Sorry for the wait!
This is the second last chapter, everybody. There will only be one more and I'm very thankful for all my faithful readers and reviewers. As most writers will know, reviews make it worth getting up in the morning and I do a little jig everytime I see a new email from FF popping up.
I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.
Jo was nervous as all hell.
Worse, she was just a bit confused- Dean had left her alone with a few half-baked instructions, her attention was being divided constantly between Lucy, the aisles, Sam, and stage and the exit, and she was beginning to fidget with her pistol- never a good thing.
The impulse to go after Dean was intense but if the demon was in Sam, it would mean that figuratively, the entire job would be blown and the girl would be practically a little worm dangling on a hook. Not to mention, Dean would be furious. But still, Sam had made no suspicious movements yet and the girl was perfectly fine, as far as she could see.
Surely if there was something to be done, it would happen now, when the music was loud and dramatic and all eyes were fixated on the stage. Jo gulped, observing Sam's profile for the umpteenth time.
Unexpectedly, Sam began to twist towards her and her eyes flicked quickly to the aisle she was supposed to be guarding. Sam was looking at her scrutinisingly, no doubt comprehending that Dean was gone, before he slowly turned back to the aisle with a little more fervency.
She could see his eyes beginning to rove the theatre and she gulped down the bile that had decided to settle somewhere near her lungs.
A movement between the seats drew her attention and she sat bolt upright, squinting.
A shadow of a suspicion wasn't smart to act on, but if she was right, then the time was nigh. She slid silently from her seat and backwards toward the open space near the back of the theatre, near the exits, now with a clear view of both aisles. She stared fixedly down the corridor, looking for anything peculiar, no matter how dubious.
A pair of malevolent red eyes assailed her near the row of seats on Sam's side. And though he was staring right at it, he was making no move to stop it- nor even acknowledging its presence.
Jo moved before her caution got the better of her.
Now or never. She flicked the cartridge on the pistol, brought it just under the line of her eye, aimed, and fired.
She noticed with a sinking feeling that the dog vanished before the bullet could even draw close, and despite the loud crescendo coming from the stage, it seemed that the sound of the gun firing was still loud enough to draw attention. The bullet embedded itself in the floor and heads began to turn frantically.
She ducked impulsively behind the back wall, heart thumping erratically. She'd have been hard to see in the darkness but she knew that if she was caught, she was well and truly screwed.
Screams began to sound like bugles around the theatre and a steady stream of people streamed past her, frantically moving towards the exits.
The Machiavellian in Jo noted that they were also inadvertently moving directly towards the source of the gunfire. If she was a stark raving murderous lunatic, she noted with a sort of sadistic amusement, they'd all be fucked right now.
In the tumult of movement she saw Sam, and quickly darted towards him, feigning confusion and horror in all the cacophony.
"You okay?" said Sam with an expression of concern.
The demon was playing oblivious, obviously unaware that Jo had already unravelled the act long before. Jo nodded numbly, not in the mood for any more confrontation.
"To the carpark, quickly," she breathed, catching his arm though she inwardly loathed to touch him. Sam obligingly thundered beside her through the crowd and outside where people were swirling everywhere, getting into cars or else searching frantically for relatives.
They were walking blindly, head turning, searching for any sign of Dean or the Impala. Jo couldn't see him. She'd suspected he had driven off somewhere but now was really not a good time to be stuck with a possessed Sam in an abandoned car park.
And that was swiftly what it was becoming. The longer they waited the more people drove away. The theatre was emptying with frightening speed and what was once a crowded parking area was now almost bare.
Sam's fingers closed around her arm.
"Maybe we should head back into the theatre. Check it out, see if the hound managed to snag anybody…"
"It didn't," she replied quickly and abruptly, eyes still searching desperately for Dean. But Sam was tugging on her now, insistent, pulling her back into the dark, empty building.
