EIGHT

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

January 18th, 2009

It took them almost three hours to get to the law offices of Sherman, Cipriani, and Schwartz. There had been a pile-up on I-76, which had backed up all the routes Sam could find on the map. Sam's knees popped audibly as he climbed from the Impala, happy to be able to finally stretch his long legs. His ears still rang from the music Dean had blasted to keep from having to talk about his horrible nightmare.

Sam shuddered as he remembered how his brother had whimpered and called out his name while in the midst of the dream. It scared Sam more than he let on as he watched the agony and pain flit across his brother's face. I did that to him, he thought. He headed to the trunk of the Impala. Spotting Dean looking at him as he got out of the passenger side he tried to smile at him.

"I hate traffic," Dean grumbled, his gaze flickering away from Sam's quickly. He pulled out a bottle of holy water from the trunk and handed it to Sam.

Luckily, the law offices had been closed since the shooting the day before, the street seeming to be less traveled now because of it. Sam took the sawed-off shotgun loaded with salt rounds Dean handed to him and tucked it under his arm, pulling his jacket over the gun to conceal it. They headed around to the back of the office building, still trying to avoid attracting much attention. They found an unlocked maintenance access door in the parking lot and squeezed inside.

"The offices we need are on the fifteenth floor," Sam said as he pointed to a series of small bulletin boards.

"Looks like we're going to have to hoof it. They must have shut the elevators down," Dean said as he pressed the Up button several more times in frustration. Sam shook his head at his brother's juvenile persistence and headed in the direction of the stairwell. He relished in this kind of physical activity after sitting in the car for so long.

You'd think that after all the years I've spent cramped in that car I'd be used to it by now, Sam thought passively. He jogged up the first couple of flights and then stopped, waiting for Dean to catch up.

"Having trouble keeping up, old man?" he teased. Dean looked up, glaring at him.

"Shut up," Dean growled as he stomped up the stairs.

Sam chuckled to himself, knowing why his brother had reacted so childishly; age had become something of a sore spot for Dean ever since a girl he'd been trying to pick up at a dive bar a month earlier had referred to him as "too old" for her. Sam had laughed for days at the horrified look on Dean's face. Dean began to mumble incoherent expletives as he clomped up the stairs after Sam.

"Finally," Dean cried as they reached the fifteenth floor. Sam chuckled to himself and tried the handle, finding the door locked. "Please tell me you brought your tools. Because I am not trudging my ass back down these stairs again unless it's to leave!"

Sam began patting his pockets in mock embarrassment, then smiled and pulled out the small black pouch he carried his various lock picking tools in. "Of course," he smirked when he spotted Dean's aggravated expression. After picking the lock to the outer door, he disabled the alarm system, and began to pick the lock into the central offices. It took only a moment to get the door unlocked and they entered, pulling out their penlights and guns. They began scanning the room carefully.

"Well, I guess we know where all the action took place," Dean stated, a few minutes later. Sam followed his gaze as Dean nodded towards an office set across the aisle from where they stood. The office door had been shattered and there was something splattered across the glass wall left standing. Sam took a step closer for a better look and realized immediately that it was blood and brain matter.

"Gross," he grimaced. "Looks like whatever went down was bad." Dean moved into the office ahead of him, completely unfazed by the mess.

"Well, it looks like Mr. Jack Sherman had a very bad day," Dean said as he stood next to a large oak desk scattered with papers. He bent down, pulling out his pocket knife, and scratched at something on the edge of the desk. He sniffed it and grimaced. "Sulfur! That's just freakin' great!" he exclaimed as he wiped the knife off. Sam stepped into the office and shuffled around the opposite end of the desk to where Dean stood, sidestepping an overturned briefcase. "Looks like Castiel was right about this being unusual. Demons don't tend to kill people in broad daylight."

"Not usually, anyway. They are demons, though. Murder and mayhem are kind of their deal," Sam said as he looked around the rest of the office. "But I know what you mean. There's no pentagram, no obvious signs of a ritual. There has to be some reason behind this guy's death."

"Let's get out of here. There's nothing of any use and I'm starving," Dean stated. Never phased by anything, Sam thought, rolling his eyes at his brother. Sam tried to delicately circumvent the chaos around him, but forgot about the briefcase and tripped, kicking it hard. The briefcase opened and the papers inside spilled out onto the floor. There were several glossy Polaroid photos inside that caught Sam's eye.

"Look at these," he said as he picked them up off the floor. "They look like surveillance photos." Dean took them from Sam and flipped through them.

