CHAPTER 1: DANGEROUS ENCOUNTERS
The sound of the tuned engine under the hood of a classic car adorns the night. Its body's black color shines in the dark, aided by the residual yellow glow coming from its headlights. Its shiny rims are reflected on every wet portion of the New York State Thruway's pavement. An ordinary person would dub it as a classic, remodeled Chevy, with extensive makeup. Fanatics, addicts and experts would know it as a 1967 Chevrolet Impala with all its original features intact.
Its lifetime hosts, the veteran monster hunters Sam and Dean Winchester, ride it towards the big city. Dean keeps his eyes on the road, firmly grabbing the steering wheel with one hand. Sam occupies the front seat, with his eyes staring at the same direction, but allowing himself to take quick peeks at his brother from time to time. The engine´s sound slightly mitigates the reigning silence along with the old and original cassette player, which loudly plays Bon Jovi's 1986 hit, Livin' on a Prayer.
"Are you still mad, Dean?" Sam breaks the unbearable silence.
"I'm digesting everything that has happened, Sam," Dean keeps his eyes on the road. "I still haven't figured out your choice of working with them."
From an early age, their father, John Winchester, dragged Sam and Dean into the hunting life along with him, motivated by an immeasurable thirst for revenge. Following a ruthless training that combined hunting prowess and military discipline, he prepared his two sons for dealing with supernatural creatures. Both their lives took important turns that forced them to participate in extraordinary events, granting them a legendary reputation among fellow hunters and monsters alike. Basically, they're the guys who saved the world an uncountable number of times.
"I mean, it's true they've got cool toys," Dean keeps talking. "They've got stuff we never even dreamed of. But you well know…"
"I know," Sam interrupts him. "I don't trust them either. But you've got to admit, it's not just their gear. Their knowledge, experience, and even their intelligence network could help us save many lives. Even we hadn't seen half of that stuff, ever, and we've got a lot of mileage…"
"I already told you my terms, and I don't wanna' talk about it anymore. Better tell me what we've got."
Sam grabs his white laptop from the car's back seat and opens it. The screen shows a webpage with news about a murdered girl in New York City. He starts giving the heads-up.
"Cassidy Blossom, 22 years old. A jogger found her lifeless body this morning lying in a park in Queens. Everything so far implies that her heart was literally ripped out of her chest."
"Werewolf?" Dean asks.
"Could be…"
Dean stomps on the Impala's accelerating pedal a bit harder, increasing its speed and the intensity of the engine's roaring.
"Now that I think of it," Sam stares at his brother. "New York City has always been avoided by us hunters, without explaining or asking ourselves why. We've almost never worked a case over there, and we've had lots of cases…"
"Long Island," Dean smiles. "So many memories."
"Isn't that the time when dad got you out of CBGB, all drunk and wasted?"
Dean blushes and clears his throat. He quickly resumes their previous conversation.
"So, what changed? Why now?"
"The English."
"They gave you this case?" Dean asks angrily.
"Yes, Dean, they gave me this case."
"Sure, the App," Dean mocks his brother.
Sam shows his signature disagreement expression and prepares a blunt reply. However, the ringing of his cellphone stops him. He sees the calling contact and sighs. Mick Davies.
"Aren't you gonna' answer that?" Dean asks, knowing who the caller is. "Put it on speaker."
Sam turns down the music and answers the phone, turning the loudspeaker feature on.
"Yes, Mick?"
"Have you boys made it to New York yet?"
"Yes, well, you see," Dean meddles in. "Some of us don't use private jets, or portals. We like to get there the old-fashioned way."
"Nice talking to you too, Dean," Mick sighs in return. "I'm calling to warn you there's been an update."
"What is it?" Sam asks.
"For reasons unknown, our Men of Letters back home have asked for high discretion while we perform our operations in New York, so try not to draw too much attention while you're out there."
"What scares them so much?" Sam interrupts the Englishman.
"I honestly don't know," Mick complains. "The only answer they gave me was the word confidential. I believe it's because, just as you American hunters, we don't have too much data about the supernatural life in the big city."
For the first time in a long time, Sam and Dean show doubt on their faces. Silence invades the Impala once again.
"We simply need you to look into this girl's death without making too much noise. It would be the beginning of…"
"We understand, Mick," Sam reassures him. "Got any leads for us?"
