at Twist and Garth. "In private?"
They walked outside, Sam closing the door softly behind them. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Give me another solution, Sammy. Any other way to get in close to them, and find out what's going on. I'll take it, with open arms." Dean leaned against the wall of the room, looking at Sam.
"I can't." Sam looked away, across the parking lot that had been dusted with snow. "Doesn't make this the right choice."
"Maybe not. But it's the only game in town."
"We should wait, call in help." Sam turned back to him. "With more of us, we could take them down without having to risk it."
Dean scowled, shaking his head. "How long till that pack's two hundred, Sam? Their Alpha had plans to turn hundreds in one night. Maybe that plan went by the wayside over the last few years, but he seems to have a new one. You know how fast two hundred skinwalkers would take this city? Or any city?"
Sam stood silently, looking at him.
"Sam, so long as they stay in human form, we're okay. And if they change, Twist and Garth'll have their targets, no danger to the people who are in there." Dean waved an arm in the general direction of the warehouse. "I'm not crazy about it, alright? But I don't think we've got a choice. We don't even know how long they'll be here, or if this is happening in other places. We need some intel."
Cascadia, Oregon
Trish looked down at her plate, and sighed. "I miss Sam."
Ellie smiled. "He'll be back in a couple of days, and you'll be complaining about how he never picks up his clothes, or how he kept you up till three with his snoring."
The other woman nodded. "I know, I know, I'm high maintenance." She looked up, her mouth twisting into a half-smile. "But I miss him when he's not here. Don't you miss Dean?"
"So much that I bury myself in files that make no sense until he gets back." Ellie gestured at the pile of work sitting at the other end of the table. "At least it makes the time go faster."
She stood up, picking up her plate and walking around to get Trish's as well. "Why don't you and the kids bunk in here until he gets home, Trish?"
"I don't want to stop you from working, Ellie." She glanced at the pile. Ellie made a face.
"I've gleaned everything out of those that I can until Frank gets the new data. If you don't stay, I'll just go over them again and give myself a brain tumour."
Trish smiled uncertainly. "You sure?"
"Yeah, the kids'll have fun together, and we can eat ice-cream and mope, okay?"
"Somehow I just can't see you doing that."
"I can learn. How hard can it be?" Ellie smiled and carried the dishes to the kitchen. The house seemed barely large enough when he was in it. When he wasn't, it was way too big for just the three of them. She was also acutely aware they were isolated up here at the moment. Tamsin had taken the baby and gone to see her folks while Garth was hunting. Talya had gone with Baraquiel and the other Watchers and nephilim to meet Cas down in California. Frank was gone. Twist was gone. And Trent and Katherine had left yesterday as well. Even Marcus and the Gibsons were away, hunting in the eastern states.
No one up here but us chickens, she thought with a tiny frisson of unease. Dean and Sam were a full day's drive away. If anything did happen…but of course, nothing would. It wasn't the first time she and Trish had been the only ones in the neighbourhood. Nothing had happened then; nothing was going to happen now. Unless they overdosed on ice-cream.
She pulled out the Dutch chocolate from the freezer and spooned a reasonable amount for moping into each bowl. The kids could play for an hour, then go to bed; even Adrienne would sleep until about three, tucked into Rosie's cradle in the guest bedroom. She and Trish could pig out and mope for a bit and get an early night.
Trish had moved to the living room, and Ellie handed her a bowl with a grin, putting her own down and going to the fire to add a few more logs. In the family room across the hall, she could hear Marc and John, Laura and Rosie giggling, the sound of the television low. She was turning back when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey." Dean's voice was soft on the other end of the line, and she pressed the handset closer to her ear.
"Hey. What's going on?"
"Just wanted to hear your voice." He sighed.
"Dean? What's going on?" He didn't call home when he was working, not unless something was getting him down, or he needed her to find out something. It was easier not talking when they were apart, easier not to think too much about the other.
"We found the pack, Ellie," he said, and she heard a murmur of voices in the background. "Over a hundred of them, several smaller packs coming together."
She was silent, thinking of the files that Frank and Trent had brought. "Their Alpha is still alive, isn't he?"
"I think so. I don't know how many Crowley got hold of."
"Frank had some reports of monster populations getting bigger right around the country, Dean."
"What? How?" She could hear him gathering his thoughts, shunting away whatever had driven him to call.
"Not sure yet. Not all the data is available." She bit her lip. "What are you going to do about the skinwalkers?"
"They're, uh, running something here. It gives us a way to get in close," he said vaguely.
"Close? How close?"
"We'll be fine," he said, with more conviction in his voice. "Are you guys okay?"
"Yes, we're okay. Dean—?"
"I gotta go, we're heading in." He hesitated for a moment. "I'll call, as soon as it's over."
"Be careful."
"I love you, Ellie. Tell John and Rosie too."
The line was cut off and Ellie stared at the handset in her hand. He was going to do something reckless; she thought furiously, something that would be putting him well and truly into harm's way.
She resisted the impulse to throw the damned thing across the room. Sam would look out for him, she told herself, and Twist and Garth. They would have his back and they wouldn't let him fall. She ached to be there, stopping him, or protecting him, or doing something, anything other than standing in the middle of the hall staring at the walls helplessly.
Billings, Montana
"This is a dumb idea," Sam hissed at Dean as they walked along the dark road toward the building. "I want that on the record."
"Noted."
He walked across the concrete apron to the postern door, and banged on it. The man who opened it was huge, barely letting any light from the room behind him spill through.
"Who're you?" His voice was rough, more throat injury than anything else, Sam thought, staring up at him.
"Heard there was some money to be made here. Thought we'd come and see." Dean's voice deepened slightly.
"New blood!" The giant bellowed over his shoulder. "Come on in then."
He stepped aside and they walked past him, toward the jostling, seething crowd of men in the centre of the room. The giant walked beside Sam. "Hamish."
Sam took the offered hand, his own swallowed by it. Hamish had a couple of inches on him, and nearly a foot across the shoulders. The man moved lightly, his bulk muscle, not fat.
