TWO

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Dean squeaked the door open on the Impala, checking the wet parking lot for witnesses. The place was still, silent, serene. It was also very very dark.

Sam climbed out of the passenger side to the damp tarmac, stretching briefly before he checked his watch. "Nearly ten, Dean."

"Then everyone definitely will have left," he smiled, going round the back of the car to the boot. He opened it up and fished around inside. "This place better be easy to get into. Let's not hang around."

"I heard that."

The two of them turned and looked up at the square building behind them. Tall, white-bricked and eerily lit by small footlights around its base, it watched them with derision as they went straight from the parking space to the front doors. A few moments of Sam's industrious use of picks later and they were heaving back the huge doors and poking their heads in.

The library inside was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. Every wall was lined with impossibly old tomes, huge volumes of paper of all shapes and sizes. The Winchesters nodded to each other and Dean stole into the open room past the large entry desk. Sam looked back at the door, about to push it closed. He noticed a tidemark of moisture on the ground.

"Weird," he mused, crouching to find the inside was perfectly dry, as if the earlier rain had stopped a polite few inches away from the door. He got up, shut the door, and followed his brother across the wooden floorboards.

Dean had halted in the middle. He waved his hands out. "Great. Well, it's a library alright. Now where's the book?"

"Uh…" Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped away with his thumb. "Should be under… uhm…"

"What's it even called again?"

"The book of Soyga," Sam said. Dean turned and looked at him - just looked. Sam gave him his best well-meaning-yet-completely-hapless smile. Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the nearest bookcase. Sam's hand dropped and he went for the opposite side of the room, even as Dean began reading the list of categories from the chart on the end of the bookcase.

Eventually, after much searching, Sam spun in a lazy circle to locate Dean's head. Catching sight of him behind a long shelf, he started across the room.

The door creaked open far to his left. He looked over - then he simply shrank back into the dark end of the bookshelf. Only his eyes could be seen through the defensive row of books in front of his nose.

Dean had already flattened himself out, his back against the shelf nearest him. His hand went inside his jacket and he pulled out a shiny knife. Sam slid up the other side, freeing a long machete from under his coat.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," came a sing-song voice.

Dean frowned. He did not move, not even to check Sam's position.

"I know you're in here somewhere. I can smell you," the voice added. Female and very creamy, it reminded Dean of hot chocolate - the expensive Belgian kind that came with floating marshmallows.

Sam waved a hand. He waited until Dean had noticed and was paying attention, then motioned around his back. Dean nodded. Sam slipped off the way he had come, away from the voice. He disappeared round the back of the shelving.

Dean took a single step to the end of the bookshelf. He pressed his head back, listening. Then he popped a single eye round the edge.

Something dark and large flashed into his face. It collided with his cheekbone. His head bounced off the wood behind him. He just about kept his footing - until a well-placed boot in the nether regions made him fall to the floor faster than a piece of freshly buttered toast.

Laughter happened over his head. His hand clenched, still around the knife. He got a knee and a foot under him and pushed up. His head connected sharply with something organic and it shouted in shock.

As he reached his full height, rubbing a hand across his forehead to somehow negate the screaming pain to his man-bits, his eyes fell on a grey trouser suit and bouncy, shoulder-length brown hair. The woman drew the back of her hand over her nose delicately, looking down at it to check for blood. She sniffed and then her head tilted at Dean's attempt to not look like a wounded animal.

"Got you," she purred. Her laughing eyes went down and up him slowly. "Now where's Malakatch?" She put her hand out just as Sam launched himself at her from behind. He was shoved backwards as if a gigantic invisible hand had swatted at him. Dean saw him sprawl on his back, but at least Sam began to get right back up again. Dean met her eyes - and was very unsurprised indeed to see them turn black all over. "Why are you here?" she asked.

A wide, sarcastic smile spread over Dean's features. "They got the world's biggest catalogue of porn."

She flicked a hand and he slammed up and into the shelves. A massive smack to the back of his head made him let go of the knife. It went skittering along the wooden floorboards. The next second something with the weight and intent of a speeding freight train walloped into his temple. As he skidded along the floor on his side, part of his brain took in the squeak. Another part registered Sam's shout of vengeful warning.

Dean groaned and flopped onto his back as he tried to make the spinning feeling calm down and let him get up. A blink: polystyrene ceiling tiles and strip lights. A blink: rows and rows of banned and arcane books. A shout of fury, half a latin invocation; he was dimly aware of Sam flying through the air.