"Call me when you get there and I'll send you all the files."
"Understood," Sam hangs up.
Dean stares at his brother in a mockingly fashion. Sam stares back at him, intrigued by his look.
"What?"
"Understood?" Dean repeats his brother's sentence, using a poor imitation of his tone of voice. "Where'd that come from?"
"What about that?"
"Nothing, man, nothing," Dean smiles.
"You know, Dean, making friends is not such a bad idea, and neither is treating them well. If we're gonna' work together, they deserve at least that from our side."
"Whatever you say, man…"
Dean looks at the road, raises the player's volume and sinks his foot on the pedal.
NYPD Central Morgue, next day, 9:30 AM
The Winchesters walk through the morgue's double glass doors, wearing long black coats lying over black suits, partially exposing white immaculate shirts and dark tinted ties. Their black shoes are extremely shiny.
Before reaching the reception desk, both gaze at their reflections, projected by the majestic mirror on the left wall. Dean admires his perfectly shaved face, seeing how his penetrating green eyes and his dark blonde short-cropped ivy-league hair shine with the morgue's dim yellow lights. He looks at Sam and laughs his long shaggy brown hair, knowing that he hasn't tended to it in months. On the other hand, he recognizes the suit fits him, despite his height and muscular constitution.
"May I help you, gentlemen?" They are greeted by the officer sitting behind the reception desk.
Sam and Dean get briefly distracted by the officer's beauty. Despite being dressed in a police uniform, her brown skin and her shiny black hair make her a woman worth looking at, aided by the smell of her perfume which mitigates the place's unbearable smell.
"Agents Kripke and Summers," Dean shows his fake FBI badge along with his brother. "We're here about a girl who was brought here recently. Cassidy Blossom."
"The girl who had her heart ripped off," she interrupts. "As a matter of fact, the detective assigned to that case is here in the building."
"Where can we find him?" Sam asks, clearing his throat beforehand.
"D-Block, Aisle 25-C. Take the corridor to my right, go down the first stairs you see, and then walk straight. You won't miss it".
"Thanks."
The Winchesters follow the officer's directions. Both notice the increasing darkness and dropping temperature with each step they take. The morgue's characteristic formaldehyde smell invades their noses. I'm used to this shit, Dean thinks before going through the 25-C Aisle double doors.
"Agents," a voice from inside greets them.
Before them stands a big, middle aged African-American man. His height barely matches Dean's and his muscular constitution is noticeable, despite the blue shirt and brown leather coat he is wearing. His legs are covered by pants of the same color and material as his jacket, which partially conceal a pair of black boots. His face shows a shaped but untrimmed beard. Sam notices his NYPD detective badge hanging from his belt.
"Agents Kripke and Summers," Sam makes the introductions. Both brothers show their fake badges.
"Detective Garroway," the man introduces himself in return.
"We're here on Cassidy Blossom's case," Sam explains.
"I didn't know the FBI would take interest in a simple murder..."
"We've been following this guy quite some time now," Dean abruptly interrupts. "He's committed multiple murders in several cities using this same M.O. We think we're dealing with a serial killer."
"Right," the detective shows skepticism.
Garroway and the Winchesters stare at each other for a few seconds. The silence in the room is barely outmatched by the heaviness the air acquires. Both brothers clear their throats at the same time. Shit, Dean complains.
"So, what have we got, detective?" Sam rubs his hands against each other.
"Follow me..."
Garroway reluctantly leads them towards the chamber in which Cassidy Blossom's lifeless body lays on an autopsy table. He gently removes the sheets covering her intimate parts, showing a big, heartless hole in her precordial area. He starts briefing them about the case.
"Cassidy Blossom, aged 22, Caucasian. She was found by a jogger yesterday morning, who says she found the girl lying over a pool of blood. We later confirmed it was her own.
"Time of death?"
"All things considered, between 03:00 and 05:00."
"What about that big hole in her chest?" Sam keeps his eyes on the corpse.
"That's the weird part about all of this," Garroway claims. "It's the first time I've seen this kind of wound, and I can't think of any kind of weapon that could do something like this to a human being. Maybe you could share your theories with…"
The detective's sentence is suddenly interrupted by his cellphone's loud ringing.
