"For the last time, I don't give a rat's ass what he said, Sam. We're going to find this guy and take care of this. Something will stick out and it ain't going to be a three degree temperature change."

"Yeah, it might be a unseasonable storm or a cold shift or a thousand other things."

Dean looked up from the laptop to scowl at him, trying not to think of the 66 seals deal, chosen at random from hundreds of possibilities.

"Human psycho, remember? No demons, no ghosts. So neither of those."

"Dean -"

"I don't want to hear it, Sam. You're supposed to be the optimist in this partnership, remember? You're a Man of Letters now, pal. That means you have to get that gigantor brain of yours into gear, stop whining and figure it out."

Sam may have pouted at him.

"You really think we can pull this off?"

"Yes I do," Dean replied with enough conviction that he hoped convinced both of them. "Now, get your research on. Based on that manuscript, how could this guy be improvising? And if he is, what are the signs going to be? What's missing from that that he'll need to add to pull it off? What would be the most likely substitute? Come on, Sam."

Sam pulled in a sigh, rolled off the bed and sat down in the chair facing Dean.

"Okay, so fire is definitely a sign that he's working out the kinks. Some things were harmless enough for him to get without it getting complicated - the herbs and salts he got from the conjure guy, the summoning was a basic one, presumably he alters that to fit soul. He has the blood sacrifice."

He folded his lips, considering. "Maybe …"

"Maybe?"

"Nah I just - I don't see where the power's coming from. This guy is human. I know we've met powerful witches before, but I don't think that's this guy. If he was he wouldn't have had to ask the questions that tipped the supplier off, exposing himself. So where, or what, is the battery?"

"Well, Charles Brandt died via hellhound. This was all based on a crossroads deal, right? Maybe Jerry plans to trap the demon who sealed the deal on Charles, force it to help him somehow."

Sam shook his head. "It wouldn't have the power, either. Remember what Ruby said? No demon can raise a soul from Hell, no matter what he does to it."

"Hey … wait a second. That whole mess with Cas and Crowley was all about the souls. Bobby healed Cas with the power of his soul, right? And Death - he said it was all about the souls. Maybe that covers this, too. Do demons have souls?"

"I suppose technically speaking demons are nothing but soul," Sam replied, frowning at him.

"Okay, so, maybe a demon can't throw around that kind of weight, Bobby sure as hell couldn't heal angels on his own, but maybe Jerry found some way to use the demon itself as a source of energy. Think about it, if magic is all connections, the best connection you're gonna get to Hell is a demon. And a crossroads deal is an exchange, right? Maybe that works both ways, symbolically. Jerry uses the power of the demon soul and its Hell connection to open a hole, a flaw just enough for one soul to pass, exchanging the power of one soul for power over the other. And hey, poetic justice - he's sending the thing that got Charles stuck there back to Hell, and pulling him out at the same time. It works."

Sam stared at him a moment, his brain turning over so fast Dean could almost hear it whirring, before he crunched up his expression and rubbed his face with his hands, elbows propped on the table.

"This is exactly what the conjure shop guy was talking about. We don't know this, Dean. Yeah it works, and its really likely you're right, but a hundred other scenarios work too and are just as likely. And maybe it's not even something we're familiar with. There have been things in the Letters library that I wouldn't even have thought possible before we found it. It could be anything."

"Humour me, okay? Process of elimination. We cook up a scenario that sounds likely, we road test it. Rinse, repeat."

He spread his hands in a gesture that said go with it, brother.

"We might be kinda on the clock here," Sam said, but his argument was losing strength.

"Yeah and maybe we aren't. Maybe Jerry is just as screwed as we are. We don't know that, either. It can't hurt. I say we trap a crossroads demon, which we know Charles Brandt summoned and reasonably recently, make it tell us who made the deal, or we stab it in the face."

"Yeah, okay," Sam finally conceded with a sigh, casting around for his jacket. "But if we do have a time limit, we better start this now."

Sam and Dean stood, covering each other, at the dark intersection of a suitably out-of-the-way backstreet. At their feet, the fire from Dean's tossed lighter fizzled out on the pavement, leaving behind the scorched outline of a devil's trap.

"Reactive chemicals, what a bitch," Dean greeted the demon standing inside, which looked up at him, eyes flashing red.

"Dean Winchester. What a surprise. Miss Hell that much?"

"You don't wanna be a wise-ass," he growled.

"No, it just comes naturally. To what do I owe the pleasure? Your brother is alive, so everything should just be hearts and flowers."

"I want to know who made the deal on Charles Brandt."

"And I should know because?"

"Because you're a crossroads demon, you're working this corner which probably means you're slutting all over this town, which means it was probably you."