"We know it needs somebody," he replied, persuasive, even a little forceful. "We know it needs to kill in order to disappear somewhere to rest. It could have snagged somebody in the panic. Come on, Jo."
He was too strong, and even though she was now outwardly fighting him, he pulled her in towards him and tugged her violently towards the theatre. Her voice caught in her throat.
"Hey!"
Sam paused and fluidly raised his head as a familiar voice called out from the curb. Though Jo knew the situation was becoming steadily more dangerous and poignant, from an outsider's point of view it would merely look like a slight difference of opinion.
Nevertheless she was very much relieved to catch sight of Dean. His features were silhouetted by the streetlights so she didn't know if the sight had confirmed his suspicions or not, but Sam's grip eased on her arm and he began to walk calmly towards the Impala. Jo hesitated before following.
"What happened?" asked Dean, bemused, as they all climbed into the Impala.
"I shot the hound," said Jo shortly, conveniently omitting the fact that she'd shot it when Sam should have, that it had been right between his crosshairs and yet he had made no move to pull a trigger.
Dean accelerated away towards the apartment. Jo lifted her forearm to examine it in the periodical flashes of streetlight. There were already bruises visible on her skin from where Sam had grabbed her.
Jo wasn't ready to blow Sam's cover just yet. She knew, and she thought that Dean did, too, that if they jumped the gun too early all would be lost and the demon could easily send the Impala flying off the road and into space. But then, Dean was almost a little too at-ease for her liking.
They pulled up at the front of the motel and stepped out of the car. Dean handed Sam a large canvas bag and indicated to the door.
"Goofer Dust. Carry it up."
Sam withdrew his Beretta and handed it to Dean to put in the trunk, sliding off the precision view.
Without a word Dean began to tug out two more bags, handing the other to Jo and heaving the last up into his arms. It was quite heavy for Jo's petite frame but she handled it without complaint, watching Sam moving toward the door.
When he was out of earshot, Jo seized her opportunity overzealously, desperate for Dean to understand.
"Dean…"
"Shhh," he replied shortly, cutting across her despite her impatience. "Just trust me."
They hauled the canvas bags up to the room in pursuit of Sam, who dropped his bag beside the door and stood in the center of the room, his expression suspiciously buoyant as he dusted his hands.
Dean's eyes swept the windows, still sealed with goofer-dust from the previous evening, then the door, still only half-sealed.
Dean's eyes flicked onto Sam.
"Go seal the fireplace, too," he suggested. They hadn't had time before and Dean knew from experience that the hounds weren't particular in how they infiltrated.
Sam nodded, took a handful of goofer dust from the bag by the door and moved towards the firepit. Jo saw his eyes flicker from the ceiling, to the floor, before he kneeled in front of the grate on the rug and commenced to seal it with the dust.
"Check the airvents," said Dean once he'd finished, now with a harder tone of voice, and Sam obligingly got to his feet, still wearing that gently satisfied expression.
He turned and took a step toward the vents, but stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing and his expression becoming suddenly ugly.
"Haha," exclaimed Dean, face contorting into a knowing snarl of glee. "Yahtzee! You should have checked under the rug, gorgeous."
Sam cocked his head though remained silent, his face betraying his fury. His fingers balled into fists by his sides, staring resolutely at Dean.
"Come on, I'm waiting for the mind games to take effect. Cristo!" said Dean with a conversational air. Jo couldn't deny, he looked like a dog that'd cornered a cat.
Sam's eyes filmed black and he looked physically slapped, recoiling and taking a step backwards before his eyes returned to normal and he shook his head, chastened.
"Tsk tsk, I've made a horrible mistake in judgement." he purred finally, suave and manipulative. "Alas, you've got me trapped, at least for the moment, Dean. But, you know. That won't stop me watching as your pretty blonde confidante gets peeled like a banana."
"You really aren't in the position to be making threats," said Dean ruefully.
"And forgive me for not keeling over at the prospect of my impending doom," added Jo airily.