"Clay! New blood here." He roared over the shouting of the crowd. A man turned to look at him, and nodded, walking out through the crowd, the men in the way pushing against each other to make room for him to pass.
"You two looking to make some money, yeah?" Clay stood in front of them, eyes running over them with interest. He was around Dean's height, the overhead light gleaming on long black hair, slicked back, on the sweat that coated his upper body, showing the sharp curves and planes of the muscles under the skin. "I'm Clay. I run the fights. Entry fee's twenty-five."
Dean felt Sam glance at him, and shrugged, pulling out his wallet. He pulled the twenty and a five and handed them to the other man. Clay pocketed the money and turned toward the circle.
"The rules are…there are no rules. No shirts, no shoes. Bare hands. You can do anything you like in there, but the fight stops when your man goes down. Might not be Marquis of Queensbury, but we do have some standards." He glanced back at them. "Ya getting this, lads?"
Dean's expression smoothed out. "Yeah, we're listening."
"Good. You can challenge anyone. Anyone can challenge you. You win, all the bets against you goes to you. You lose; it all goes to the other man. Clear?"
Sam nodded. "You don't sound local?"
Clay turned back to him fast, a shark-like grin stretching his face. "Ask me no questions, boy, an' I'll tell you no lies." He turned back to the circle, gesturing expansively. "We don't care about your past, what you've done or haven't done. In here, it's only about what you can do now."
He yelled at the men in front of him, and they parted, Dean and Sam following him through to the front edge of the open circle. He turned and looked at Dean speculatively. "You ready?"
Dean's brows rose. "Now?"
"Ya, now. New blood fights first."
In the centre of the circle, a blond man stood, between twenty-eight and thirty-three years old, six foot two to three inches, somewhere between two-twenty and two-fifty pounds, blood trickling from a cut over his eye and bruises blooming down his side. He grinned at Dean, several teeth missing from his smile.
Sam looked at him and took Dean's jacket, shirts and shoes. Clay looked him over, and shook his head. "No jewellery. Leave it with your friend."
Dean pulled off his wedding ring and watch, handing them to Sam. "See you in five."
He turned and walked into the circle.
Cascadia, Oregon
Trish set the bowl down on the table and looked at Ellie. "That sounds weird. Do you think he picked up something about the man?"
"I don't know." Ellie shook her head, tucking her legs under her as she shifted into the corner of the sofa. "He's been fine for the last two days, not a murmur about it, so maybe it was just the stranger thing? Not being used to a new teacher."
"Would he hide it, if he did feel scared but thought that maybe you didn't believe him?"
Ellie frowned. "He knows we believe him. He doesn't lie or make things up."
"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Trish shrugged. "This is all stuff I've got to get through in the fall. I just meant, if he thought that he wasn't being…I don't know…brave? Brave enough to handle it on his own?"
Ellie put her bowl down on the table, the thought bothering her. "I didn't think of that. Maybe. I guess."
"He's got pretty strong role models, you know?" Trish looked at her. "And kids do absorb that kind of thing."
"Yeah."
She unfolded herself from the corner, picking up her bowl and Trish's. "I'll get the dishwasher going. Do you want anything else?"
"No, thanks. I'm good." Trish stretched out, and got up, going to the fire as Ellie took the bowls into the kitchen. Tricia put another couple of logs on, stirring the embers under them and watched them catch.
It did feel better to be here, the children safely sleeping upstairs, someone to talk to. The small, sharp beep caught her attention immediately and she looked around the room, looking for what had caused it. On a small panel beside the doorway to the hall, a small red light was flashing.
"Ellie?" Trish walked down to the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder at the light.
"Almost done here." Ellie pushed the tray in and closed the door, looking up as she twisted the knob for the overnight cycle.
"There's a red light flashing in your living room."
Ellie straightened up and walked past her, speeding up slightly as she walked down the hall. The panel on the side of the door was an alarm system. She looked at the light for a moment, then turned abruptly, heading for the basement door in the hallway.
"What is it?" Trish caught up her.
"Perimeter alarm." Ellie said shortly, opening the basement door and flipping on the lights, hurrying down the stairs. "Something's come over the wall."
Billings, Montana
Dean circled his opponent warily. The guy was tired, a little punchy from the previous fight. Still big and still had the wild light of adrenalin-pumped fire in his eyes. He felt for the grip beneath his bare feet, the concrete floor slightly rough, stretched his senses outward, feeling where the crowd of men made up the boundary of the arena he could use.
"You gonna dance all night, or you gonna fight?" Blondie grinned at him, showing the gap-toothed smile again.
"Whenever you're ready," Dean said, turning toward him with a long stride. Head snapping to one side, he felt the breeze of the other man's fist pass by his face and twisted his body into the punch, his knuckles slamming into ribs, his weight behind them. The bigger man staggered back, an unaimed hook sweeping around and grazing Dean's jaw.
He wasn't sure if he should be dragging this out or not. He decided not. Blondie didn't have that much left, and there were more important things to do.
Sam watched his brother moving faster under the bright white lights, recognising the decision to just get in and finish it. The other man was taller, heavier, but tired, not as fit, and not nearly as well-trained. Dean swayed, barely moving as his opponent's fist sailed past his side, then turned, muscles flexing over shoulders and back as his elbow shot out, hitting the point of the jaw precisely, the blond man's eyes rolling back in their sockets as he dropped bonelessly to the floor.
"Good fight." Clay stepped into the open circle as Dean stepped back. "Nicely warmed up now?"
Dean looked at him warily. "You could say that."
Clay grinned his shark grin at him. "You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did ya?"
He turned around as the crowd parted behind him, and another man walked out into the circle. "This is Terence, bit more of a challenge for you."
Terence stopped beside Clay, small dark eyes glinting under a heavy brow. Dean looked up. Somewhere around Sam's height, the man's body was enormous, a barrel chest and big gut, muscle bulging out over every surface. He was already sweating, the oily gleam on his skin reflecting in the bright light.