"Well, that's what they look like. They definitely weren't taken by a professional, though," Dean observed. "Who the hell is this guy?" he asked absently, pointing to a tall, dark haired man wearing glasses and expensive looking suit.

"Something tells me we need to find out," Sam said as he tucked the photos into an inside jacket pocket. He bent down and began shuffling through more of the papers. He pulled out a printout of information on a man named Walter Conroy. "This may be the demon we've been looking for, Dean. This has details on his personal life; from his residence down to the last time he went to the doctors. It looks like he hasn't been to work at least since the first murder in Honey Brook."

Suddenly, a piercing screech echoed through the building, startling them both. "What the..." Sam said, his voice muffled by the racket. An alarm had been set off on a floor below. Quickly, Sam and Dean gathered as much of the documents as they could and headed back out the way they came. As they reached the Impala, they heard police sirens in the distance. Dean sped away from the curb and turned onto a side street just as the first police cruiser arrived.

"That was close," he muttered as they watched more cruisers screech to a halt, their lights swirling red and blue into the interior of the Impala. They remained parked, watching the melee. About an hour later, the police began to pull away one by one.

"What was that about," Sam mumbled as they watched the last cruiser pull off and disappear out of view. They'd waited as the police searched the entire building, watching as their flashlights bobbed in the windows of each floor.

"I don't know, but let's get out of here," Dean muttered. He looked lost in thought. Sam sighed and began flipping through the papers they had stolen from Jack Sherman's briefcase. There were more photos stuck throughout showing Walter Conroy entering a gym and a ritzy apartment building.

"There are a lot of pictures of Conroy coming and going from this building. It's got to be where he lives," Sam said, showing Dean the pictures.

"I say we pay Mr. Conroy a visit." Dean pressed on the gas and sped around a corner.

"I think it might be better if we wait until tomorrow, Dean. We've already had one close call with the police tonight. Let's not push it."

"Okay, fine. Then let's find somewhere to set up shop."

Sam, having already planned ahead, had found an abandoned apartment building not far from the law offices after researching some of the local motels and hotels. He figured it was more prudent to slum it while in the city. Getting away with credit card fraud was easier when the places were small and low-tech. Sam directed Dean to the building and they parked the Impala a block away in an empty lot. As they walked to the building, Dean jumped at the sound of a car backfiring a few blocks away, making Sam chuckle.

"Relax, Dean. I think the car will be fine for a few hours," he laughed.

"This is Philly, Sam. They have gangs here and my girl is a jewel in the slums. So if we come back and anything, I mean anything, has happened to her I can beat on you, right?" Dean hissed.

"If you're that worried, why don't you just sleep in the damn thing?" Sam replied. You can be so ridiculous, he thought to himself.

"Don't tempt me. If I see one suspicious looking person, I'm coming back for her." Sam rolled his eyes and led the way across the street. Once inside, Dean insisted on setting up in a room where he could see the parking lot. They started taping the surveillance photos, and other documents they'd stolen, on the walls along with the limited information Sam had dug up on the pentagrams. Dean was beginning to get on Sam's nerves, rushing to the window every time he heard the slightest noise.

Finally, Sam couldn't take it any longer and he snapped. "Why don't you just go get some food, Dean?" Dean stopped in mid-stride to the window, after what sounded like a car with a bad muffler drove by, and turned to look at Sam.

"You know what? I think I will." He grabbed his keys and his leather jacket and was out the door before Sam even had a chance to respond. Sam crossed to the window to watch his brother jog to the Impala. He groaned loudly when Dean made a complete circle around the car, looking for any signs it had been touched. A moment later, he climbed into the driver's side and peeled out of the lot in the big, black car.

Sam stood at the window for several minutes just staring out into the night, before finally turning back to the wall covered in information. "I just don't see the connection between this Sherman guy's death and the others. There was no ritual at his office. There seems to be no connection at all with any of the victims," Sam phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. "Hello?"

"Hey! So I forgot to ask if you wanted anything to eat," Dean yelled into the phone, trying to be heard over the blaring music. "I found this burger place a few blocks down and the food smells delicious so it has to be at least kinda good." There was a pause, then he added, "Ooh - they have pie!"

"Just get me a turkey club," Sam yelled, trying to get his brother's waning attention. He was suddenly ravenous and wished he'd gone with Dean.

"Turkey club? What a pansy..." he heard Dean grumbled before hanging up. Sam went back to looking at the wall, his thoughts still on his hunger.