He smiled, drawing Ruby's knife from his waistband to tilt it between his fingers.

"And if you don't know, I have no reason to let you live."

The pretty twenty-something woman's face twisted into a bitchy expression only a demon could muster.

"It wasn't me."

"Then who was it?"

"Why tell you? You're likely to stick that thing wherever you want regardless of what I say. If it's all the same I'd rather die with the satisfaction of fucking up your day."

"Clearly you haven't spoken to your boss lately," Sam said. "We could have burned Crowley out of Hell itself when we had his bones. But a deal's a deal - isn't that what you guys are all about? We make you one, you tell us who made the deal and we summon it. If it's true, we let you out, we all go our separate ways."

The demon was silent a moment, weighing options.

"You can't," it relented eventually.

"Can't what?" Sam demanded.

"You can't summon the demon who made the deal."

"Why?"

"He's missing. Missing for days now."

"Well that just works well for everyone, doesn't it. We summon him - he's found," Dean grinned.

"Don't you think Hell has better ways of summoning demons than you meatsacks and your rambling Latin? Hell can't find him either, jackass. And there's only two reasons for that - he's dead, or someone has him bound already."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"It's true. I can't prove it, but it is. Going to let me out, or would you rather make another transaction?"

"Don't push it," Dean warned, pointing at it with the knife.

The demon smiled, eyes flashing red.

Dean glanced at Sam, who narrowed his eyes at the demon.

"What is the name of the demon?"

"Asrael. I never liked him much anyway."

Sam leaned in close to his brother, his voice pitched low.

"It might be telling us the truth, but without being able to summon this Asrael, we can't know for sure."

Dean looked back at the demon.

"Nah, I say we can her ass anyway. One less demon in this town, everybody wins."

"I told you the truth! I figure my chances of getting out of this alive were better that way. And screw Asrael, if he got himself trapped, it's his own problem."

"I wouldn't climb up on your high horse, given the circumstances," Dean advised, indicating the devil's trap with the knife.

"Look, I told you what you needed to know, I swear. Let me out, and I'll go. You won't see me in this shitty town again."

Sam bent, dashing water over the scorched trap. By the time he had straightened up, the demon had vanished.

"Should so have canned her," Dean groused for at least the tenth time.

"But she may actually have told us the truth," Sam replied, a book open in one hand, his fingers against the page. "There is a demon by the name of Asrael - and get this, of bargains struck and souls wagered. It's a crossroads demon."

"That's wonderful Sam," Dean replied sarcastically. "I really hope it made your night. But since you're so hot on proof, where's the proof that she didn't just give us the name of some random demon she's pissed at to save her own ass?"

"Do we have any yarrow?"

"It's in the trunk," Dean jerked a thumb at the motel room window, the impala just visible through the stained mesh, and turned away, circling the table. "We should have stuck the knife in her smartass mouth. Why do I listen to you?"

But he was talking to thin air. Sam was apparently hot on the trail of their yarrow supply. Dean growled indignantly and flopped into the chair by the table, arms crossed. Sam stumbled back in, arms full.

"You want proof?" he asked, dumping the contents on the table infront of his brother. "Fine. We try summoning it. If it turns up, we set the trap and give it the same choice we gave her. Spill or die. If it doesn't - well, she was telling us the truth. Either some hunter somewhere has already wiped this thing out, or just maybe, Jeremiah Brandt is using it for rocket fuel."

"Fine," Dean said, hearing the petulant sarcasm in his voice but unable to do much about it.

Sam cleared the table, drew the sigil for the demon on the plastic surface with a sharpie, ringed it in a devil's trap of the same invisible chemical mix they had used at the crossroads, positioned and lit the three candles, added the herbs and took up the book. He began the Latin invocation as Dean poured the powder mix into one cupped palm, the process of demon summoning more familiar than it should have been for a hunter. Sam reached the end and nodded, Dean casting the powder into the flame. There was a sharp flash - and nothing. No Asrael. Sam lowered his hand from shielding his eyes and grinned triumphantly at his brother.

"Looks like you were right."

"You don't know that," Dean echoed Sam's earlier words, half in jest, half in irritation.

Sam gave him a quick smile, dropping the book onto the table, his eyes alight.

"So, what now Yoda?"

Dean stared at him. Despite Sam insisting he wanted that normal life - a mundane 9-5 job, a home, a woman who loved him, a goddamn dog, he had chosen Dean and the hunt over all that. Dean hadn't let himself feel the warmth of that, fearing it was short-lived, that Sam would come to his senses and ditch him for a better life, but he allowed himself a moment to bask as Sam quickened on the chase, asking Dean for advice. There was so much Sam could have had. He was crazy smart, his record at Stanford would have got him accepted at any college, and Dean knew he had made enquiries. He could have had Amelia - as much as it hurt, Dean had given him that ultimatum. In or out, one life, or the other. He would have respected his brother's decision whether he liked it or not. Sam had chosen this. Chosen him. It was what they were, at the core. Blood. Winchesters, in it together.