Come on, Dean thought furiously, glancing at Sam. His brother's eyes were narrowed, already looking for weaknesses. He looked back at Terence as Clay stepped out of the circle, and the big man rushed toward him, surprisingly fast for all that weight.
Sam watched Dean fade back, just out of the taller man's reach, moving around in a circle without the need to see where he was going. He had a couple of options. Wear Terence out, which wasn't a certainty; or go in and test him. He knew which his brother would choose, and was unsurprised when a second later, Dean stopped moving and drove through the other man's guard, the hard outer edge of his foot slamming into the side of Terence's knee, a bounce to rebalance, the uppercut cracking against the underside of the jaw. Terence rode the blow to the knee, shifting his weight off the leg as Dean made contact, and turned his jaw at the last second, Dean's hand coming off worse as it hit solid bone, skin split over the knuckles.
The return blow was almost too fast to see, a straight jab that snapped Dean's head back and cut the skin over his cheekbone. He reeled back, recovering his balance and moving backward, shaking his head and sending a spatter of blood into the crowd.
Sam watched him revising his opinion of Terence, moving warily now just out of reach. Terence's mouth was stretched into a smile.
"Weren't expecting that, were you, boy?"
He moved in fast, and Sam winced as he saw the huge fist hit Dean in the side, just under the ribs, the blow only half-ridden, his brother dropping to one knee and scrambling to his feet again as he shifted back out of range.
He was distantly aware of the roar of the men surrounding the fight, a continuous thunder of encouragement and derision and mad, adrenalin-fuelled bloodlust. His concentration narrowed to a pinpoint focus on his brother and the tactics he'd have to use to beat his opponent, who was bigger and stronger, possibly faster, and not nearly as dumb as he looked.
Sam watched Dean's forearms come up as Terence closed with him, and fist and elbow slammed into them. One fist broke through, hitting his brother under the eye, and Sam felt a horrifying flash of memory break through his concentration—Dean's face, swollen and bloody, one eye shut and the other barely open, looking up at him, as his own fist struck that same eye socket, under the eye, and his brother's head had smacked back into the Impala's windshield—he shut it away, forced it down and dragged his attention back to the fight in front of him.
Dean fell away from the blow, hitting the concrete floor on his shoulders, and springing back up, much closer than Terence had reckoned on. The first blow took the bigger man in the solar plexus, the second smashed into the temple, the third, on the first part of a hard, tight turn, drove his elbow into ribs, knocking Terence to the ground.
Looking down at him, Dean spat out a mouthful of blood, and wiped his face. Sweat and blood mingled over his palm, and he wiped his hand dry on his jeans, backing away as Terence rolled to his feet, more slowly now.
Sonofabitch was big and fast and knew how to use his weight and speed, he thought, shaking his head, his eye swelling. He watched Terence rise, and waited, breathing deeply, shutting out every thought but what he needed to do next. He saw the big man's punch coming for him, saw the next one telegraphed in the man's stance, and shifted sideways, balanced on one foot, weight and power one force behind the fist that flicked out. The blow hit Terence beneath the shoulder blade, the ribs cracked under his knuckles.
Dean was already moving as the other man turned around, face screwed up in a rictus of pain when his rib cage flexed sickeningly. Another blow whistled toward Dean and he moved his head, letting it go by, hands clamping around the arm as it came past him, yanking downward in unison with the forward motion already present, his knee exploding against the ribs on the same side of the body, this time at the front, and feeling that crack again, this time hearing the strangled scream that burst out with it.
He released Terence's arm and took a long stride sideways, out of range.
They stood facing each other, both breathing hard now, slick with sweat under the lights, raw red scrapes on their skin, cuts still trickling blood. Dean blinked. One eye was already swelling, blocking some of his vision. The air stung in the open splits over his knuckles as he closed his fingers, flexing his hands. Terence took a step toward him, listing to one side as the broken ends of his ribs shifted inside and scraped along the lungs.
Skinwalker or human, he wondered?
Terence's mouth stretched out and he caught the wink of a long canine behind the bloody lips. He stepped into the man's blow, sweeping it aside and drove his fist into Terence's mouth, feeling the sharp cut of the dog teeth in there, seeing an explosion of blood as the lips were mashed back against the jaws. There was a flare of red in the dark eyes, deep set under the heavy brow.
He gagged as the carnivore's breath hit his face, shook his head against the ringing in his ear when a blow landed on the side of his head, and spun, all his weight behind the fist that struck the skinwalker's throat, cartilage bending and then breaking under the blow, windpipe crushed. The body of the man fell back, away from him, and hit the ground.
Dean looked around at the sudden deep silence of the room as the crowd took in the death.
Cascadia, Oregon
Ellie bent over the security camera screens, her gaze flicking from one to the next. Beside her, Trish was looking as well, for the flicker of movement, for the intruder. They saw the man at the same time, and Trish heard Ellie's breath suck in sharply.
The long-limbed figure slipping out from the oak near the wall was unmistakable.
Bastard, Ellie thought, leaning closer to watch him approaching the garden. She felt a flash of guilt at not trusting her son's instincts and shunted it away. She would deal with that after.
Straightening to get her gun and deal with the teacher, Ellie hesitated when he stopped at the invisible boundary of the zona magnetica, her eyes narrowing as she watched him pace along the edge of the line of buried talismans. The boundaries in the garden kept out many creatures and non-corporeal entities. The man approached the camera as the moon broke free of the thin cloud and the light caught his face clearly.
Ellie heard Trish's inhale whistle between her teeth as they took in the details. The eyes of the man were black. A flat black from corner to corner, no trace of the white to be seen.
Demon.
"Come on, we'll get the kids down to the panic room." Ellie turned away from the screens, and grabbed Tricia's wrist. "He won't be able to cross the zones, but I'd rather have everyone safe."
She ran for the stairs, hearing Trish behind her. They woke John and Rosie, and Marc and Laura and Ellie took them downstairs to the basement as Tricia picked up Adrienne and carried her down.
