Dean watched in complete horror as Calgary rushed the doorway, firing at Concha. She barely had time to turn and face him when Dante did exactly what Dean would have done. He stepped between his sister and the bullet.

Concha's mental reflexes must be damn fast, Dean reasoned, since the shot should have hit Dante point blank in the chest. Instead, the air around them shimmered for a second. The bullet still hit, but dug into the flesh just under Dante's collarbone, not his heart.

Calgary lifted off the ground, was flung away. He crashed into the far wall of the hallway.

At the same time Concha's strangled yell of, "Dante!" reached his ears so did the sound of the wall groaning and collapsing. Dante's hand went to his shoulder; he spun around, thrown off balance, dropping to one knee.

The assault of wind and rain and surf finally won over the old building. Part of the wall disintegrated, water rushed through. It wasn't deep, just a few inches swirling around their feet. Dean knew it would only get deeper. When he looked up Calgary was gone. Concha darted across the room, snatched up a rag and was back to her brother's side in seconds. Shoving against his uninjured side, she braced her shoulder under his. Reaching across his chest she pressed the rag firmly to the wound.

Dante hissed and staggered to his feet with her help.

Dean grabbed his other arm, leaning around to see Dante's back. "No exit wound. You need a doctor. I gotta get Sam out of there." He yanked the keys to the truck he and Concha had driven in, and pressed them to her hand. "I'll help you get him outside."

"I can…we'll be fine." Dante panted out. He was mostly straight, but Dean could see how much he was leaning against his sister.

The rest of the wall crumbled, dissolving from top to bottom. More water rushed in, swirled around and sloshed backwards. The wood and horsehair plaster of the old walls were swept toward the ocean and out of view.

" 'M gonna hafta get in the other way." Dean tugged on Dante, forcing him and Concha forward.

The hallway outside collapsed completely. The stairs leading down to Sam's prison partially blocked with debris. It was some kind of miracle, Dean was sure, that more water wasn't rushing down into the cells below. The incoming water was still only an inch or two deep in this part and much of it blocked by the ruined walls. It was trickling down through the ceiling bars, but not fast, and it was going to take a while if that rate kept up to become an immediate danger. Dean estimated he had twenty minutes, maybe a bit more.

They made their way to the front of the old building. Leaving them there, Dean sprinted along the outside of the orphanage. A glance back was all he needed, seeing Concha help Dante into the truck.

He shouldered through a door near where he guessed the stairway to the cells should be. The floor creaked and moaned dangerously. Some places where Dean stepped the wood dipped and cracked under his feet.

Moving as fast as possible, and not crash through the floor, Dean started pulling wood and plaster from the stairway. The more debris he cleared away, the faster the water was pouring in.

"Hang on, Sammy." He panted between clenched teeth.

Flickering just inside his vision made him stop and look around. He'd left Craven's spotting scope in the Impala, but it wasn't Craven. The temperature dropped enough to be noticeable. Dean straightened and turned slowly on the balls of his feet.

Moving cautiously he crouched down, one arm leaning on his knee, hand dangling down. He didn't want to frighten it, which would have made him laugh in another circumstance. "Is there another way inside?" Dean flipped his wrist so the fingers of his hand pointed to the decaying stairs.

Large brown, translucent eyes stared out at him from under a mop of curly dark hair. Dean had to consciously stop himself from reaching out and brushing the bangs away from the eyes. This must have been the same spirit who'd led Sam to safety before, Ezra. The apparition of a small boy nodded at him.

Dean scooted a bit forward. "Please. You helped him before. Help me help him now. He'll die, he'll drown."

Ezra looked down, and Dean swore he saw tears well in the spirit's eyes. Ghostly arms wrapped around the small body. The boy's spirit didn't otherwise move, but Dean felt his fear.

"That's how you died." Dean shot a glance at the stairs. More water was coming in faster now. "I can only imagine how frightening—"

The ghost shook his head; curly bangs flapping in all directions.

"He's going to die. He can't die. You had someone who loved you. You loved her, didn't you?"

A nod.

"He's my little brother."

The ghost looked at the stairs and seemed to fade and diminish a bit.

Dean turned his head far enough to see the stairs. "I won't let it hurt you. I need to stop it from hurting him. We can stop it from hurting others."