"Excuse me…"
While the detective is distracted with his call, Dean swiftly scans the corpse, looking for bite or claw marks, noticing the total inexistence of both. He then decides to search for dehumanization signs on the girl herself and looks for vampire fangs, werewolf claws or traces of sulfur, having equal results. Sam, on the other hand, keeps a lookout for Garroway, listening to a small part of his conversation in the process. He manages to hear the words "I'm on my way" before the call is ended.
"Agents, something came up," Garroway explains. "The coroner said he'd be back in a few minutes in case you have questions for him. The forensic report's next to the body. If you find something worth sharing, please let me know."
Garroway hands his business card to the Winchesters. Sam grabs it and reciprocates the detective's gesture by giving him one of their own.
"Likewise, detective. Here's our number in case you have something for us."
Without further delay, Garroway walks towards the chamber's exit door and disappears. The Winchesters continue their own procedures.
"Finally," Dean grumbles.
"Let's focus on this before anyone else comes," Sam replies, grabbing the forensic report and silently reading it.
After double checking dehumanization signs, Dean scans Cassidy's lifeless body with his EMF detector, showing an absence of any slight signal.
"No claw or bite marks, no traces of sulfur, and no signs of vampirism or lycanthropy," claims Dean. "The EMF's dead on this chick, so no ghosts either. Nothing for us here other than this big hole in her chest."
"I've seen werewolf victims, and there's something that doesn't add up," Sam closes the forensic report.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks.
"Normally, these monsters rip their victims to shreds," Sam explains, still gazing at Cassidy's corpse. "Very few can control themselves during their feral state, and their savagery tends to reach other parts of the body while they subdue their victims. But, in Cassidy's case…"
"There's no sign of even the slightest struggle," Dean deduces, finishing his brother's sentence.
"The forensic report itself doesn't make any sense," Sam continues. "It says here that ribs and sternum are drawn forward, as if something burst from inside her. The hole completely goes through her, implying that the wound was caused from behind. You know that werewolves always attack from the front, right?"
"So, we're talking about a ninja werewolf killer?" Dean asks sarcastically.
"Man, seriously," Sam retorts with slight disapproval. "What I'm saying is that everything points out towards a planned killing. Her heart was just ripped out. No rage, no beastly instincts."
"A jealous, or annoyed, werewolf boyfriend then?"
"That makes a bit more sense," Sam smiles.
Dean respectfully covers Cassidy's exposed body, hiding the abyssal hole of destruction in her precordial area. Sam puts the forensic report back where he found it.
"Whatever this is, I doubt we'll find anything else here," Dean says. "I think it's time we paid her family a visit."
"Let's go."
Both brothers leave the building discreetly, failing to tumble into the reception officer they had met earlier. Let's get the hell outta' here, Dean thinks while starting the Impala and driving off.
Blossom Residence, Howard Beach, Queens, 11:00 AM
The Impala's roaring engine slowly lowers its revolutions while it stops near the sidewalk on one of the streets of Rockwood Park, right in front of the house corresponding to Cassidy Blossom's address. The Winchesters stare at the place, noticing a two floor mini-mansion with a big garden. The sky's pale gray color, along with an unbearable cold weather, make the walls' paler-than-white tint stand out enormously. A pitch black darkness can be seen through the windows, bringing it closer to haunted houses the Winchesters are used to visit in their hunts. A black iron gate lies at the entrance with two marble crucifixes at each side, and a statue of Jesus Christ hanging from the top frame.
"Wow, this is one religious family," Dean sighs sarcastically.
"Well, her file says that the Blossoms are devout Catholics," Sam explains. "Their ancestors were strong religious practitioners, highly stuck to traditions. The forensic report stated that Cassidy, at her age, hadn't…"
"Nope, don't say it," Dean interrupts his brother and flees the Impala.
Sam laughs at his brother and follows him. While walking through the stone-made path through the garden, the Winchesters notice a group of four black birds flying over them, which later land on the house's roof. Their position is so far away that none can discern between crows or dark pigeons.
"Creepy," Dean mutters.
They reach the house door and Dean beats his brother into ringing the bell. A bald, middle aged man swiftly answers.
"Mr. Blossom?" Sam cordially asks.
"Yes, that's me."
"Agents Kripke and Summers, FBI. We're investigating your daughter's case."
