Chapter Six

John glanced over at his son, who was passed out in the passenger seat. He had been sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks away from the funeral home when Sam had called him, saying that he was ready to go. When John had pressed for the details of the funeral, Sam was elusive as ever, instead ushering him in his truck and demanding that they get on the road. The only stop they had to make was to get John's bags from the motel. Sam's things were all destroyed in the fire, and he hadn't put up too much of a fuss at having to wear his father's clothes, which consisted of a seemingly endless supply of flannels. Within minutes on the road, Sam's body sagged, his eyes drooping closed, and in seconds he was out cold, head leaning against the window.

Honestly, John didn't know what to do. Sam had always been the more sensitive of the Winchesters, but John didn't know how to be comforting, especially when he and Sam but heads so often. Although he and Sam had experienced very similar situations at the hands of the YED, they were still polar opposites, and while John was content compartmentalizing everything, Sam exploded in a flood of emotions if he kept anything in for too long. Usually it was Dean who -

He broke off on that train of thought, trying to push down the guilt. He hadn't told Sam, but he hadn't seen Dean in a long time, and it had only occurred to him to look for his oldest son when he wanted to give someone orders. When Dean hadn't picked up his phone or taken care of the hunts he'd been sent, John had been livid. And when he discovered that Sam hadn't even seen or talked to Dean in six years, he was tempted to shake the kid until some common sense got knocked into his head. He didn't know how to explain that to Sam in a way that didn't make him gear up for another fight.

Yet another thing he needed Dean for.

Dean was always the defuser of the fights between he and Sam, and it was nice to have someone around to do the things that John himself didn't have time for, like taking care of Sam. Without Dean around, he and Sam would have to keep themselves together long enough to hunt down the yellow eyed demon and not wring each other's necks. With Dean gone, snide comments and side eye would become a regular occurrence, and they couldn't afford rifts right now, not with the YED on the loose, having claimed yet another loved one of a Winchester.

Right now, Dean would have to be put on the back burner. John would still look, ask some of his contacts to keep an eye out, but the YED was his priority right now.

Sam stirred in his sleep, drawing John out of his thoughts. Sam's arm moved, fingers curling over something in his fist, part of a gold chain hanging from his fingers. Yet another thing Sam hadn't told him; whatever happened in the funeral home had clearly shaken him to his core, and he'd been adamant on not discussing it, claiming they had more important things to worry about. John knew he'd have to weasel it out of Sam eventually; he didn't need the kid to have yet another episode of hysteria in the middle of a case.

The road ahead was long, all John could see being the endless stretch of asphalt and trees. The highway was nearly empty, with the occasional car driving by. He was going at least seventy, just a bit above the speed limit but hopefully not enough to alert any cops that may be lurking around. He wanted to get to Bobby's fast, and Sam was in no shape to drive, so he'd have to keep himself awake the whole trip. Pulling over to rest at a motel would only delay their arrival to Sioux Falls, and besides, they could sleep when they got to Bobby's.

A knock on the door jerked Sam out of his slumber. He rubbed his eyes and huffed, his breath brushing a piece of his hair off of his face. The knock came again. Craning his neck, he saw that the clock read 9:32 PM. He sat up in bed and turned to ask Jess if she'd heard that noise, when he noticed that her side of the bed was empty. Aside from the knocking on the door downstairs, the rest of the house was silent.

Sam slipped out of bed, bare feet padding on the wooden floors of the hallway. Jess had probably taken the trash out and had accidentally locked herself out. Sam had told her a million times that it wasn't safe to do that at night, but she was stubborn and often ignored his advice. Casting a quick glance into Emily's room, he paused, one hand on the banister. Emily's room was empty, her Disney princess blanket thrown carelessly across the banisters.

Uneasy, Sam made his way down the stairs. The knocking had stopped, and he called out to Jess.

Turning the corner into the hallway that led to the front door, he froze. Jess stood at the front door, looking out the peephole, holding a box cutter in her hand tightly. Emily hid behind the wall, peeking out.