Sam hammered into the far wall. Books flew out from the shallow shelves around his head. He fought himself to his hands and knees. He scrabbled across the floor of the library for his brother's fallen weapon. "Dean!" he called.

Dean managed a grunt but the world was spinning faster now, accompanied by black and purple dots in his vision. Sam snatched up the knife. Before he could get to his feet, a large hand gripped his windpipe.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," came the accompanying sneer. Sam concentrated on breathing. A face loomed into view - large, brilliant black eyes, a wicked curl of an otherwise charming lip covered in very expensive, fire engine red lipstick, the smell of sulphur so strong Sam could taste it - it was all he could do not to pass out through lack of air. "You know," the voice went on, "I expected more. You two are supposed to be dangerous. Every single demon knows of you. They're all shit-scared of a Winchester. Oh, they pretend they're just dying to rend your flesh from every single one of your bones, but really?" The woman grinned. "They're all so full of it."

"With good - good reason," Sam spluttered. "You should be - more careful, lady."

The hand shoved and he was hurled into the wall. He slammed into it back-first. His slide to the floor was fast and painful. His hand still wrapped round the knife, he found Dean not far to his left. He reached a hand out and shook at his arm. Dean did not respond.

"Tell me where Malakatch is and I'll kill you quickly," she announced.

Sam looked up at her. Nearly six feet tall, her long, brown hair was a perfect storm of tousled and salon-perfect waviness. Her office suit hugged all of her curves, her black stilettos click-clicking across the wooden boards as she stopped in front of the pair of hunters.

Sam's eyes darted to the large front doors behind her. He got a better grip on the knife. "Look, we didn't come here for you, but we're going to take you down anyway."

"What you're going to do is die a horrible death." She grinned, and suddenly her face was less brown beauty and more nightmare-inducing shadow. "I'm going to enjoy gutting you like a prize-winning bass, Sam Winchester."

There was a creak. Sam's eyes went back to the doors as one swung open just enough for a black shoe to enter. The demon growled at Sam but his eyes widened on the beige raincoat that slipped in through the gap to enter the room.

"Cas," he breathed. "Thank God."

"'Fraid not, squire," said the owner of the coat.

The woman turned. She backed away from the man as he walked straight toward her. "No!"

"Yes. Well, maybe." The blonde-haired man stuck a cigarette in his mouth, puffing away as his hands went into his black trouser pockets. "Now then, where did I leave my—. Oh sod it," he heaved. "It's in me other trousers."

The woman backed up one more. Her face flickered through anger, wariness, worry.

Sam took the opportunity to grab Dean's shoulders and haul him round and away from the unexpected stand-off on the other side of the room. He slapped at his face. "Dean," he hissed. "Hey - come on. Wake up."

The man in the trenchcoat pulled the cigarette from his mouth, straightened up in front of the woman, and fixed her with a shit-eating grin. "Me and you, love. What do you say?"

"You are not allowed here," she snarled.

"You're absolutely right," he nodded. "Thing is - neither are you."

"I go where I choo—"

"Now come on," the man grinned. "We both know that's a lie. He's looking for you, you know. All I have to do is say his name, and he'll come bounding in here like a faithful labrador - well, more like Cujo, I suppose - and rip that head right off your shoulders. Only, this is your last hiding place, innit?"

"You bastard."

He sniffed to himself before flicking ash from his cigarette in her direction deliberately. "Never said I wasn't. So what'll it be? You leaving? Or do I have to make a complaint to your management?"

"I could rip your head off," she growled. She made a half-hearted reach for his face.

He put a hand up and pushed hers from his line of sight firmly. "Ooh, you could try, love," he said, his eyes twinkling dark with disapproval. "Time for you to leave."

She took a step back. "You think I cannot harm you, because of your lame excuse for protection magic?"

He took a long drag on the cigarette before huffing out a stream of smoke through his nose, considering her all the while. "Doesn't matter what I think - only what we both know," he said amiably. "You've got to the count of three to leg it. After that… well, don't say I didn't warn you." His shoe slid through the ash on the floor.

She backed up one. "I'm taking these two."

He shook his head. "No, you're not. You're hauling that nice arse of yours out of here PDQ." He flicked more ash from his cigarette. Again his right shoe moved.

"I'll tear you apart," she seethed.

"You know you won't," he smirked. He cleared his throat, then looked down deliberately. Her gaze followed. He looked up at her again, his cigarette hand pointing at the very precise lines of mess he had made on the floorboards. "That's him summoned. Like I said, you've got till the count of three. Don't let the door bang your arse on the way out, love."

She launched herself at him.