Mr. Blossom sighs in disdain, looks towards the inside of his house, and then lets the Winchesters in. Both brothers look at the man from tip to toes. They notice a slight resemblance to the dead Cassidy Blossom, especially in the skin color. His small blue eyes are hidden behind a pair of thick round glasses that make them look tiny from the outside. He wears a completely black set of sweater, shirt, fabric pants and shiny black shoes, similar to the ones the Winchesters include in their FBI outfits. Quite a father, Dean thinks.
"Make yourselves at home, agents," Mr. Blossom sighs.
Sam and Dean quickly sit on both armchairs, leaving the couch for the house's owner. To their right, a lit fireplace casts flickering shadows all around the room, focusing its trajectory along the mahogany walls and marble floor, giving the brothers snatches of dark tinted expensive carpets and portraits depicting family members. Hanging on the wall in front of them, a big painting shows the very same man who opened the door, accompanied by his dead daughter and a beautiful woman sitting next to him.
"I suppose you'll be asking the questions," Mr. Blossom sits on the couch.
The Winchesters ask him about Cassidy's life, bringing up important subjects, such as relationships, daily activities and hobbies. According to her father, it turns out that Cassidy shared the family's faith and devotion by her own free will, sometimes even lecturing her parents when they committed what she considered small sins. She was an only child and, according to Mr. Blossom, he and his wife overprotected her using the strict rules of their religion. She had never stopped going to church while alive, and she enjoyed reading and everything related to art. She was, in fact, an Arts student in the Wells College in Bradford, where she shared a room with the only friend who didn't share her faith. He clarifies that the other woman in the big family picture is Cassidy's mother, deceased since almost a year ago due to leukemia.
"Did you notice any strange behavior lately?" Sam asks.
"We had a small argument the afternoon before she died," Mr. Blossom replies. "Her friend had invited her to a party in her parents' apartment and I didn't want her to go. However, she strongly insisted, saying it was a promise she had made. I had never seen her like that."
"Did she call you again?" Dean inquires.
"Sadly, no. Last time I saw my little girl alive was going to that party through the same door you guys came in. Next thing I got was a call from the police…"
A few tears come out of Mr. Blossom's eyes, compelling him to take his glasses off and clean them up. The Winchesters stay quiet for a few minutes. Poor man, Sam thinks.
"I'm sorry, agents. This hasn't been easy at all…"
"We understand," Sam comforts him. "Believe me, we feel really sorry for what happened, and we're doing our best to get to the bottom of this."
"Do you know where we can find this friend of hers?" Dean asks.
"Of course," Mr. Blossom swiftly answers. "When they weren't at college, they used to hang out in her parents' apartment. I bet she's still there, cleaning up the mess caused by that party."
Cassidy's father grabs a small notepad from his pocket and writes an address and a name on it. Sam manages to read the name before being handed the ripped page. Annie Stillman.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Blossom," he says, putting the paper in his pocket.
"I hope you catch the bastard who did this to my daughter."
"Don't worry, sir," Sam reassures him. "We will."
The Winchesters shake hands with Mr. Blossom one last time before leaving the premises. They start talking about their visit once they sit inside the Impala.
"Dude," Dean sighs while he starts the car. "I wouldn't want to be in his shoes…ever."
"Whatever happened at that party, it drove Cassidy Blossom to her death," Sam asserts. "Time we go pay that friend a visit."
"Let's go".
Dean bails out of the parking spot, making the Impala's tires screech.
Annie Stillman's apartment, Astoria, Queens, New York, 2:00 PM
The Stillmans' home turns out to be an apartment in one of the buildings on 33rd Street, Astoria. Sam and Dean locate it on the second floor, noticing the place's vicinity to the park where Cassidy's corpse had been found. The Winchesters fail to notice the small doorbell on the wall to the right and knock on the door bare-fisted.
"Who is it?" a voice asks from the inside.
"FBI!" Dean shouts.
The sound of a rolling chain precedes the opening of the big apartment door. The Winchesters stand in front of a young, blond, green eyed girl, barely in her twenties. She wears a wide black sleeveless blouse which shows she is wearing no bra, making Dean slightly uncomfortable. Her well-shaped butt and legs are covered by black, tight spandex pants that reach out to her ankles, showing a pair of beautiful bare feet.