The panic room had been built at the far end of the basement, against the bedrock of the mountain. Doubled iron walls, packed with salt and talismans and herbs and graveyard dirt, acid-etched with angel and demon proofing, it was the most formidable barrier they'd been able to come up with against any kind of supernatural incursion. A single cot sat in the middle of the room, and several iron-framed bunk beds lined half the walls, the others hidden behind shelving and weapons racks.
Ellie switched the security cameras to the monitors in the room and thought about the protection around the house; the zones and the defences that she and Dean had laid out and fortified over the last three years. The first line, the talisman wall, had been breached. That wasn't so surprising. The last two storms could have brought down sections of the wall, leaving it still effective against the non-corporeal but not against something in a body. The next line of defence was the zona magnetica. Buried objects of psychic power, chained together with silver and iron wire. That one the demon couldn't breach, not on its own. It wouldn't be able to go near the talismans or touch the wire. Beyond that were the lines of mandragora and reflections, and then the iron railway line that surrounded the house and outbuildings. None of those were in any danger of being broken.
What the hell was a demon doing here, anyway? The thought nagged at her. She hadn't been conscious when Michael had bound and chained Asmodeus but she'd heard from both Dean and Castiel how thorough that binding had been. The gates to Hell had been sealed for a little over a year now. Michael had sworn that no demon could escape through the cracks and fractures that were all that remained open.
Well, she thought, one obviously had. The more unsettling thought hovered behind the how. Why. Why would a demon come here?
Trish looked at her as they tucked the children into the bunks and turned the lights down. "What is going on?"
"My thought, exactly" Ellie murmured. They retreated to the other side of the room.
"I want you to stay here, with them. You'll be completely safe in here and you'll be able to monitor the situation. There's no reception here, too much interference and we're too deep for the phones but I can get Ray to log into the computer here remotely for comms." She glanced back at the children. "I'm going upstairs. I'll call Dean and Sam from there."
Trish' brows drew down in a frown. "I don't like you being on your own, Ellie."
Ellie turned away, going to the weapon rack and taking down a shotgun. "I need to try Frank as well, get him to hook in to the defence satellites and try to find where this demon came from."
Frank had discovered last year that the gates—or the entire plane of Hell, they weren't sure which—emitted a particular frequency of light that could be picked up by the satellites that were looking for weapons signatures. The DOD apparently ignored that frequency, since it didn't match up with what they were looking for, but Frank had zeroed in on it straight away, matching up every emission with a known location for a gate. And in the process they'd discovered a lot of the unknown locations as well.
She loaded the gun and put another dozen shells into the pocket of her jacket. Her knife, a long, slender blade with the ability to kill a demon inside the vessel it rode, was in the study upstairs. She looked at Trish.
"Once I'm out, I won't be back, Trish. Not until it's over. Do you understand?"
Trish nodded. Ellie wore charms against possession and the house was protected, but if anything did happen, it would be too risky to let her back into this safe room.
"Sit tight, keep the door locked. The worst case scenario, you might be in here for a couple of days. There's food, water. Just stay put and protect them." Her gaze flicked to the beds again. "I'll call Ray, tell him to log in. You'll be able to keep him informed and vice versa."
She turned away and opened the door, closing it behind her and waiting beside it until she heard Trish close the ring-locks and the clunks of the tenons shooting into the mortises in the iron walls. Then she crossed the library to the server room and sat down at a terminal, sending an email with instructions to Ray, and another to Frank. She picked up the phone, and dialled Dean's cell number, her mouth twisting as the line switched to voicemail one ring later.
"Paranormal Investigations and Eliminations. Leave your name and number after the beep."
"Dean, we've got trouble. Come home as soon as you can." She hung up the phone and picked up the gun, her eyes scanning the security cameras again. The teacher was crouched by the rose trellis, head turned to the road. She looked at the screen showing the drive, frowning as she saw headlights outlining the wrought iron gates there.
Billings, Montana
The silence was broken by a small cracking sound, and the smaller impact thud of a high calibre bullet hitting Hamish in the back of the head. Dean spun around, seeing a flicker of long snout, lips drawn back from pointed fangs, then it vanished as the man dropped to the floor, the exit wound in the side of his head enormous, blood and bone and brain spattered across the men who'd been standing next to him.
In that second, the room exploded.
They'd been right on the numbers. More than half of the men there transformed instantly, dropping to all fours, muscles contracting as they leapt for the chests and throats of the shocked and confused humans around them.
"Dean!"
Sam's shout rose over the baying, growling, howling, snarling canine noise and Dean's hand flashed out as his brother threw his automatic to him, his fingers flicking the safety and firing at the animals that surged around him without thought or conscious volition. He was turning, going to Sam when the Rottweiler hit him in the back, bringing him down in a short painful slide across the rough concrete floor, its hot breath on the back of his neck. He heard the distinctive boom of Sam's Taurus, and the weight was off him, the dog's head blown apart by the bullet, the shape pulling back into human form, Clay's grey eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Scrambling to his feet, he was firing continuously, remotely aware that Twist and Garth were picking off the dogs on the outer edges of the milling mob, the big bullets leaving little of the dog, and gaping holes as the creatures returned to human form. The Colt's mag ran out and he shoved the gun into the back of his jeans, leg flashing out in a side kick, knocking the German Shepherd that had leapt at him to one side, the animal yelping as broken ribs pierced its lungs when it hit the ground.
One bite. Just one bite. The thought ticked like a metronome in his head as he fought his way to Sam's side, the two of them moving fluidly together, back to back, retreating down the long space towards the door. Sam passed him another magazine, and he pulled the gun out, ejecting the empty and slamming the full one in, hand jerking up and firing automatically when the wolfhound filled his field of vision.
The men in the building had scattered across the warehouse floor, some fighting the dogs, others lying still, the deep bites marks clearly visible on their bodies, throats torn out, necks broken, blood pooling over the concrete floor. The steady rifle fire from the building across the street was picking off the dogs that remained, dropping each in a subdued explosion of blood and fur.
Against the wall, Dean took another magazine from Sam, reloading the automatic, and racking the slide. The building had only one way in or out, and they stood by the postern door, gun barrels tracking the dogs around the area, muzzle flash and boom simultaneous as they dropped the animals.