"Shit!" He crouched so fast his hands had to go to the floorboards.

But the woman whooshed over his head. He fancied he felt the scorching touch of Hell itself down his back.

The door slammed shut.

He looked across the room at Sam, who was still staring his with mouth hanging half open. "Alright, mate?" he asked. "We've got about five minutes before she realises her king ain't coming to drag her home. We should really get out of here."

"Yeah," Sam said. He shook himself, then yanked on Dean to get him sat up.

"Bloody hell - is he alright to walk?" the man asked.

He got to his feet and wiped his hands together as he crossed the room to Sam. He helped him to manhandle Dean up to a standing slump. Between them they walked the insensate Winchester out of the room and across the library proper. They made it to the main doors to the building before the man looked around as if his Spidey-sense had just gone off.

"Faster," he said, and they hurried from the doors and into the dark car park. "That yours?" he asked.

Sam looked at the Impala, waiting faithfully two empty spaces away. "Kinda."

"You couldn't give me a lift, could you?"

"Get in," Sam said.

He opened up the car and Dean was pushed on the back seat, face up. Sam climbed behind the wheel and the man folded both himself and his raincoat into the passenger seat. He ran a hand through his blonde hair and got comfortable. "Tell me you've got this car protected."

Sam whisked the classic out of the parking lot and onto the open road. "From every angle. So… thanks," he said nervously. "How did you just talk her down like that?"

"It's not a 'her'," the man said. He put his hand in his inside pocket and produced a white box of something Sam's eyes determined were labelled 'Silk Cut'. "Do you mind?" the man asked.

"Do I mind?" Sam scoffed. "After what just happened, I don't think I care. —But open the window," he added, his eyes darting to the sight of Dean still out for the count on the back seat. "As long he doesn't wake up and see you smoking in his car, you'll live."

The man grinned. He wound the window right down, sticking his head out. He breathed in a deep lungful of moist night air and let it all out with gusto. "Nice night for it," he said cheerfully. The next moment he had produced a lighter and was setting fire to the end of a fresh cigarette. He pocketed the lighter and rested his right hand, and the cigarette, just shy of being inside the car window. He twisted to look back over the seat at Dean. "He'll be alright, you know. Just a smack to the head, I reckon." He sat round again, then leant over to his right hand to get another lungful from his cigarette. "So you're Sam, are you? Sam Winchester, she called you."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat as the man enjoyed his Silk Cut. "So why did you decide to get stuck into a demon fight?"

"Not much of a fight, mate. More of a playground pissing contest." He took a drag on his cigarette, then flicked ash out of the window. "I've been following her for a while. Was hoping to get something from her whilst I was down this way, but I've kind of scared her off for now. I can leave it for a bit, wait till she's stopped looking over her shoulder for me. Then I'll be catching her up."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, then quickly put his eyes back to the night road in front. "What could you possibly want from her?"

"A few names. Very useful, in the right hands at the right time."

Sam shook his head as if to clear it. "Are you a hunter? Who the hell are you?"

An unearthly scream whipped at the rear of the car. Sam managed not to jerk the steering wheel, and by extension the car, into the hedge. His passenger turned to look behind the Impala. He cursed something that didn't just turn the air blue but in fact caused it to choke and die on his vitriol. Sam barely flicked his gaze up the rear-view mirror before stamping on the accelerator.

"Faster, mate, faster!" the man hissed. "That bird has friends!"

The classic shot off as fast as her tyres could take her. Black clouds smoked up against the rear window. They battered on the glass.

The man looked back through the car to the rear window. "Bloody typical. Every time I leave the charmed house." He took a deep drag of his cigarette before flicking it out of the window. His hands went to the sill and before Sam could get a word out, he grabbed the roof and turned to sit on the sill. "Oi! Wankers!" he shouted. "We exorcise you - every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect! Thus cursed demon and every diabolical legion, we adjure you! Cease to deceive human creatures and give to them the poison of eternal Perdition!" The black smoke recoiled and screeched. "That means piss off whence you came, you bunch of useless tossers!"

The smoke fell behind. It wisped and rolled itself together. Suddenly it shot upward and was lost to human sight in the gathering rainclouds above. The man smiled. He pushed himself back in through the window and got comfortable in the seat. His hand went into his inside pocket and pulled out his Silk Cut.

"Uh - thanks," Sam said, his face registering something between relief and surprise at being impressed. "Now will you tell me who you are?"

The man lit up a fresh cigarette and turned to propel the stream of resulting smoke out of the window. "Who, little old me?" he smiled. "John, mate. John Constantine."

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