"I may not be much of a threat yet, no," conceded Sam, smiling sinisterly. "But my hound is."
With that a snarling sounded at the door and a large black canine stepped over the broken line of dust.
Jo had only seen the snatches of the creature, in darkness or upon waking, but now in the clarity of day it was even more horrifying than she'd first assumed. It was less of a dog than a rotting sort of wolf, ribs visible through filmy skin, sharp yellow teeth and malign eyes, muscles rippling and claws that looked more like a lion's than a dog's.
As the dog stepped into the room, Dean kicked at Sam's abandoned bag of goofer dust, which spilled across the floor, covering the area near the door. But he hadn't kept it out- he'd sealed it in.
Jo gasped in horror and stepped back towards the door. Sam began to laugh.
But Dean looked more dutiful than horror-stuck; he calmly upturned his bag of goofer dust and encircled himself to keep out the hound.
Jo quickly followed suite, sealing herself against the wall, panic turning to a sort of unsteady unease.
Sam was not laughing any more, but was now silent, even foreboding- staring at the dog with a peculiar expression of regret.
Dean was smiling triumphantly.
Then Jo understood- Dean had trapped the demon with a devil's trap under the rug. That was what he had left the theatre for. And now the hound was trapped too. And with Dean and Jo in a precarious safety, there was only one more target for the hound's picking.
Sam's eyes widened as the dog began to advance, hungry, growling incessantly, claws ripping holes in the carpet.
"You're really willing to risk your brother's soul?" said Sam, stepping backward. "You've risked so much to keep him alive and now he's going to be mutilated anyway…"
He laughed scathingly. Dean scowled.
"I'm not an idiot, you condescending little fuck. That dog only needs one soul. If Sam dies, you die with him."
The demon looked at Dean, fuming. It had two choices- allow Sam to be killed but be killed also… or kill the hound, which would leave him trapped without defence.
Hellhounds are said to live forever but are not immortal- they can be slain by the hand of the demon from whom they have been sent.
With an inhuman yowl of fury, Sam grabbed the iron firepoker by the grate, and swung it downwards.
The iron point skewered through the dog's thick physique, and it noiselessly convulsed, eyes glazing and a sudden heatless fire setting it alight. It burnt without noise, twisting into nothingness, leaving a pile of ash on the carpet in its wake.
Dean let out the breath he had been holding, grinning victoriously. It had been extremely risky and though the demon had called his bluff, he'd saved his own neck.
"Good girl," said Dean gruffly. "I knew you'd see it my way."
"I'm going to watch you drop to your knees," howled the demon furiously. "You'll suffer everything I've suffered! You will feel hell before you're even there! I'm going to kill Sam, and I'm going to kill Jo, I'm going to kill them all…"
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," replied Dean but Jo could see a twinge of furious anxiety behind those mirthless green eyes.
He strode purposefully to the dining room table and seized his father's journal, flipping it open with excellent dexterity, turning to appraise the demon.
He recited the exorcism ritual without any pause, despite Sam screaming furiously, yelling out for Dean to stop, making desperate attempts to distract him.
At one point he brought Sam's hand into his mouth and threatened to gnaw off his fingers- but Dean did not relent. Sam began to methodically bite on his fingers and scream in pain but moments later he was jerked onto his knees, spread his arms to both sides and expelled a steady stream of black matter from his mouth.
And this time, instead of escaping out into the sunlight, it was sucked directly downwards. Jo could hear the briefest echoes of screaming before the demon was enveloped by hell and all went silent.
Sam gasped and fell on his back, huffing, holding his hand and shutting his eyes tight in agony. He cradled his palm to his chest and Jo could see that his fingers were bleeding profusely where he'd gnawed down on them.
"Morning, sunshine," breathed Dean in an exhausted fashion as Sam slumped down across the grate, blinking in a bewildered fashion up at the sooty, scowling male and the bruised, dirty female both looking down at him as if they didn't know whether to embrace him affectionately or kick him somewhere painful.