"So much for intel," Dean said tiredly, looking around. None had gotten out, and Twist had put down two men who'd been bitten and left alive. The remaining men were crowded close by, staring at them, their faces and eyes filled with trauma and terror.
Sam nodded, sliding the Taurus back into his pocket and turning to the men.
"Tell the police it was a gang fight," he suggested, and they nodded, looking uneasily at the bodies that littered the floor around them. "You didn't see the other gang."
He turned and opened the door, gesturing outside, and the first hurried through, not looking at him, not looking anywhere but at the ground as they sped up, away from the smell of blood and sweat and dog.
Dean picked up his tee shirt, wiping the sweat and blood from his face, and dragging it on over his head. He pulled on his shirt, and shrugged into his jacket, tucking the Colt auto in the pocket and leaning against the wall to pull on his boots. He jumped as the phone in his jacket beeped once.
Sam moved quickly across the floor, checking bodies and doing a count. Seventy-eight of the men had been skinwalkers, the edges of the bullet wounds crumbling and black where the silver had penetrated. Another thirty men lay on the floor, unequivocally killed by animal attack. He shook his head slightly as he looked around. What was the Alpha's plan? Why had the packs joined together?
He had no doubt that they would face this situation again, probably in the not-too-distant future. They would come better prepared next time, he thought, more snipers, figure a way to trap the creatures so that they could question at least some of them.
"Sam!"
He looked up, moving instantly as he saw Dean's face, dead white under the blood and bruises. "What?"
"Something's happening at home." Dean was running through the door, waving at Twist and Garth. "Ellie called and I can't get a response at the house."
Cascadia, Oregon
Leaning the shotgun against the wall, Ellie opened the front door as Bob bounded up the steps. She smiled at him, her gaze flicking from side to side, scanning the dark garden.
"Hey, Ellie, just dropping back those books we borrowed. We're heading out tomorrow and Kay wouldn't dream of leaving it till we got back." Bob Gunner lived down the near the end of their road, the only non-hunter in the neighbourhood. She liked the couple, and they'd been around a few times, Kay's love of reading had been an easy bond.
Ellie took the proffered books in one arm. "You didn't need to worry about it, Bob. Not like I'm lacking for reading material."
He laughed. "That's what I told her, but she insisted."
"Well, you two have a good trip; I'll see you when you get back." She stepped back, tucking the books against her as her hand went to the door.
"Thanks. That's a definite." He turned away, bounding the steps with the same exuberance and hurried to his car. She watched him get in, the door closing as the engine started, and pull out of the turnaround, following the narrow drive back to the gate.
Closing the door, she set the books on the hall table and picked up the gun, walking through the house to the back. Dean would kill her if she took a risk and went out to confront the demon, she thought. But they couldn't just sit here, not knowing how it had gotten out, not knowing why it had targeted them.
She walked into the kitchen, slipping out through the back door and standing in the shadows of the porch. There was a stretch of flat ground, behind the garage, where Frank used to park the Airstream. If she was careful, she could draw out a devil's trap there; it lay beyond the house's protection zones. Then she could lead it in and trap it and get the answers they needed.
She turned abruptly, walking back into the house. Everything she would need was in her study.
I-90W, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho
The black car sped through the night, the sodium lights on the interstate barely leaving orange flickers over the glossy black metal as it raced under them. Inside the car, the silence was deep, underlaid by the noise of the engine and the tyres. Both men had powerful imaginations, and their memories gave vivid substance to their imaginings, adding colour and depth to the worst case scenarios that filled their minds.
The house was supposed to be safe. It had been safe. It was supposed to be protected. The thoughts churned through Dean's mind, his fingers curled tightly around the wheel, the speedometer sitting on eighty steadily as he drove north and west. She'd said trouble, but the house was supposed to be safe, so what kind of trouble?
Sam looked through the windshield, his gaze fixed and unmoving, not registering the road unfurling ahead of them, lit and delineated by the headlights. He'd spent the last three hours trying to get hold of anyone. No one answered at either his place or Dean's, the lines were fine, there was just no one answering the calls. Ellie's cell went to voicemail. So did Trish's. And Frank's. No answer at Baraquiel's house. He'd gotten through to Trent and Katherine, but they were in Mississippi. The lack of information ate at him, making it harder to suppress the images his mind kept wanting to throw at him, of burning and bleeding, of aching loss and a quiet grave in a small town. He couldn't lose them, couldn't lose love again. He would fucking die if it happened again.
"Dean, go faster."
Dean said nothing, watching the lights of the town dim and dwindle behind them. He put his foot down hard. Sam watched the speedometer climbing, and looked back through the windshield.
Cascadia, Oregon
Ellie crouched beside the garage, listening in the darkness. The wind had died, and the night air was still and icy, the garden murky, shapes blurred and indistinct with no moon and the stars hidden by cloud.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"
The voice was Mackleson's, Ellie thought, but the syntax and timbre were wrong, the teacher's tenor forced deeper, a burr around the edges marking an accent. A familiarity tugged at her, scratching at her memories.
"Come and play, Eleanor…" The voice moved, to her right now, as soft as a whisper. "Michael says to say hi."
She closed her eyes. She'd killed the last demon who'd known of that connection. And the voice was still strangely familiar.
A rustle in the grass on her one o'clock. She rose silently and moved around the garage, stopping at the corner.
"Ellie, don't tell me you've forgotten me." The voice had moved to her two o'clock.
And she knew who it was.
She stepped out from behind the garage, crossing the iron railing buried deep in the ground and looked at the gangly teacher standing thirty feet from her.
"I remember you, Michael."
Mackleson's face split in a wide grin, oddly vulnerable without his glasses, lost somewhere in the garden, she supposed.
"I knew you would, eventually," he said, walking a little closer. "Did I ever mention that time goes faster in Hell, Ellie?"
She nodded, taking a step toward him. "How did you get out?"
"As it turns out, I'm one of the few who can cross out of Devil's Gate. Thought you would have thought of that."
