Here is chapter six! I am glad you are enjoying the story!

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"Sammy, I've been thinking."

"God help us."

"Ha ha, you're hilarious. Now shut up and listen."

"Really, Dean, I'm kind of busy at the moment."

"Right." A small spot of contemplative silence. "I have to show you something."

"Is this going to be like the last time you had to show me something? Because if it is--"

"I forgot about that. Good times, good times."

"You weren't the one naked on a frozen lake."

"And I never will be, because I'm smart enough to know that when someone says, 'You wanna go ice fishing?' you always say no."

"Seriously though, Dean, I'm really, really busy right now." Sam didn't spare a glance up from his computer screen. No time. There had been only a few hits on Mitchell, Eloise, and Sam had to comb them all with the utmost of care, keeping his eyes open for clues that would hint as to why the Demon would want this particular Eloise dead. The one he was currently reading pointed at a halfway-house turned art academy run by an older woman named Eloise Mitchell. In Indiana. In the next town over. That didn't leave a whole lot of time for banter with his brother.

"Yeah, Sam, and I'm really, really bored. We've been here, what, four days? And we haven't gone anywhere? I mean, it's killing me!" Both brother's froze. As could be imagined, death was a slightly tough subject to cover. Then Dean smiled slowly, morbid amusement spreading across his face. "No pun intended."

Sam sighed, saved the webpage in his favorites folder, lowering the screen a few inches to glare at his brother. "Okay. What."

Dean responded like a puppy that had just been given permission to jump up on the couch and lick his master's face. He was on the sofa across from his brother in an instant, brandishing a crinkled newspaper, stolen from their neighbor's doorstep. "Three words, Sam. Friends of Film."

"O-ka-y?" Sam drawled, waving his hand in a 'move along' motion, impatience making him snappy. He loved his brother, but he took forever to say anything, and most of the time, what he finally did say wasn't worth all the effort it took to coax it out.

"Friends of Film. As in classic movies back in the theatres that aren't there anymore."

"And?"

Dean smiled widely, opened to the entertainment section, thrust the paper into Sam's unprepared hands. Sam read the headlines and opened his mouth in disbelief. "You're joking, right?"

"Read it and weep, Sammy." Dean's face hardened. "We're going."

"No, we're not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are---look Dean, I don't have time to go to the movie theatre to watch some lame, dubbed movie. Besides, Godzilla? We'd be the only adults in the entire theatre."

Dean looked like he'd been slapped across the face. Injured pride seemed to leak out of his ears. "Not Godzilla, Sam. Godzilla vs. Megladon. It's a classic."

"Classic or not--"

"S-aa-m!"

"Did you just whine at me?"

"You want to get out of this house as much as I do. All you've done for the past two days is sit on that laptop, and read. Don't you want to do something, College Boy? Don't you want to have a little fun?"

"Since when have you ever been 'screw responsibility, let's have fun', Dean?"
Dean quirked an eyebrow. "I always have fun."

"Okay, the time in Arkansas. Wanted to go to dinner and a movie. And what did you say?"

"That was different."

"You said, 'Sam, we have more important things to do.' But now, I have something I have to get done and you blow it off?"

"Yeah, because we had to save people, Sam. I doubt whatever you've been reading on there's been anything that life-changing."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Dean." Sam's voice had dropped in pitch, that occurance that always marked a blow-up. It was that tone alone that told Dean he'd pushed too far. He backed up, careful to let his disappointment show. He felt bad for making Sam angry, but not bad enough to stop supporting his case. It was time for the guilt angle.

"I'll go myself, then."

Sam's head snapped up, alert as an antelope in a pride of lions. "What? Dean, no."

"Well, you won't go. And I am not going to miss this."

"Dad said you can't leave the house by yourself."

"Hmm. Guess somebody has to go with me then. And Dad's still at the library…hmm. I wonder who else could go?" Sarcasm dripped thick from his voice like syrup straight from the bottle. "Hmm."

"You're sick. You really are, man."

"So that's a yes?"

"It's going to have to be."

Dean started to laugh, but stopped at the uncomfortable look on Sam's face. His laugh had that affect on people, lately. His voice was odd enough, but at short bursts of air rasping against his broken throat , the sound was akin to a cat being strangled. Not particularly pleasant. He slipped his jacket on, adjusting his scarf over it. "Ready?"

"Yeah, hold on a second. Let me finish this article." Dean huffed, but sat down to wait anyway.

Sam shook his head and read on.