"Agents Kripke and Summers," Dean makes the introductions. "Are you Annie Stillman?"
"I guess you're here about Cassidy," the girl nods. "Come in."
The Winchesters enter the apartment. They notice the place all littered with red cups and plastic dishes, some of them upside down or piled and still with remains of their contents. Sam even trips on an empty Vodka bottle. His brother laughs at him.
"Jerk," Sam insults him.
The living room is furnished with modern IKEA tables, shelves, couches and armchairs. The walls are mostly adorned with self-made paintings, most of them representing landscapes. Dean notices three easels with unfinished canvases on them, all depicting the same dark-haired man staring at the viewer with big, penetrating gray eyes.
"Sit wherever you like," the girl says.
Both brothers sit on one of the three spot black couches in the living room. The girl lies on the one perpendicular to theirs.
"I was expecting a visit from any of you guys," she starts talking compulsively. "I didn't know this was gonna' happen. That guy didn't seem…"
"Wow, slow down," Dean stops her. "Start from the beginning."
Annie bursts into tears, making Sam and Dean wait patiently for her to catch her breath. She starts talking again once she recovers.
"I invited her to my birthday party so that she could have some fun and leave her house's strict rules for once. I wanted her to live a little, to meet people, to socialize. I couldn't accept I was Cassidy's only friend."
"What happened, then?" Dean interrogates her.
"That night, most off my guests were old friends of mine," she continues. "Cassidy was feeling strange at first, like if this was not her place. As the party went on, and after a few shots of Vodka, she started relaxing and socializing. I had never seen her so happy."
"But?"
"There was this guy, a guest, who set his eyes on her as soon as he saw her. Though he wasn't precisely one of the well-known ones, I will never forget his name. Nick…"
Sam and Dean take a quick glimpse at each other while Annie keeps talking about the person she just mentioned.
"Nick and I had met days before, during a crazy night at a nightclub in Brooklyn, The Pandemonium. I was relieving my stress after an Arts project at the university, and decided to go there with some friends before getting home. Of course, Cassidy was not with me that day."
"So, what happened?" Sam asks.
"I stumbled onto Nick the moment I went to the bathroom, and thought we had liked each other. As the night went by, we chatted like, a lot, agreeing in almost every subject. I say we connected, and if it wasn't for my friend Julie not feeling so well, a lot more things would have happened…"
"Well," Sam interrupts her, stopping the conversation from taking that path. "How did Nick find you later, and how did he end up here?"
"I invited him, of course," Annie answers. "Before leaving the Pandemonium, we exchanged numbers, and I thought it would be nice to let him come to my party. I mean, the guy was handsome, and he seemed all right."
"What has Cassidy got to do in all this?"
"When Nick saw Cassidy, he stopped paying attention to me and focused on her. He handed her drinks, talked to her, made her laugh. It was the first time I had seen my friend talk to a man like that. She wasn't the Cassidy I knew, and that made me happy. But something happened…"
Annie starts crying again. Sam, in an act of humanity, hands her his handkerchief for her to dry her tears, then waits for her to catch her breath. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs.
"Nick kissed her," Annie whines. "He kissed her so passionately I thought he was gonna' swallow her. Cassidy just tagged along, until the kiss ended, and she felt guilty. Once it all passed, she left the apartment in a rush, without even looking back. I tried stopping her, seeing how late it was, but she had disappeared into the night. I assumed she had taken a cab home."
"What time did that happen?" Sam asks.
"It was almost 2 in the morning."
"And Nick?"
"I didn't see him again after that," Annie sighs.
"Do you know where he lives? Any address?"
"All I've got is his number, and his picture," Annie stutters, pointing out her unfinished canvases.
Both brothers look at the most complete of the three paintings. So that's the guy, Dean scratches his chin. Sam takes a picture with his cellphone.
"Thanks for your help, miss Stillman," he clears his throat. "We'll keep in touch. In case something else comes to mind…"
Sam hands her his card, similar to the one they gave to the detective at the morgue. Annie escorts them to the door.
"Please find whoever did this to my friend," she begs. "Cassidy deserves justice…and peace."
"Don't worry, we will."
Both brothers leave the apartment and take the elevator to the ground floor, rapidly reaching the Impala. Once inside the car, Dean's cellphone starts ringing. Its screen shows a well-known caller.