"The archangel said that all the gates were sealed."
The demon snorted. "And you believed that? Knowing what you know? I am surprised at you, cara mia."
The old endearment made her flinch, and she took another step toward him to hide the involuntary movement. "Why are you here, Michael?"
"Ah, Ellie, you have involved yourself with the world's most wanted. There's quite a bounty on the Winchester children, didn't you know? And on the Winchesters, for that matter." He was looking straight at her, the vessel's pale brown eyes gleaming in the darkness. "But I guess your angel friends didn't mention that either."
She frowned at him. "No, they didn't. What's so important about them?"
"I don't know, cara." He took another step, and she knew without having to look that he was a step away from the trap she'd laid. "I'm not really what you would call a player in this game, just a little pawn, pushing here, shoving there, no one tells me why."
"That's such a lot of bullshit, Michael."
He laughed, and stepped forward. "I missed you so much down there, Ellie—"
He looked down at his feet and back up at her, shock on his face.
"You were a good teacher, Michael," Ellie said softly, walking to the edge of the trap. "Do you want to go back down?"
Mackleson's face twisted. "No, no, don't—I'm begging you, Ellie, don't."
"Why are the children so important? And to whom?"
He shook his head, sinking to his knees like a supplicant. "The nephilim, Ellie."
She looked down at him, the small crease appearing between her brows. "The Others were killed, years ago."
"Not all of them." He lifted his gaze, hands resting palm upwards. "Not the most powerful."
She knew who he was talking about. The firstborns had been the most powerful, and there were seven of them.
"Why? What do they want with the Winchesters?"
"I don't know. I really don't." His face was sincere, but he was a demon.
"Demons lie, Michael."
"We do, we do, there's no doubt about it," he agreed. "But would I have left your child alone—? Would I have come up here, knowing I couldn't get in, knowing you would have wound protection upon protection around your home, if I hadn't wanted to see you? To talk to you? To give you warning?"
"Is that why you're here?" She looked at his hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. "For old time's sake?"
"Will you believe me if I say yes?"
"No."
"Then no." He shrugged and stood up, forcing to her to look up at him again, his face shadowed as he looked down. "I came because you are the only one who can end this for me. And that's the price for the warning, for the information."
She frowned at him. "End it for you?"
"You carry a knife that kills demons, Ellie."
She felt the weight of it, on her belt. "You want me to kill you?"
"Rather than return to the pit, yes." He turned away, dragging in a deep breath. "I've been there for over a thousand years, in Hell's time, Ellie. Time and more than enough time to become corrupted, to become evil. I am. Corrupted and evil."
"So why should I believe anything you tell me?" She looked at his throat.
"Because I have nothing left to lose." He shrugged. "I can't tell you why your man and children are so important to the half-breeds, Ellie. I can tell you they are searched for, they are in danger. That's all. And I'm…I'm begging you to free me from Hell in return."
"Mackleson will also die if I kill you, Michael." She rested her hand on the hilt of the knife. "He's innocent."
"No, he's not. That's why I chose him," he said. "You owe me this much, cara. You put me down there."
She looked at him, feeling what he'd become, her heart aching at his words. It was true. She had. And she had a debt to repay. She stepped into the trap.
I-84, Oregon
Dean swerved, his hands almost sliding off the wheel as the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that had been with him since Billings became a burning sensation, acid eating into him, sending bolts of pain into his skull.
"What?" Sam braced himself against the door, looking at his brother's hunched up position, screwed up face.
"God, something wrong," Dean ground out. "So fucking wrong."
"What?!" Sam leaned across the seat, taking the wheel and straightening out the car, as Dean's hands flew to his neck, his head rolling back, eyes tightly shut.
"I don't know!" The pain was agonising, burning like lye through his skin, into his nerves. "Fuck!"
"Switch." Sam was already moving across the seat, holding himself up with the wheel, his foot knocking Dean's off the accelerator as his brother shifted along awkwardly under him. Dean curled up with his hands pressing hard against the base of his skull while Sam returned to the car to the lane, their speed to a hundred miles per hour.
They'd passed through Kennewick an hour ago, and Dean had dropped onto the 84 at Hermiston. They'd be turning off soon, highway 97 taking them the rest of the way home, just a couple more hours. He looked at Dean.
"A couple more hours, man. Hold on, alright?"
His brother groaned. "This is happening right fucking now, Sam. We're gonna be too late."
Cascadia, Oregon
The school teacher's fingers were long and stronger than she'd suspected, curling around her throat and encircling it easily. The knife was in her hand, but her strength was vanishing, sucked away by the lack of oxygen, the lack of blood to her brain, her vision narrowing as the demon tightened his grip on her.
"Ellie, fight me," Michael said, his voice getting softer. "Fight!"
The only way to survive a fight is to forget about your own death, Ellie. Michael's voice spoke in her mind, from a long time ago. Put it aside and focus on what you must do to win. Death is nothing, barely a doorway to a new level of experience. Do not fear it. Do not acknowledge it. Do not think about it. Do what you must do.
Her fingers closed hard around the hilt of the slim blade and she straightened against his strength. Her left hand held the hilt, and she drove it up with her right, the slim, marked blade pushing with surprising ease beneath the ribcage and into the heart.
The fingers around her throat sprang open and she dragged in the cold night air, turning to one side as the body in front of her lit up in a thousand shades of red and gold, coruscating fiercely, the demon inside dying finally.
Mackleson's body dropped to the ground and Ellie swayed above it for a long moment, then crumpled beside it, the knife falling from her fingers when she hit the grass.
Sam spun the wheel as they came through the gateway with the first paling of the eastern sky. He was out of the car almost before he'd stopped it, the engine stalling and dying unnoticed, his long legs taking the porch steps four at a time. The front door was closed and he hit it with his boot sole and all of his weight, the lock shuddering and breaking free of the jamb, the door slamming back against the wall.
"Trish! Trish!" He ran through the house, bellowing her name, racing up the stairs to see the slept-in beds empty, feeling his heart hollowing out with fear, spinning around and leaping down the stairs. He almost overshot the door to the basement, feet skidding out from under him as he gripped the knob and yanked it open, stuttering down the stairs and regaining his balance at the bottom.