Sam opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. His mouth formed the words, but sound did not come out. When he tried to move to get Emily, his body remained in its place.

"Jess," a voice sang from outside the door. Bile rose in Sam's throat. "I know you're in there."

Jess spun to look at Emily, who was quivering from her hiding place. She looked out the peephole again. A loud bang came from behind Sam, and he fought to make his body obey. Jess whipped around, Emily running into her arm, on the verge of tears. Sam could only watch in dismay as his wife and child clutched each other, shaking against the wooden door. Slow, menacing footsteps echoed through the house, and Jess' face erupted in pure horror at whoever stood behind Sam.

He could feel the presence behind him, and it made his stomach jerk violently. Whoever it was Jess was looking at gave off the aura of pure evil, as if he'd come straight from hell to bring terror to Earth's inhabitants. The person walked forward, right through Sam, as if he wasn't even there. Even with just the view of the man's back, he knew immediately that this man was familiar. He'd seen him somewhere before...but where?

"Please," Jess whispered. "Please don't hurt us."

"Oh, Jess," the man purred, his calloused fingers sliding over the dark blue paint of the walls, his voice echoing inside Sam's head. "It's so nice to meet you."

"Please," she cried, clutching Emily to her chest tightly. Tears streamed down Sam's face as he realized he could do nothing but watch.

"I'm not surprised Sam didn't tell you about me," the man said calmly, no longer advancing on them. He cocked his head to the side. "It's not like it would matter anyways, though," he admitted. "After all, this was always going to be your fate. This time, though, it's just happening a little bit later."

What did that mean? Sam wanted to scream, wanted to know the answers to every question that continued to pop up.

Jess' head jerked back and forth, maneuvering Emily so that she stood behind her mother, shielded from the view of the intruder.

"Hi, sweetheart," the man's attention was suddenly directed to Emily, who had moved her head to look out from behind her mother's leg. "I'm -."

The man stopped, body turning slightly towards where Sam stood, his face angled down so that Sam couldn't see his face. Jess and Emily's bodies disappeared, and Sam was left in the hallway with the stranger, confusion and terror coursing through his veins, making his heart pound.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded, his voice returned. His body felt weak, but he found that he could move again. Striding forward, he grasped the man's shoulder, determined to whirl him around, only for the man to shove Sam to the side hard, sending him flying into the kitchen, crashing into the table. It broke under the impact, the pieces clattering loudly on the floor and against the kitchen counters.

Sam was grabbed from behind, held up off the ground by his neck, gasping for air. He clawed at the hand around his throat, eyes watering. The man murmured in his ear, in that voice that for some reason sounded like home, "I always knew you were a little bitch."

A gush of water made Sam choke as he came to, spluttering and gasping for breath. His entire upper body was soaked, his hair matted to his head and his shirt giving off the impression that he'd just dunked himself in a body of water. John clutched a jug of water, standing at the passenger side door with it open, staring at Sam as if he'd gone insane.

Shaking, Sam clambered out of the truck and pushed past his father, holding onto the side of the truck to keep himself from collapsing.

"Sam," John said. "Sam, what the hell was that? And don't you dare tell me it was just a nightmare."

Sinking into a crouch, Sam let his head fall into his hands, trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. It felt like he'd just run a marathon; his heart pounding and his muscles sore. He hadn't expected that nightmare, didn't think he'd continue to -

He didn't want to think about it now, would prefer not to speak about it ever, but John was standing in front of him demanding answers, and Sam didn't want to risk getting sent back to Palo Alto because he couldn't keep his shit together for one little car ride. But how could he explain this to his father in a way that wouldn't get him tied up and prepped for an exorcism? How could he tell his father that he got visions, and that ever since the one about Jess' death came true, he's been terrified that his mind is trying to tell him something, trying to send him a message? And if his dreams true, then it wasn't just about him, either. It involved Mr. and Mrs. Moore, who deserved to know what really happened to their daughter. And that raised another set of problems, because how could he explain to them that Jess had been murdered before the fire when not even the police had determined the cause of death yet?