"What's up, Cass?"
"Dean, I'm in New York."
"What are you doing here?" Dean puts his cellphone on speaker.
"A, friend, asked me for help in investigating a strange phenomenon here in New York," he answers using his characteristic deep voice. "I heard you were here as well, working on a case…"
"Yeah, it seems to be a ninja assassin werewolf killer," Dean says under his brother's eye rolls and weary sighs. "We're working on it."
"If you need any help, call me," Castiel says.
"Where are you now?" Sam interrupts.
"I'm waiting for my friend, sitting in a bar in Brooklyn. It has a very peculiar name."
"Would it be the Pandemonium by any chance?" Sam smiles.
"Yes," Castiel is intrigued. "How do you know?"
"I think you could help us then, and save us some time."
Before explaining everything about the case and about the suspect known as Nick, Sam sends Castiel the picture he took from Annie Stillman's painting. He then asks him to learn everything he can at the bar. Dean swiftly starts the Impala and leaves the premises.
Galaxy Motel, Brooklyn, New York, late afternoon.
Sam works on his laptop while Dean leaves the shower in nothing but his towels. He opens the minibar and grabs a beer for himself.
"Man, the showers in this place are hot," Dean relaxes on the couch. "You should try it."
"While you were in there, showering, I found some stuff on this Nick fellow," Sam says.
"And, what have you got?" Dean opens another beer for his brother. "Any news from Cass?"
"No, he hasn't called me yet," Sam replies. "But I did some digging on my own."
"Shoot."
"The number Annie Stillman gave us belongs to a man named Ronald…Vujicic," Sam raises his brows as he pronounces the name with difficulty. "According to his NYPD file, this guy is pending for trial on money laundering charges. In fact, he's been reported missing for months now."
"Quite a fellow, the guy with the weird name…"
"And that's not the best part," Sam continues. "Digging even deeper into the NYPD files, I discovered something really interesting. It turns out that Mr. Vujicic appears as a main suspect in the disappearance of one of his presumed associates a year ago. Guess who the victim is…"
Sam pushes the ENTER button, and turns his laptop into a position in which both he and his brother can see the screen. They gaze at the picture of the same fellow they had seen on the paintings. The pale face, penetrating gray eyes and ashen black hair are unique and unmistakable.
"Looks familiar?"
"Hello, Nick," Dean greets the picture on the screen.
"Nicholas Andrew Clay, 26, missing since last year under suspicious circumstances. Apparently, our friend Nick had been working for Mr. Vujicic for a few months, until he suddenly stopped showing up. Vujicic himself reported his disappearance to the police."
"That phone got an address?" Dean asks, finishing his beer.
"Yes," Sam writes the address in a piece of paper. "It corresponds to a penthouse in Upper West Side, Manhattan. It was recently bought by a young married couple."
"It's worth a shot," Dean claims.
"Let's go, then."
59th Street, Upper West Side, Manhattan, New York, late night.
Dean parks the Impala in front of a twenty story building located on 59th Street in Upper West Side, Manhattan.
"It's the penthouse we're after, right?" Dean asks.
"This is the address, all right."
The Winchesters get out of the car dressed in their respective FBI outfits. They admire the place's entrance, which consists of an enormous set of double glass doors surrounded by marble and steel pillars. This place is classy, Dean briefly nods. He looks towards the top of the building, noticing a black, starless sky. The reigning darkness is only mitigated by the light coming from nearby apartments.
After grabbing their gear and filling their gun clips with silver bullets, the Winchesters walk through the big double glass doors, reaching an enormous lobby made of curved windows, steel and marble. They soon spot the empty desk where the concierge is supposed to be.
"Keep an eye out while I get us upstairs," Dean mutters.
Dean hacks the Concierge's computer almost instantaneously and activates the penthouse elevator. Sam raises his brows before his brother's actions.
"I'm sick of giving explanations today," Dean complains. "Let's get up there and see if we can finish this. This place gives me the creeps."
Both rush towards the penthouse access elevator and Dean swiftly pushes the button once inside. Right before the shaft closes, they see the concierge come out of the bathroom. He doesn't notice the intruders. Thank nature for that, Dean smiles.