The little boy motioned with one hand for Dean to follow, flickering in and out, moving through the orphanage it led Dean outside.

Struggling against the wind driven rain, Dean bent nearly in half. The wind forced him two steps sideways for every step forward he took. His T-shirt clung to his skin, his looser button down snapped against his arms and sides with enough force to sting. The material of his jeans rubbed against the cut along his calf causing sharp barbs of pain to stab through his leg.

Ezra led him to the far side of the orphanage, stopping near the corner farthest from where Sam was. A dark patch Dean saw a few seconds later was the opening to an access tunnel partially covered by shrubs. Slipping inside Dean skidded down the steep incline a few feet. It opened to an area large enough to stand upright in. There were two trucks parked a few yards into the tunnel.

Sprinting to the trucks, Dean made a quick search turning up rock salt, iron bars, iron shavings and spray paint. He carried with him his pistol and extra rounds, all consecrated, but these would be helpful, as would one of the pickups. A wad of twenty-dollar bills nearly the size of his fist he found in the glove compartment of one truck went into his pocket.

The spirit flickering into and out of phase first on his left, then right made him stop and look down. "I can get to my brother from here?" Dean squinted into the murky tunnel ahead. It wasn't exactly dark, he could see, but it wasn't especially bright either.

Ezra motioned him to follow. Taking a few steps Dean hesitated when the spirit stopped a few feet along and near a wall. Putting one hand on the wall, he looked down at the ghost boy. The wall was solid, stone and earth shored up with heavy timbers and metal. Ezra flashed into the wall near where it met the ground and back out again.

"Sam's not in there."

Large, solemn eyes peered up at him from under the curly hair. Ezra shook his head, patted the wall and wiped one hand over his eyes.

Running to the pickup trucks, Dean snatched a crowbar from the bed of one of them. Once back to that section of wall, he hit at the stone and earth a few times until large chunks crumbled away. Small amounts of water trickled through to wet the already damp ground around his feet. He knew his time was running short before flooding in the cells started up in earnest.

Not much had been cleared away when he saw bones. Another hit showed him two skeletons; one adult size and one the size of a child. Dean stood staring down at them for a few seconds. He nodded slowly.

"Okay, kid." He said softly. "I get it now. I can take care of you, of both of you." Dean crouched down so he was eye level with the small spirit. "But first, I have to get Sammy out. When he's in one of those trucks," he pointed to the pickups, "Then I'll do everything I can for you two. But Sammy won't last in there much longer with that thing. Even if he could, the water is coming in. You two protected each other from that thing. That's what Sammy and I do. I need him. I need to get him out. He's my little brother."

Ezra nodded and took off down the tunnel.

Spinning and racing after the ghost, Dean swore under his breath and shouted, "Hey, wait up!" Dean dearly hoped there was gas or kerosene in one of those trucks.

It was a short distance, maybe a couple football fields' worth, before Dean came to a barred door. The little ghost charged through. Dean grabbed and yanked, sighing, of course it was locked. The hinges were rusty, but not rusted through.

"Wait here."

Dean charged back down the tunnel and used the iron rod to smash the driver's side door of one of the pickups. Brushing the glass away and out of the truck, he jumped in and had it hotwired and running in seconds. Gunning the engine, Dean floored the pedal. The truck careened through the tunnel and smashed into the metal bars. The front end of the truck dented and crumpled, but it kept running. The gate skidded over the hood to land along one side.

"Piece of new ass shit truck. My car would have gone through without a scratch." Dean muttered. When the tunnel narrowed to just enough room for a person to walk through Dean slammed on the brakes.

He waved Ezra into the truck. "Get in here." Dean grabbed some of the rock salt and dropped a ring around the truck. Waving one arm at the boy's spirit, "Stay put!" he ordered and tore down the tunnel to the entrance to the cells.

Glass and iron shards crunched and ground under his feet, making him slip and stumble. His jeans soaked up the salt water seeping along the floor. The wound on his leg turned into one constant prickly ache Dean did his best to ignore. Charging up a short flight of stairs going from the tunnel to the cells was nothing short of agony.

There was another door, a heavy wooden one, but it wasn't locked. Dean was through it, and in the corridor lined with cells in no time. Panting hard, breath freezing and blowing ahead of him in small wisps, Dean at once felt the drop in temperature.