"I don't know what's happening," Sam whispered. "I just need some quiet right now, okay?"

John stood there for a moment longer before gruffly replying, "I'm going to go get some food."

Looking up, Sam realized that they had pulled over into rest stop, a few motels up the street, and a gas station connected to a convenience store just a few yards away, where his father was walking towards. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in what seemed like forever, but he wasn't sure he could keep the food down, but what he was sure of was that John would not be pleased if he vomited in his truck. Hell, he'd damn near lost his entire mind when he threw up in the Impala.

Sam moved himself to a sitting position, his back pressed against the dirty tire of the car. The sky was gray and cloudy, the air cool. The calm before the storm. Something was coming, Sam could feel it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what it was, wasn't sure he would be able to handle it.

From his spot on the ground, he could see his father moving around in the store, his head disappearing and reappearing as he entered and exited aisles, probably grabbing anything that looked good to stock up. With an annoyed huff, Sam pathetically got to his feet, knowing that he'd have to go into the store and pick out his own food because the day John put down the burgers and beers and instead ate a salad and drank water would be the day pigs learned how to fly.

His feet dragged as he walked into the store, and from the look the cashier was giving him, he was sure he looked like a mess, shirt soaked, face dirty and unshaven. He probably looked like he was ten seconds from robbing the joint. Sam made sure to keep his hands out of his pockets so it wouldn't look like he was hiding a gun as he walked around the store. Spotting a refrigerator with salads, he grabbed four big ones before moving on to the water. Juggling the salads in one arm, he managed to wrap his fingers around two gallon jugs of water. The Mountain Dew was tempting, but he needed to be alert, not hysterical from being awake for several days straight. He'd figure out a way to handle the nightmares. He just had to tackle his problems one at a time.

"Finally decided to get off your ass I see," John muttered as they met at the register, tossing their things on the counter.

Sam glared. "Finally decided to stop pretending you care I see."

"Now listen here -."

"I'll be in the car." Sam stormed out of the store and strode to the truck, not in the mood for arguing. In the past, butting heads with his father had been an inevitable occurrence, but now, he got drained too quickly to keep up with it. He was angry and then ten seconds later it was gone, leaving him numb on the inside.

Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn and he was greeted with the sight of a familiar blue 1968 Ford F-350. He hadn't laid eyes on that truck since he was just a kid, waiting around for his dad to come back from whatever shit he was out hunting. The truck's driver had a baseball cap on and a scruffy beard, and Sam watched as he pulled up to a gas tank.

Although Sam hadn't seen the man in years, hell, a decade, he knew without a doubt that the man currently pumping gas into his car was Bobby Singer, supernatural research expert, the go to man for all things that go bump in the night. He began to open his mouth to call out to him, only to quickly shut it. Would it be appropriate for him to say hello? After all, he hadn't spoken to the man in years, and although when he was young and had the excuse of obeying his father's orders to cut off contact, as an adult and capable of making his own decisions, he could have at least let the older man know that he was okay. Bobby had always been kind to him and Dean, and Sam distinctly remembered Bobby's letting them be normal children, and not order them to run laps like John had.

John's presence at his side nearly scared him shitless, and before he could direct his father's attention elsewhere, John spotted Bobby as well.

"Dad, wait," Sam pleaded, grasping at his father's jacket. John brushed him off, shoving the plastic bags into Sam's hands and walking towards Bobby.

"Bobby!" John called out.

Bobby froze, turning to the call of his name, the tension in his body palpable. His eyes narrowed and he began to move swiftly, closing the gas tank of his truck and placing the nozzle back in its place, hurrying around to the drivers seat. John, having picked up his speed, Sam on his heels, beat him there, placing a hand on the door to prevent Bobby from getting in and driving away.

"What the hell do you want, Winchester?" Bobby growled. "Get out of my way."