Eloise Mitchell, founder of Mitchell Academy of Art, has run this school

for nearly twenty years. On the surface, she appears to run a school of the

Arts, targeting troubled teens, alchoholic fathers, and battered wives and children,

but underneath that first layer, is another. Mitchell not only teaches art,

but life as well. However, Mitchell's school

Is known in the local community for having a sense of secrecy about it. Alumni

Are forbidden to speak of the inner workings of the school, and--

Sam scanned the article upwards, seeking out the address. He jotted it quickly onto a piece of paper. Mitchell Academy of Art, 176 Chesapeake Dr., Frolin, Indiana. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Where is the theatre?"

"Um…Frolin. Twenty miles from here. Why?"

"No reason. Is Dad's truck still stocked? He didn't unload the weaponry, did he?"

"Of course not. Why, you need protection for the movie?"

"No. Let's go. We're going to be late."

Oooooooooooooooooo

"Am I going after the right person?"

"Yes. About time too, Samuel."

"I get Dean back the second I pull that trigger."

"Of course."

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Sam felt vaguely guilty watching his brother head into the theatre under his little brother's promise, 'I'll park, you find seats."

Sam doubted he'd see any of the movie. He put the car into drive, crawling through parking lot traffic, stopping occasionally to ask directins to the art academy. It was evidently somewhat of a controversy. Some people seemed thrilled to have another student come to call, while others seemed infuriated at the mere thought of another young person wasting their life with, as one mother of two exclaimed, 'a lying witch'. Nobody bothered to explain their opposition however, and Sam didn't ask.

It didn't take long to find the place, once he was in the right direction. When the paper said Academy, it wasn't joking. Mansion, more like it. It was an old, Victorian style mansion with terraces and floorspace abound. Thick vines curled and twisted up and over and around the several spire-like towers rising into the skyline. The driveway alone had to be as large as the Winchester's apartment building. His phone rang, the screen flashing 'Dean', in bright blue. Sam didn't answer. Didn't have time, as he pulled into the parking lot, because as soon as he'd turned the truck off, snatched a pistol from the trunk, and gotten a few steps forward, a tall, African-American man in a sharply tailored suit came at him, walking a little too briskly for Sam's taste.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm here to speak to Mrs. Mitchell."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to come back later. Mrs. Mitchell is occupied at the moment."

"Is there anywhere I can wait? It's urgent."

"No, I'm terribly sorry. I can take your name, and I can tell her you came to speak to her."

"It's Sam."

"Sam? Is that short for Samuel? Mrs. Mitchell prefers full names."

"Yeah, Samuel."

"Like the boy prophet."

"Uh…yes."

The man's phone jangled in his pocket. "Excuse me, please." He stepped a few feet off, his brow furrowing then smoothing out the lines just as quickly as they'd come. A bell rang, somewhere inside the building, and a few seconds later, students around his age came bustling out. Several of them had sweat running from their faces, soaking their shirts. Odd for an art college. The man hung up and headed toward him. By the look on his face, Sam got the sinking feeling he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

"Mrs. Mitchell's meeting ended sooner than anticipated. You're welcome to come inside, if you'd like."

"Ah…you know what? I think maybe I'd better come back later. I don't want to impose."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Mitchell is already waiting for you. She's likely to be upset if she doesn't see you now."

"Right." Yeah. Definitely more than he could chew.

Being led through the hallways of a school threatened nostalgia. Students bustled by, clutching their books and easels, chittering like flocks of birds as they moved along. Sam had once been one of them. He missed it, sometimes. Not even the social life, but the sheer joy of knowing he was heading into that classroom to be satisfied with knowledge. It was nice, that consistency. He certainly didn't have it anymore.

The waiting room he was led into was neatly but lavishly furnished. Everything was scarlet velvet and gold silk, draped from the ceilings and upholstered onto the chairs. The man knocked on a wide set of double doors, and after indicating Sam should sit, passed through them. The middle of each door was fogged glass, so Sam could see the darkness of the man's suit pacing back and forth before another blocky shape, probably a table. Sam looked down at his hands.

He wasn't ready for this. The drive over here, he'd had certainty in his lungs and determination in his blood, empowering him for a difficult task. But that had melted now that he was actually here. Despite the fact he'd put a silencer on the pistol and was reasonably certain a bunch of art students would never catch him, and he and his family would be able to blow this town once Dean was alive again, it didn't make him feel any more secure. Murder had certainly never been on his agenda. He, Sam Winchester, who had so vehemently forbidden his brother to make any kind of murderous motion towards Max Miller, was about to kill an innocent woman.

Hypocrisy, in its most blatant form.

The door opened wide. The man stepped out, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. "Samuel? Mrs. Mitchell is ready to see you now."

"Thank you." Sam's hands were sweating, slick with despair. He slipped past the man and jumped slightly as the doors closed behind him.