As the elevator reaches the 18th floor, an extremely fetid smell invades the cabin. Sam and Dean draw their pistols and cover their noses.
"Sulfur, and something else," Dean asserts, holding his precious brushed stainless steel Colt 1911. "It's like if there were many decomposing bodies together."
Once their noses get used to the smell, both aim their weapons at the door. The elevator's light flickers as it goes through the 19th floor, losing intensity the rest of the way and smelling more and more as they go up. It eventually stops at the 20th floor. The doors open slowly. Here we go, Dean thinks.
They find themselves in front of the penthouse's big living room. The white marble floors show numerous wide blood stains, adorned by abundant groups of lit candles of all sizes placed in circular patterns that form a path towards a huge, lit fireplace. Their colors oscillate between red and black.
"What the hell?"
"This place is big", Sam mutters. "Let's split up, cover more ground."
"All right."
The Winchesters separate momentarily, slowly walking towards their respective sweeping areas. Dean goes through the living room step by step and minding his corners, while he watches his brother enter the kitchen. The splattered blood also reaches the marvelously crafted mahogany panels that adorn the walls, giving the entire house a hellish decoration. Lights flicker constantly, and the furniture is either messed up, burnt or destroyed. Words written in blood in a strange and unknown language adorn the walls and floors. A shut closet door shows numerous flies flying in circles outside, with a horrible death-like stench coming from inside.
"Let's see," Dean thinks loudly.
Dean swiftly opens the white mahogany closet door, aiming his gun at whatever could come out. However, all he sees are two lifeless, bloody corpses, hanging from racks by barbed wire. He distinguishes an African-American couple, man and woman, still dressed in their formalwear. The stench and the flies indicate they have been dead for days, Dean covers his nose. Man…
His thoughts are interrupted by the voice of someone muttering incomprehensible words coming from the fireplace. What the hell is going on here? He asks himself. From where he stands, Dean manages to see the silhouette of a man sitting near the chimney, surrounded by a circle made of the same candles that decorate the place. He slowly walks towards the guy, keeping his gun's iron sights set on him. The muttering does not stop. When he reaches an acceptable distance, he distinguishes a man dressed in a long, black trench coat. His dark ashen hair looks disturbingly familiar. Could it be…?
"Nicholas Andrew Clay?!" Dean aims his gun at the man.
The fellow turns around, showing a small portion of his face and a daring smile. His eyes are even more gray and penetrating than in Annie Stillman's painting. Oh, that's him all right, Dean aims his gun at the man. A blood drawn pentagram can be seen beneath his bare feet as he stands, which briefly distracts the hunter. He then sees his suspect disappear into thin air. What the hell?
Dean suddenly hears the screech emitted by ghosts when they pierce the veil. He drops his gun, replaces it with one of the iron pokers lying next to the fireplace and swings it in an arc behind him. A hand easily grabs the weapon.
"I don't wanna' hurt you, mundane," a manly voice says.
Dean finds himself struggling with a man other than his previous suspect. He distinguishes a blond, fit man, approximately his size, dressed in a black set of combat boots, tight jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt. His skin shows black strange tattoos all over its exposed areas except his face.
"And who are you?" Dean stares at the man's eyes.
"None of your business…"
They both swiftly drop the poker and push each other away. The man then swiftly attacks Dean, throwing three punches at him with enough strength to pierce the air. The hunter avoids two of them. The third one reaches his left cheek and makes him stagger.
"So, that's how you wanna' play it?"
Dean breathes deeply, cracks his neck and rushes at his attacker. The man throws two other strong punches at the hunter, one being blocked and the other one avoided. The elder Winchester uses his adversary's opening to hit his ribs twice and his face once. A fistfight then ensues, in which none of the two have the advantage on each other.
At one point, Dean uses a small opening to throw a quick low kick at the man, getting him on his knees as a result. However, the attacker manages to hit the hunter's leg back with a swift kick and make him lose his balance. Both start struggling on their knees.
"Jace!" Dean hears another man's voice.
A quick glimpse at the door behind him lets Dean distinguish what seems to be an archer about to fire an arrow at him. He swiftly grabs his gun from the floor and fires five rounds in that direction, hitting nothing but the mahogany wall. What the hell, man? Jace kicks his hand and makes him drop his gun anew.