Enough water had gotten into the area that some of the glass and metal shards were moving across the floor, but the water wasn't deep enough yet to float the debris away. Dean was somehow going to have to get Sam through this mess.

The second Dean's fingers wound around the bars of the door to Sam's cell the black cloud covering him expanded and lashed out turning the bars frigid cold. "Son of a bitch!" Dean spat, jerking his fingers away from the stinging cold. "No!" He shouted. "No. You don't get Sam. You don't win this time."

Drawing his pistol, Dean fired at the door's lock. It popped open. Running inside after putting his pistol back into his waistband, Dean's eyes caught a glint of silver on the floor. Without breaking his pace he scooped the flask off the ground, opened it and threw it at the oily, black cloud.

It hissed and erupted outwards again. This time Dean swung the iron rod he'd carried with him and threw the rest of the flask's holy water. Gaining height, it seemed to become darker, oilier as it surrounded Dean, blocking his escape. Not that he was planning on leaving without his brother.

Wielding the iron rod in front of him, clearing a path, Dean dropped to the ground when his toe hit Sam's side making him stumble.

At once the two of them were covered by the oily black demon. It slithered over any bit of skin exposed on Dean's body, crawled over his face and slithered along his neck. Everywhere it touched tendrils of chilly, slimy frost stung and bit. His skin crawled with the sensation of thousands of tiny feet dancing across, leaving wet, cold trails.

Wrapping both arms around Sam's chest and back, Dean tugged Sam to his knees, giving a shake. "Sam! C'mon, Sammy, I need you with me." He felt the small, sticky drops of blood mixing with sweat along Sam's back. His shoulders, back and sides were covered with dozens of small cuts and scrapes. Dean winced at the though of how the salt water and salty spray in the air must feel when in contact with the small, open wounds.

Sam's head rolled to the side, then righted only to have his chin drop to his chest and jerk back up again. His eyes fluttered open, but Dean could tell he was barely conscious and probably not focusing. Sam's arm moved against Dean, and at first Dean thought Sam was trying to push him away, so tightened his hold. Sam fumbled at one hip, then dug in his pocket. He pulled his fist out and pressed his hand to one of Dean's.

Dean stared down at what Sam was trying to give him. His brain took a few seconds to process the information. "Good boy." Dean exhaled and fisted the object, which very well might be the key to their freedom.

Before he could open the herb packet and use it Dean was assaulted from all sides. The boogeyman demon pressed in on him; making his ears pop and his head want to explode from what he saw. Now he understood Sam's words of how this demon took everything he loved and turned it to something to be despised.

Sam wasn't using his visions to draw demons to a trap, or hunting them down to be sent back to Hell. He drew them out, drew them to him and sent them out in wave after wave to slash and burn at everything living. People with their skin flailed off in small strips set on fire, but not burnt until they died, just burnt enough to cause excruciating agony. Dean could see it in their eyes, their faces; he could see how they suffered with no hope of end.

Demonic power flocked to Sam, swirled around him and he was delighted to use that power to cause as much pain and suffering as the demons could dish out. If there was one thing Dean knew, demons could provide a lot of pain and suffering.

No one was spared the demonic rampage, not children, the elderly or the pious. They were taken, assaulted and tortured. All the while Sam did nothing but laugh.

The destruction didn't end until bullets from Dean's gun smashed into Sam and he dropped dead at Dean's feet.

Dean desperately tried to close his ears to the screaming until he realized it was his voice. Reaching down deep within himself Dean threw out an enraged, wordless shout. Pushing Sam behind him while at the same time pulling Sam's arms over his shoulders, he turned his head far enough to be sure Sam heard his words. "Hang on, kid."

Opening the herb packet, Dean flung the contents in a half circle in front of them. His other hand reached behind him for his pistol. Drawing it he fired repeatedly into the oily cloud, turning a bit to again create a half circle before them. Sam's body jerked and jumped against him with every crack from the gun. Soft, strangled noises were sobbed out against Dean's neck.

"NO! Never!" Dean shouted at the black cloud of evil. "Not Sam. Not me. Not US!"