"Sam and I were just coming to see you," John said, grabbing Sam's arm and damn near yanking him forward, presenting him.

Bobby's widened when he caught a wind of Sam, the man looking donned in plaid once more. Apparently the Stanford life hadn't stuck. Sam was no doubt aware of how awful he looked, but as an outsider looking in, Sam looked like the entirety of his soul had been ripped from his body, dragged through the more horrific torture possible, and then throw carelessly back into his body. Sam's skin was pale, his lips dry, hair still as long as ever but also looking an awful lot like a birds nest.

"You expect me to believe that this is Sam?" Bobby scoffed. "Stanford Sam?"

"A lot has happened, Bobby," John said. "If you would just -"

"I don't have time to hear more of the typical Winchester bullshit," Bobby snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse m-".

"The demon got Sam's family, Bobby," John hissed.

Sam did his absolute best not to crumple in on himself, but apparently his face did nothing to hide his emotions, because with just one look at him, the tension leaked out of Bobby's body and his eyes widened.

"Shit," Bobby whispered. "Shit." The three men stood in silence for a brief moment, letting Bobby process the bomb they'd just dropped on him. "How long ago?"

Sam quietly answered, "Just a few days ago," his voice cracking. He looked away, hugging a plastic bag of food to his chest like it were a lifeline.

Bobby looked between Sam and John, unsure of how to feel. He felt bad for turning John away now, because now it was obvious that when John had called a few days prior, it had been because that yellow eyed bastard had once again fucked up the life of a Winchester. On the other hand, he wanted to rage at John for bringing Sam back into hunting so soon. Bobby knew for a fact without even having to ask that Sam wouldn't be going to the funeral, and he needed that closure, couldn't live if he continued to hold on to that anger and sadness. Well, he could live, but it would be a miserable life, filled with dark rooms and a lot of alcohol.

John cleared his throat and said, "We were coming to see you, hoping you could help us track the YED down, let us crash for a few days."

Bobby noticed that neither Winchester mentioned anything about Dean, and it made his ire grow. Well, if they weren't going to say anything, he didn't see any reason to either. "You mean you were hoping that showing up on my doorstep with this latest victim would make me let my guard down enough for you to eat my food, drink my beer, and use my books?"

"Um," was John's ever so eloquent reply.

Bobby shook his head. "The house is locked up and warded, and I won't be going back there unless I absolutely have to. You're gonna have to find someone else to mooch off of." He glanced at Sam. "Hey, kid, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Bobby," Sam said quietly. "Just...if you hear anything about the demon...will you let us know?"

"I'll call you," Bobby promises. John steps to the side, allowing Bobby to open the door and hoist himself into his truck. Sam and John begin to walk away, and, in a moment of weakness, Bobby calls out, "Hey!" When they turn back around, he grumbles, "If you need any help with research, give me a call. I can send some stuff your way."

John nods, silently grateful, and he and Sam stand side by side, watching Bobby drive away.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to trust Dean to take care of the youngest Winchester?" Meg asked her father.

They had met up outside of a small diner in the middle of Windom, Minnesota. To any regular person, the town would be irrelevant, just another insignificant dot on the map of countless other cities. They stood off to the side, out of the view of the cameras.

"I trust him," he replied, a grin on his face. "Boy, when I told Dean, he just about blew a fuse, was ready to go on a rampage."

Hell, even before he'd told Dean, he was still stunned that John Winchester managed to make yet another son after royally fucking up with the first two. And oh, wasn't that just amazing? John Winchester, taking the little blonde haired boy to baseball games and throwing him birthday parties, but damn near ripping Dean's head off when he protesting having to drop out of high school. Really, John was just making it too easy for him.

"And you managed to reign him in?"

"Don't I always?"

"You finished up in Palo Alto quickly," Meg observed. "I'm guessing Dean turned out better than you had hoped?"