"Trish!"
The sounds of the panic room door being unlocked, the clunking of the ring-locks being released made him veer for the end of the library, and he reached the door just as his wife threw it open.
"Okay, hey, okay." He didn't know what he was saying, his arms wrapping around her, feeling hers tighten against his ribs, his face buried in her soft hair.
Behind him, Dean came across the library slowly, face still white, looking past them into the room.
"Where's Ellie?"
Trish lifted her head and looked at him, heart sinking. "She went out, to try and trap the demon in the garden."
"How long?" He looked at her as if she were a stranger, his eyes flat.
"Four or five hours ago now."
Without another word, he turned back and crossed the room, heading up the stairs. Sam looked down at Trish, his hands cupping her face, then looked past her, seeing the small shapes beneath the bunk bed blankets.
Dean found her behind the garage, the trap easy to see in the growing dawn light. Ellie was sprawled next to the kindergarten teacher's body, her clothes wet from the dew, and her skin cold when Dean dropped to his knees beside her. Beneath the swollen and bruised flesh of her throat, he saw her pulse, beating steadily in the hollow between her collarbones. The sight twisted something inside him, something already too tight from the events of the last two days, from the long drive home and the premonition he'd felt.
She opened her eyes as Dean slid his arm under her shoulders, lifting her off the grass, and he searched her face. Her gaze cut away from his and the tightness in his chest increased. The hell'd happened here? Why did she leave the safety of the house to come out here?
She sat up, taking her weight from his arm and he stood, offering his hand to pull her to her feet.
"I'm okay," she said, her voice low and rasping.
Dean nodded, not sure he could trust himself to ask. He glanced at the teacher's body. Ellie's knife, the Kurdish demon-killer, lay in the grass next to Mackleson. In the centre of his chest a small, almost bloodless wound stood out against the light-coloured shirt. He picked up the knife and wiped it on the wet grass, handing it back to her. She took it without comment, and turned away, walking toward the house.
What the hell had happened here? The question beat at him, twisting inside him.
Ellie stood beside the bed, easing her jacket off and tossing it onto the blanket box at the foot of the bed. From head to foot, she was sore, muscles aching, her throat felt like someone had poured a mix of ground glass and concrete down it. Many miles to go, she reminded herself, undoing her jeans and letting them fall.
She heard soft footfalls behind her and the snick of the bedroom door closing, and turned around. Dean stood there, rigidly still.
"What happened in Billings?" she asked. His face and what she could see of his neck and shoulders was bruised and cut, the knuckles of both hands scabbed and swollen. He looked like he'd gone a lot of rounds with a grizzly bear, she thought with a frown.
"Skinwalkers were running a fight club," he said. "Not sure why."
The terse summary didn't get close to explaining the way his emotions were bottled and held at explosive point, Ellie thought. She needed to talk to Sam about it, maybe. In his eyes, in the tightness of his expression, in the clipped low tones of his voice, she could hear the tension, wound like a too-tight wire cable.
"Trish said you saw Mackleson enter the grounds and stop at the first mazon."
It wasn't a question. She nodded.
"The zona magnetica stopped him from getting closer. He was possessed."
He closed his eyes, and she saw his hands curl into fists by his side.
"Dean, what—"
"Why?" He took a step closer to her. "Why did you go outside? Why did you go into the trap with him?"
He was thrumming with tension, Ellie realised, every muscle contracted and shaking, his eyes dark with the emotions he was holding onto. She'd known he would be angry with her. For the risk, for the breaking of protocols she'd insisted on. This was more, she thought. Something had happened in Montana, or on the way back, or maybe a combination of things.
"Dean…what's wrong?"
He shook his head, his throat working as he looked away. "Why? Just tell me why."
The emotion filling him was suffocating, his throat and chest closed in bands of steel. From the moment he'd made the decision in Billings to put him and Sam into the pack's arena, he'd been on the high wire, over the abyss, risking everything. One bite and no cure, and it'd been a long time since he'd fought barehanded, just him and an opponent, no holds barred. It'd lit something in him, something ancient. He hadn't known what that feeling was, only that it'd felt good, felt essential, somehow.
It had woken something else as well, when he'd tried to call home and gotten no answer. The last time that'd happened, Adam had been the puppet of an archdemon. His fear had expanded and the warning instinct had turned into a super siren, hammering him with all the things that could've happened, might've happened while he'd been gone. Seeing Ellie, lying still on the grass, had only amped that feeling. He couldn't imagine a reason for her going out into garden beyond the protective zones and talking to a demon.
They hadn't believed John. He'd left and put himself at risk, losing himself in the fight. The demon had come here, to his home and she'd gone out to meet it.
"Why? Why would you go out to meet it?" He walked closer to her, reaching out and gripping her wrist. "Tell me."
His face was drawn, his eyes dark. Whatever it was, it was more than the demon, Ellie thought, more than just the risk she'd taken. Guilt, fear, anger, something else, something deeper…she wasn't sure. It wasn't letting go of him, though, and she wondered if he realised it.
"It was Michael," she said.
MichaelMichaelMichaelMichaelMichael
The word hammered into his mind and something inside twisted tightly then broke, howling rising through him; anger, pain, fear, making no sense, blinding, deafening, numbing. His hand tightened around her wrist and he yanked her close, the fingers of his free hand bunching in her shirt, ripping the thin material apart and pulling it from her body. There was a freight train in his mind and the shrieking passage of it blocked every sound and sight, leaving only the bitter smell of hot metal in his nose, the taste of hot blood in his mouth. He twisted her arms back behind her, holding them together with one hand.
Michael Furente. Inside his head, memory rose with adrenalin, the power in his body as his fist connected with flesh and bone, fear transmuted to rage, making him faster, stronger.
It was Michael. Pushing her back on the bed, Dean ground his mouth over Ellie's, the kiss hungry, desperate, his tongue not giving her time to respond or to breathe, taking what he needed, his free hand pawing over her breasts, squeezing and pinching.