"Come in, Samuel. Take any seat you like." Behind a large, mahogany desk sat a woman whom Sam knew instinctively to be Eloise Mitchell. In her late sixties or early seventies, she hadn't given in to the "poodle-head" hairstyle, permed and short. Her long, graying hair was expertly woven into a single, thick braid trailing over her shoulder. Her crisply startched blouse was suitable, if not particularly fashionable. She was still incredibly slender. Her nails were painted red. Like blood, Sam thought. Just like blood. He chose the simplest chair in the room, which still looked too extravagant to be touched, let alone sat upon.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell."

"I assume you have questions for me."

"Um…yes. I…I'd like to know about admission, please." Sam swallowed hard, his hand shifting to his pocket, where the pistol waited, cold and metallic for his touch to enflame it.

Eloise smiled. " Surely you want to know something else?"

"Well, can you tell me about campass?" Sam's finger jerked, flipping off the safety switch in his pocket.

Eloise pushed her chair back, rising to her feet. She came around to the front of the desk, leaning against it right in front of Sam, bending a little so their faces were on equal levels. The smile on her face was civilized, but Sam could see it easily becoming decidedly barbaric. "I mean don't you want to know why you? Why the Demon killed your mother? Why it chose to rip your family apart when there are so many others out there?"

Sam had the pistol out, aimed and cocked, himself backed away as far as he could get. "Christo!" He hissed. Eloise didn't flinch.

"You needn't be worried. But I'd put that away if I were you." She waited politely for him to put the gun away. He didn't. She shrugged, uncaring. "Very well. I'm willing to play that game." The shutters made a rattling hiss as they slammed closed, draps loosing themselves to cover the light from the room almost entirely. Sam almost didn't hear the locks on the door snap down over the pounding of his own blood in his temples. The gun flew from his tight grasp, coming to rest in the air just beside Eloise. She regarded it with contempt, and it settled lightly onto her desk. "Calm down, Samuel."

"Who are you?"

She ran her fingers lightly over her knees, dusting away lint. "Well, essentially, I am a failed attempt to create…you."

"What?"

"Perhaps you should sit again. You have questions. I have answers. We have a lot to discuss."

Oooooooooooooooooooo

Dean growled with impatience. Megladon was already dead. Sam had missed the epic battle. What kind of person missed something like that? He hefted himself out of his seat and charged out the double-doors. After all that fuss of "You can't go alone, Dean, it's too dangerous", Sam ditched him first chance he had. All Dean had wanted was some time to just be…brothers. Apparently, that was too much to ask of his worldly-wise sibling. He jogged into the parking lot, eyes scanning for his father's truck, swearing when he didn't see it, grinding his teeth together until they made a slight scraping noise. He fished his phone out of his pocket, hit number one on speed dial, shifting slightly from leg to leg with impatience.

He hung up as, "Hey, you've reached Sam. I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message, and I'll get back to you," beeped out its final tone. Almost immediately, though, his phone vibrated in his hand, flashing his brother's number on the screen.

"Sam, where have you been?"

"Dean, I'm sorry." His brother's voice was shaky. Dean's brow furrowed and he moved a little away from the crowds beginning to filter out of the theatre and into the parking lot.

"Sam, where are you? Everything okay?"

"Uh…yeah, I'm okay. Movie over?"

"Yeah, thanks for the quality time together, by the way."

"Dean, I had to take care of something. Look, is there anyway you can call a cab home? I'm busy at the moment."

"Call a cab? Sam, where are you? Dad's going to be pissed enough we left the house at all, let alone the fact I let you run around with his truck!"

"I know, it's just…I think I…please, Dean, just call a cab."

"Sam, there's about a snowball's chance in hell that that's going to happen."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Dean could hear several voices, including his brother's, conversing, and he wondered how it was that Sam was already buddying up with somebody else. That little green monster of envy was just circling around, waiting to bite, so he kicked it in the face and let it scramble off. "Nevermind. We called one for you. Don't go anywhere, Dean."

"We? Sam, who--" The line went dead. Dean growled in the back of his throat, a sound of venting frustration. He stepped off the pavement and onto the cement of the long, white sidewalk. He glanced back of over his shoulder idly, looking for that tale-tell yellow paint that signified his ride home, where he was going to be chewed out like no other, for not only leaving the house, but leaving it alone. Being dead was an awful lot like being five. His phone rang again, read a number he didn't recognize. As he put it to his ear, murmuring hello, still looking behind him, his gaze fell on nothing of interest, some kids playing ball, a mother with a baby in her arms. Until he looked across the road.

There, with one finger bent and curling in a "come hither" motion, stood the Demon, in full black regalia. And in his other hand, pressed to his ear, was a small, black phone.

"Hello, Dean. I've been waiting."

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Alrighty! Next chapter, you all get answers to the burning questions of Sam Winchester, we unravel the mystery of Eloise Mitchell, and Dean has some problems to work out. Pretty big problems, actually. Don't forget to review! I love getting your comments.

-Kim Who Knows