Her father smiled serenely, leaning against a rustling bicycle rack. Dean had been under his tutelage for centuries, and within just the first few days, he was already surpassing the standards, becoming a ruthless son of a bitch, eager to please his savior. When Dean had first been dragged to hell, he was prepared to kill whoever fucked up his plans. And then...it hit him. Why wait around and stick with the old plan when he could change the entire game, giving Hell a major advantage?

"He's a masterpiece," he mused. "My best work. He's like a son to me." Meg glared. "Oh, don't be jealous. You know how long I've waited for this day. And with Dean on our side, Heaven might as well surrender."

Meg moved to stand beside him, tapping the polished finger nails of her vessel on the rusted metal. "I'm just saying, what if Sam and John catch wind of this?"

"And what will they be able to do?" he laughed. "It's not like I tricked Dean into this! I simply told him the truth, that his father and brother continuously abandoned him and only called him up when he was useful to them. Dean, the poor boy, had to sacrifice everything for his younger brother, and what did he get in return? Not even a birthday card. Sam fucked off to Stanford, John went to fuck someone who wasn't Mary Winchester, and honestly, that's all Dean needed to embrace his true self, to become what he was always meant to be without those two shit bags holding him back.

"What would they be able to say to him that would make Dean reconsider?" he asked Meg. She remained silent. "They can try to proclaim their love, give empty promises, but Dean knows that they're lies." Shrugging, he continued, "The angels should have kept a better eye on their golden boy, but too little, too late; he's ours now. And I don't intend on letting him go so easily. Do you?"

Meg smirked. "I suppose he's proven himself useful, a valuable asset to our cause. And who knows, one day, I may even call him my brother."

"That's the spirit!" he laughed. In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate. Meg watched as he pulled it out of his pocket, the caller ID reading Dean's name. He picked up, "Azazel. Did you finish the job?"

Dean's dark laughter could be heard through the phone, followed by his drawl, "You know I hate to waste a good victim. Should I clean up the mess?"

"No," Azazel said thoughtfully. "I think we should leave a little something for John to come back to, don't you think?"

"It would be my pleasure."

Castiel landed gracefully next to his superior, Zachariah, the lights of Heaven casting a glow over a garden, where an old man sat next to his wife, feeding the birds with smiles on their faces. Castiel stood silently, waiting to be addressed; Zachariah did not like to be disturbed when he was watching Father's creations. Although the older angel thought himself above the "mud monkeys", he found it interesting to watch them, to see what their souls desired in Heaven.

The younger angel had just returned from a mission, of which he had been unsuccessful. Originally, he had not been in charge of this task, but his superiors had decided to put faith in him, and he was disappointed that he had failed. The last time he had been on Earth was to kill a nephlim, and now he was part of his Father's grand plan to save his most precious creations and defeat Lucifer once and for all. His pride was wounded now, having failed to follow the orders to locate Sam and Dean Winchester.

"I take it you did not find what you were looking for," Zachariah stated, turning to face him.

Castiel frowned and bowed his head in shame. "My apologies, Zachariah, but I scoured the Earth for their souls. Dean Winchester is missing, and Sam has recently left Palo Alto with John Winchester."

"Impossible," he refuted. "Sam should not have been in Palo Alto as of late, and certainly not with John Winchester."

"Sir," Castiel said quietly. "Sam left Palo Alto just yesterday evening in Earth's time, just two days after the death of Jessica Moore, his wife, and Emily Moore, his daughter."

Zachariah stared at Castiel, holding his gaze unblinkingly. The older angel could see that Castiel was not lying and was in fact reporting nothing but the truth. "I see," he murmured. "You did well, Castiel. It is not your fault you could not find them; it seems that someone else was not following orders. It is of no consequence, the plan is still in motion. When the time comes, you will be the one to pull Dean Winchester from hell. I trust that you'll be prepared?"

"Of course," Castiel bowed his head once again. "It would be an honor to raise the Righteous Man from perdition."

Castiel disappeared in a flutter of wings, leaving Zachariah to stare contemplatively into the horizon.