Michael. It had been Michael. Michael had been her first, the one she'd never let go, the one she'd condemned to hell; teacher, partner, lover, friend. She'd risked everything she had, everything he had for a demon. He lifted her against his chest, swung her around and pushed her back down, face down over the edge of the bed, one hand still holding her wrists in a vice-grip, the other tearing her underwear aside. His blood was thundering in his ears, his heart racing, fear and anger, pain and shock twisted together and rising through him. He felt again the agony in his nerves as his instincts had reacted to the danger she'd been in, while they were still hundreds of miles away; images crowded his imagination. He wanted to throw his head back and howl with the fury and despair pouring through him, a vortex of uncontrollable emotion that was shaking him apart.
Ellie moved her feet apart as he drove his knee between her legs. She had no more than seconds to work out what to do and still she was hesitating. The job in Montana had been bad, she guessed, but it wasn't the problem. That had been something coming for them while he was gone and what she'd done—going out to face the demon instead of staying safe in the panic room with Tricia—and the trigger had been why.
She'd never really told him about Michael, about the relationship, about the guilt she carried.
Dean's fingers pushed into her and she knew she was out of time. Whatever was driving this primal need, to control, to find some release in her, was secondary to his need to let the destructive emotions out. She couldn't decide if it would be more destructive to let him or to fight back and force him into finding another way. She grunted as he twisted his hand, pulling his fingers out and driving his cock deep into her.
Too late.
Michael. Michael Furente. It was Michael. The man he'd only heard of, a demon she'd risked everything to set free. He was rock-hard, iron-hard, and he barely spread her open before he was pushing in, ramming in, a flash of pain at her unreadiness for him, then he was deep inside where it was fiery hot and tight and velvet soft around him. His hips bucked against her, each thrust deeper, the howl rising inside, the small bones in her wrists grinding under the tightness of his grip, her soft sounds with every slam of his hips, red light behind his closed eyelids, and a wild, fierce pleasure building inside of him, snaking out along his nerves and through his veins. He groaned as his muscles contracted sharply, back arching, balls drawing up, tight as drums, and the piercingly sharp pleasure hitting him like a wrecking ball when he came violently.
The aftershocks shuddered through him, and he slumped over her back, releasing her arms, feeling her heartbeat slowing under his cheek. For a time, he drifted, his mind and body empty. When he came back to himself, the first thing he heard was her breathing, under him, and memory returned.
His breath caught in his throat as he rolled off her, and she eased her arms back to her sides. He could see the dark red marks over her wrists, marks from his grip, the indents he'd left in her skin. His stomach heaved when he realised they would match the finger marks around her throat.
"Did I hurt you?" he whispered, looking at her, his hand hovering over her back, so afraid to touch her now. "Ellie?"
She rolled onto her side, her hair spilling back as she looked at him. What he'd felt…his terror and helplessness at being away, the raw instinctive responses he'd been through in the last few days…had been obvious. The release he'd needed, had craved, had been inevitable and she hoped she'd made the right choice in letting him take it that way. What he'd done would hurt him far more than it had hurt her.
"No, it's okay. You didn't hurt me."
She lifted her hand, laying it against the unbruised side of his face gently. She would be stiff and sore in the morning, she thought, but that was all. She'd had rougher sex but not with him. It wasn't what he liked.
"Dean."
His eyes were closed, and they opened, liquid and bright as his gaze shifted from her wrists to her mouth, swollen and bruised from his kiss. She inched sideways on the bed, slipping her arm under his neck, wrapping the other around his chest and pulling him toward her. The warm splash of his tears hit her collarbone.
"Ssshh … it's okay," Ellie murmured against his temple, pulling him closer.
"Not—oh-oh-okay," he got out raggedly, his arms creeping around her and tightening convulsively. "I-I…goddammit…I hurt you, that…"
He couldn't even say it, not yet; he was shivering, his stomach clenched tight as the memories continued to hit him, and he knew what he'd done.
She clicked her tongue. "Dean…do you think for a moment if I'd thought you were really going to hurt me, you wouldn't have been flat on your back on the floor?"
He closed his eyes tightly, fighting to breathe past the bands of steel compressing his chest, past the lump of feeling that clogged his throat. She wasn't lying. She could've stopped him. He didn't know why she hadn't.
"Why the hell didn't you!?" he said, shaking his head, his chest hitching. "You didn't…enjoy…that."
"No." She closed her eyes, and sighed. "But you needed it. You needed some way to get those feelings out."
He shook in her arms, great shuddering tremors that rocked through them both, and she held him close until the emotions had passed, until the reactions had faded to nothing and his breathing had settled.
Two days later
Sam watched Dean covertly. Something had happened to his brother, between him and Ellie. Dean was treating her as if she'd been broken and carefully repaired and the glue was still setting. Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know what that something was.
"He said that we were targeted? Me and Sam? And the kids?" Dean frowned, looking down at the files that were still spread over the table. "And the nephilim have something to do with the way the monster population is increasing?"
"He was a demon, so I don't think that was the whole truth, but yeah, that was the gist of it." Ellie ignored the frown, resting her hand against the back of his neck.
From the other side of the table, Sam saw Dean start, almost flinching then controlling the impulse. His brother's eyes fluttered shut for a second, and opened again, Dean's expression smoothing out at the same time.
"Frank back?" Sam asked, looking for any way to break the palpable tension in the room.
"Not yet. A few more days, he said."
Ellie registered the tension in Dean under her fingers and moved away, taking a seat at the table. "Trent and Katherine should be back next week as well."
She turned to Dean. "He said something else as well. He said that the angels knew that you were being hunted."
Dean raised a brow and glanced at Sam. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Baraquiel called," Ellie said. "He'll be back tomorrow morning. He might know something about this."
"And he might not." Dean leaned back in the chair, looking at her. "We need to figure out a way to check this for ourselves."
"No argument." Ellie glanced at Sam, who nodded. "Where do you want to start?"
"With the gate the demon said he came through."