When Sam started a slow slide down to the ground, Dean stopped and spun around. "No, Sam. We're getting out." Hooking his arm under Sam's and around his back, Dean hitched him up higher on his hip and back. The best he could do carrying Sam's weight that way was a stagger, but at least it was forward.

He'd vowed to never do this again, and here he was. There were maybe three or four steps between them and the boogeyman's black cloud of evil. Dean crossed the space, dragging Sam with him. At the last second he reached up and gripped Sam's wrist dangling over his shoulder as tightly as possible.

For the second time Dean plunged them into the black.

The first time had been a piece of cake compared to this. Then Sam was awake, moving under his own steam and helping Dean navigate through. Now, Sam was more dead weight against his back than anything else. Barely conscious, and even less lucid, Sam's arms were draped over Dean's shoulders. He was awake enough to scramble along after Dean. There was no way Dean could keep Sam's feet off the ground or stop his movements. Bits of glass and metal gouged tiny cuts across the top and along the bottom of Sam's feet. His back was already a mass of cuts and raw, scraped skin from the walls.

Dean didn't think the wounds were life threatening, but they were going to be painful, and if not treated and cared for properly they'd get infected.

The boogeyman demon wasted no time trying to trap them. He knew by the words mumbled from Sam, how his body shook constantly, the thing was targeting him first. Every few breaths Sam was begging, pleading with Dean to stop something. A litany of wrong, don't, stop, no please, no, was interspersed with half sobs, and Dean's name.

Closing his ears to the way Sam's voice broke, how he sounded completely shattered, Dean pressed forward. He ignored the way his shoulders, back and legs burned with the effort of supporting his as well as Sam's weight and went as quickly as possible back the way he'd come.

The water was halfway to his calf by now, glass and metal bobbed and swirled in eddies around them. Dean felt it more than saw it. Bits of glass and metal worked their way between his skin and jeans; itching and snipping at his flesh. Whirls of red pin wheeled in the water. Drops of his blood, of Sam's, mixed with the shards and saltwater.

The demon swirled around them; Dean felt its rage, its sheer desire to destroy them. Moving through air so cold it burnt his skin and made breathing torturous. Images, one after another of horrible acts committed by Sam, some by Dean, flashed in front of him. He wanted to stop, to drop to the ground and curl in a ball, he wanted it all to go away.

Dean concentrated on one foot in front of the other. Each step forward a victory. He didn't see the steps ahead, and stepped into air. Knees buckling before he regained some of his balance and having to use the wall as a brace he and Sam more fell down the steps than anything.

Finally he reached the wood door and the tunnel beyond. The handle and hinges looked like iron. Hopefully they'd slow the thing down long enough.

The water hadn't gotten this far. A small amount trickled along the bottom of the stairs. Dean reasoned it must be draining off somewhere along the stairs. Or maybe it was held at bay by the demon, Dean wasn't sure. What he did know was there were no water or sharp bits of glass and metal beyond the wooden door.

Dropping Sam to the dank flooring, Dean barely took the time to watch him curl on his side, muscles jerking with spasms. Saliva oozed from the corner of Sam's mouth, tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes.

Charging ahead, Dean ran to the pickup. He grabbed a container of salt from the truck bed and raced back to the doorway. Leaping Sam's form, Dean wasted no time getting a thick line of salt laid down in front of the closed door.

Back to his brother, Dean leaned down and wrapped both arms around Sam, pulling him up. "C'mon, Sammy, you can do it."

Sam winced and was trying to walk and turn his feet to one side or the other. His head lolled and bobbed one way then the other as if his head was too heavy for his neck to hold up. His arms flapped uselessly, tremors wracked his entire body.

Dean shoved Sam into the truck, shutting the door behind him. Climbing into the driver's seat, he pressed his hand flat against Sam's chest. "Hang in there."

Sam nodded, one hand fluttered in Dean's direction before dropping to the seat. His head turned; then without warning he shuddered away from Dean and hit the passenger door. Sam stared wide-eyed at Ezra.

"It's okay, Sam."

Haunted eyes in a too pale face lifted to meet Dean's.

"I said I'd help him."

Sam nodded once and licked his lips. In the next instant his eyes slipped shut and he slumped in the seat, unconscious.

Dean cranked over the truck's engine, threw it in reverse and careened back the way he'd come.