Upon hearing the struggle, Sam comes to his brother's aid. A surprise kick coming from behind him makes him drop his firearm. He turns to face his attacker, finding himself before a girl with bright red hair, green eyes and a slim build, with tattoos on her exposed body parts. Her beauty, fragility and short height stop the hunter from retaliating. Damn.
"I don't wanna' hurt you, lady."
"Don't worry," she strongly kicks Sam in the chest. "You can't."
The girl's kick is so strong that it stuns and knocks Sam down and blurs his sight. He barely manages to distinguish a black haired Caucasian woman dressed in black standing next to the redhead.
"Clary, they can see us."
"Something happened to our Glamour," the redhead says. "Let's go, we need to help Alec."
"What about Jace?"
"He can handle himself. Let's go."
Both women walk away and leave Sam lying on the floor. He tortuously stands up and sees Dean is still fighting the blond man. The pain on his chest prevents him from fully recovering his balance. That girl sure hit me hard, he complains.
On his side, Dean keeps exchanging blows with Jace, none gaining the upper hand. At one point, both adversaries throw strong punches at each other's faces without any of them parrying. The hunter manages to throw the last punch, making Jace's mouth bleed.
"Man, it's been a long time," Jace growls.
"Jace, finish this already!" The archer's voice can be heard yelling from another room. "We have to go now!"
Dean watches as Jace's eyes acquire a shiny yellow tone for a few seconds. The hunter throws a couple of punches at his adversary's face. The blond man easily dodges them and hits him so hard he is sent flying across the room.
"All right, he isn't a ghost, and he's definitely not a human."
After strongly hitting the wall, Dean swiftly recovers and throws holy water at Jace with no apparent effect. His adversary strongly pushes him.
"Well, not Demon either," Dean mutters while lying on the marble floor.
The hunter rapidly crawls towards his gun. One more like those and I'm dead, he thinks. Jace slowly approaches him from behind.
"You're good, mundane, I'll give you that," Jace taunts Dean. "Unfortunately, I can't stay and play."
Dean grabs his Colt and shoots his three remaining silver rounds at Jace's chest without missing. He watches in horror as his adversary's eyes turn yellow again and all three bullets are expelled from his skin. What the hell is he?
"Time to end this," Jace sighs.
Just as a third blow is about to reach him, Dean takes his angel blade out and slashes his attacker's face. The cut makes Jace flinch. The wound doesn't heal even after his eyes' yellow glow.
"So, this is what works," Dean smiles.
Jace stares at Dean, breathes heavily and closes his fists. The cut on his face shows an intense white light emanating from the inside. Well, I'll be damned, that's angelic grace, Dean remembers his past experience with celestials.
"So, Angel…"
"Slash human," Jace finishes Dean's sentence.
"Nephilim?!"
Though astonished by Jace's revelation, Dean stands ready to continue the fight using his angel blade. To his surprise, three other youngsters stand next to his adversary. The archer he had seen earlier is among them.
"They're not ordinary mundanes," Jace asserts.
"Jace, seriously, we don't need this," the archer complains. "Let's just wrap this up and get out of here."
Dean sees his brother drawing his angel blade and standing next to him, much to his relief. Sam recognizes the other two people at the enemy group, distinguishing the redhead girl who attacked him and the black haired woman who came afterwards.
"Careful, Sam, they're…"
"Nephilim," Sam interrupts his brother.
Dean stares at the dark haired woman. Man, she's hot, he thinks while looking at her prominent cleavage, exposed by the shape of her dark dress.
"They seem to know a lot about us," she stares at the Winchesters.
"Believe me, lady, a bunch of Nephilim with lots of tattoos don't impress us," Dean stares back at her.
"And they can see our runes," she partially ignores Dean. "Great…"
Jace takes out a big, greenish sword out of nowhere, with runes carved all over its blade. The rest of his crew take out similar weapons.
"Man, those are really big swords," Dean mutters.
"Careful with their blades!" Jace shouts. "They seem small, but they can hurt us badly, and the Iratzes don't heal their cuts!"
Both teams face each other, weapons at hand and ready to attack. The reigning tension is overwhelming. A fight to the death is imminent.
"Ready, Sam?"
"Let's do this…"
Despite their low chances of winning the fight, the Winchesters charge against their numerous and intimidating Nephilim adversaries.