"What?" Sam questioned with a frown.

Dean realized he was staring at him silently, smoothed his expression and cleared his throat.

"Nothing. So, okay, this demon is dead or bound. How do we find out which?"

"Find Jeremiah Brandt," Sam said.

Dean threw up his hands. "Then we're back to square one! Possibilities multiplying exponentially and all that crap."

Sam smiled at Dean's quotation of the esoteric supplier and sat down in front of the book, dragging a hand over his mouth.

"Okay, lets just go on what we think we know," Sam began. "Charles Brandt, for whatever reason, made a crossroads deal, and paid the price. Jeremiah Brandt did everything he could to spring him - theft, arson, assault, God knows what else. He summons and traps the crossroads demon responsible, out of revenge, but also because the demon soul has enough power, connection, and exchange to breach Hell enough to summon Charles' soul out. He contacts the conjure guy because of a few holes, but doesn't get everything he needs because of the guy's suspicion. What's his next move?"

"He tries the ritual again," Dean followed through on his brother's speculation. "If Asrael has been missing for days, he should be almost ready."

"Fighting fire with fire," Sam responded.

"But that doesn't make sense," Dean argued. "If he lights a fire to connect to a hole in Hell, the city responds in what, under ten minutes? It's not long enough to pull off a whole ritual. He wouldn't have enough time."

"Then he goes outside city limits," Sam replied, booting up the laptop. "Yep, all the fires were at least twenty minutes drive, even for a fire crew. He'd just make it."

"Sneaky bastard," Dean said, shaking his head.

"Looking more and more like this is our scenario," Sam conceded.

"Yeah, but how do you anticipate something like that?" Dean challenged. "Even if we scanned the emergency frequencies, we'd get there the same time as fire crews and cops. Less than ideal."

Sam scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We're good at finding squats, after that whole Dick Roman thing, right?"

Dean tried to bury the lingering hurt and confusion over his brother not looking for him after the exploding Dick incident, when he was stuck in Purgatory for a year fighting for his life while Sam played house, and focus on the job at hand. It was safer that way.

"Okay."

"Well, we go find some wreck on city limits and wait for the call."

"Sam, we have four choices and no favourites here. North, South, East or West, take your pick."

Sam tapped at the laptop. "According to the media releases, the fires were all west of the township. People always head west."

His words echoed Dean's own thoughts, hunts ago. He pushed it away.

"Alright, if we have nothing else to go on."

"This is going to work, Dean. I can feel it," Sam insisted, closing the laptop.

Dean suddenly wished he was as convinced.

"Okay, this is the closest we can find given the timing, according to the media release," Sam said, clumping down the stairs of the abandoned old farmhouse.

They had considered simply sleeping in the impala somewhere in the area the fires had been reported, but decided against it in case they did actually found Jeremiah Brandt, and Asrael, if he was still alive. They needed a base to drag them back to, somewhere to keep the demon bound and keep Jeremiah from punching holes in Hell.

"I painted a devil's trap on the floor in the upstairs bedroom, given Asrael is still in one piece, and we can tie Jeremiah to a chair when we find him."

"Slow your roll Sammy, there's no guarantee this is going to work."

"Oh no it'll work," Sam replied immediately, and Dean smiled at him tiredly. It'd work just because it had to, because it was their only shot at stopping Armageddon - again. Dean pushed, feeling the need to temper Sam, curb some of his expectations.

"Remember Einstein from the conjure shop - he said Jeremiah couldn't be found, couldn't be tracked. This had probably occurred to him too."

Sam looked down at him and crossed his arms.

"Why are you so down on this?"

Dean held up his hands. "It was just an idea is all. We've just got to keep shooting until we hit something. Maybe not on our first shot is all I'm saying."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't give a rat's ass what that guy said either," Sam quoted Dean. "And anyway, we're not tracking him that way, trying to follow the signs. We're following the locations of the fires. He has to leave at least twenty minutes between him, and the fire-fighters. He needs something significant to burn. This area is the only place you get both of those."

Dean nodded, but let it go.

Four hours and half a carton of cold, leftover takeout Chinese later, Dean was asleep. They'd had a few rough nights, there was no sense of imminent, tear-your-head-off danger, and he was bored. He was stretched out on his back on the floor of the living room, not entirely uncomfortably. It was true, the time they had spent off the grid when Leviathans were busy commercializing evil had taught them a thing or two. He was stopping that train of thought right there.

Sam had been up with the information he'd collected from the reference books, trying to predict what Jeremiah's cobbled ritual was likely to look like. It would be helpful in taking it apart before he sprung the leak. Despite what he'd said to the conjure guy, Dean knew Sam was taking a leaf from his book and looking for a way to stop Jerry without hurting him.

The police scanner crackled next to his foot, the operator's voice coming through in tinny immitation.

"Got a call in for a fire, out on county road nine, fire crews informed."

Some local cop's voice answered, but Sam was off his chair as if it had burned his ass and was slapping at Dean's boot.

"Come on."

Dean sat up more slowly. "We rollin'?"

"There's a fire, barely five minutes from here. Get up, the fire crew's already tagged, we don't have much time."

Everything from Sam's research already prepacked, Dean obliged and broke a few speed limits in the heavy darkness outside the town, before the glow of the fire stained the sky, and Sam pointed uselessly. If this was Jerry Brandt, then the guy was making good use of the abandoned, derelict farmhouses too. The whole place was lit up as Dean swung the impala to a stop, propelling his brother out the door. Sam grabbed the duffel from the trunk and set off at a run, Dean on his heels, caution making him draw the colt before he even registered it.

The heat was intense, spinning Dean's mind as it always did back to the night his mother died, Sam heavy in his young arms. Take your brother outside, Now Dean, go! He squinted up at the crumbling wood, debris already falling, embers spiralling up into the sky. Sam was infront of him, a six foot five silhouette, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light and find whoever had set the fire.

They rounded the corner farthest from the road, and Sam stopped so suddenly that Dean almost ran into him.

"Hey!"

Dean followed Sam's line of sight, just as the silhoutte of a man, standing facing the fire with his arms outstretched, startled and turned to face them. The light of the fire washed one side of his face, highlighting dark hair, a pale face and frightened eyes. Sam was on him in a heartbeat, raising his own Taurus at the man in question. Dean mirrored him on the other side.

"Stop," Sam ordered.

"You don't understand," the man insisted, and Dean clenched his teeth. Son of a bitch - Jerry Brandt.

"You're punching a hole into Hell. Stop what you're doing, get on the ground."

"I can't," Jerry insisted. "Please, just leave me alone, I have to."

Dean had heard enough. He shoved the colt into his belt and grabbed Jerry, twisting his arm hard behind his back.

"No no, please, don't, I have to finish this please, let me go."

Sam was frowning, gun still drawn on Jerry, Dean again mirroring his expression. Something wasn't right. At this point, usually whatever nasty they had collared started attacking them, throwing some mojo their way, at least hurling a few threats. But the man in Dean's grip was doing nothing more than twisting uselessly and pleading. He looked terrified. Sam swallowed and flexed his fingers around the reciever.

"Where's the demon, what have you done to it?"

"I need it, please just walk away."

"Answer the question," Dean demanded in a growl, twisting Jerry's arm further up his back until he jerked in pain.

"No," Jerry gasped, "it's important, I need that demon."

Sam was looking around them, but Asrael was nowhere in sight, and Jerry would have needed him close for the ritual. The elements of said ritual were laid out before them, and Dean's eyes skittered over them in the firelight. His mind jumped back several years and many more hunts ago to the curse boxes in Dad's lockup. His gaze caught on a tall, black vessel covered in white sigils.

"Sam," he tilted his chin at it.

Sam was on his wavelength, moving to pick up the vessel.

"No don't, don't!" Jerry pleaded again, twisting in Dean's grip. "This isn't what you think, you can't stop me now, God please, I have to finish it!"

"Sam, grab up all that crap and we split, we're kinda on the clock here. We'll figure all this out back at the farmhouse."

Sam nodded and began gathering the ritual items, but it was a step too far for Jerry. The man screamed in Dean's grip, twisting, and Dean felt his shoulder dislocate. He was turning up the ground beneath him thrashing at it with his boots, desperately trying to free himself and save the ritual. He apparently had no interest in hurting Dean - just that desperate drive to finish the ritual. Something wasn't adding up, but regardless, he couldn't deal with Jerry freaking out all the way back to the house. He managed to palm the colt from his belt, and bought it down hard on Jerry's temple.

The man went silent and still in his arms, and Dean hefted him into a graceless fireman's carry. Ironic, given they were the very people he and Sam were keen on avoiding.

Dean followed his brother back to the impala, dumping the still unconscious Jerry on the back seat, tying his hands and feet in case he came to. They peeled away back out onto the road just as the first sirens screamed distantly in the darkness.