Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense…

Sorry I'm a little late with this! Thank you for all your wonderful reviews, I appreciate everyone who took the time to let me know what you think :) Someone asked how many chapters there are left - there's one more and then a final chapter/epilogue to follow. This chapter is unbetaed so any mistakes are mine…

Chapter 19

The kid – Charlie, John reminded himself – was sitting between John and Caleb in the truck, shivering like he'd never stop.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Nothin's gonna happen to you. John an' me, we're right here." Caleb whispered softly, patting the boy on the shoulder with his good arm. He shot a look at John. "Ain't that right, Johnny?"

"Yeah." John replied, keeping his eyes on the house. The house he'd sent his son to.

There was a light on in the living room, dim and yellow as it filtered through Missouri's curtains. John remembered those curtains; thick and heavy, a soothing cream colour that matched the walls and the dark mahogany wood furniture inside. That house was where he'd learnt the truth about his wife's death. The woman who lived there had been kind to a strange man and his young son, both inconsolable with grief. She'd brought Dean a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven, snatched John's silver flask away while his back was turned and poured the contents down the drain. She'd given him a reason to survive.

A shadow flickered across the creases of the curtains, indistinct. Charlie said she was still in there with Sam, but he couldn't know that for sure.

He did know that the house next door held his son and a young woman captive.

First things first – save Dean. Once Dean was out, they were another man up, and they could send the woman and her son on their way. The young daughter might be a problem; from Charlie's confused mumbling, John thought she was probably possessed. Probably here, somewhere, waiting to trip them up.

He sucked in a noisy breath, tearing his eyes away from the row of houses and fixing a hard look on Caleb. "I'm gonna go in, see if I can't find Dean. You stay here with the boy."

Caleb's mouth drew into a thin line. "And what if Azazel comes lookin'? It's Missouri the damn demon's possessing, here. If we were this close to her, she'd know about it. No doubt the demon's gonna figure it out pretty soon too."

"Well, we just gotta hope that whatever it's doing with Sam is keeping it occupied for now." John closed his eyes; he was getting too damn old for this shit.

With a grunt, he leaned over the back of the seat, twisting around awkwardly to avoid accidentally elbowing Charlie in the eye. His fingers moved over the pile of weapons and out of habit he recited the name of each in his head, identifying them by their curves and ridges. When he came to a plain wooden box his fingers stilled, closing on it and pulling it into his lap.

The Colt had been with him everywhere; the first thing he'd taken into a motel room, a heavy weight in his jacket in diners. Never more than five feet away from him, not since Sam had handed it to him in the grey concrete pit of a gas station. He swallowed hard and opened the box.

"Here." He handed the antique gun over to Caleb, who took it with eyes stretched cartoonishly wide. "You keep hold of this and watch the house. She comes out, you shoot her."

Caleb ripped his eyes from the gun, meeting John's. "What if she goes after you first?"

John's gaze wandered back to the house, that one first floor window lit up. "Then I'll run like hell."

Margaret hadn't stopped crying since her daughter had skipped out of the room, humming some childish rhyme to herself. Margaret had shuffled around so the corner of the bed blocked her from view but Dean could still see her brown arm twisted around the bedpost, the ring of silver metal biting into the skin of her wrist. He felt useless; something that he was experiencing a lot of recently.

"Margaret?" He tried, keeping one eye on the door in case demon-Kiera decided to make a reappearance.

His only answer was a gasp of breath before the crying started again. Dean bit his lip, glancing around like something would come up, some new demon would attack just so he'd have something to say. Tears weren't something he knew how to handle. Sam was the one who talked to devastated victims and witnesses, consoling them with careful words and comforting expressions. Dean tended to wait outside in the car on those jobs; he'd tried helping, but invariably he'd say the wrong thing at the wrong time, set the tears off all over again and Sam would shoot him a look that said you're being insensitive. Again. At least Margaret didn't seem to expect any kind of sensitivity from him; she seemed locked in her own head, replaying the vicious words of something that looked and sounded exactly like her daughter.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs was almost a welcome distraction. Margaret's sobs cut out abruptly, and Dean knew she heard them too.

The room was in darkness, the demon not considerate enough to provide them with a nightlight, but the half-open door leading into the hallway allowed creeping shades from a downstairs light. Unfortunately, it also meant that anyone entering the room was backlit, a silhouette, their features hidden.

Margaret's sharp inhale as she caught sight of the broad shoulders and bulky body that filled the doorway was echoed by Dean; a taunting little girl they could handle, but a full-grown man? They didn't stand a chance.

And then the figure moved. Dean's heart stopped and then started again, beating twice as hard.

That distinctive rolling gait was one Dean knew, one he'd known his entire life. As a child it had meant power and safety, strength and absent kindness, his own superman, and the sight of it now, here, brought a sudden unexpected flood of tears to his eyes.

"Dad?"

The figure paused, head turning in his direction. "Dean? Christ, are you okay?" A hand reached out to flick the light switch, and Dean stared into the bloodshot eyes of his father.

"Dad! What…how did you…"

John moved swiftly across the room and dropped to kneel beside Dean, his hands going to the cuffs pinning Dean's arms back. "Shh. It's okay son, I got ya. Is the little girl around?"

From the other end of the bed, Margaret made a stifled groaning sound. John spared her a quick glance. "It's okay, ma'am, you're okay now. Your son found us outside, told us what was goin' on."

"My son?" At John's words, she renewed her struggle against her bonds, her eyes wide with a wild hope. "My son, Charlie, he's okay? You've seen him? He's alive?" John's reply was a short nod in her direction.

Fingers brushed Dean's wrists, and then there was a click, and he pulled his stiff arms free. Before John could move to Margaret, Dean caught a handful of his shirt. "Dad, where's Sam?"

John paused for a second, his eyes inscrutable.

"Dad?" Dean's hands started to shake as John pulled away without saying anything, crossing the room to kneel beside Margaret.

"Sam's with Missouri. As far as we know, he's okay." John spoke gruffly, his eyes trained on Margaret's cuffs. "Caleb's outside in the truck with the boy, Charlie. We thought we'd be better off gettin' you out before we…attempt anything."

A second click and Margaret's cuffs dropped away. She was on her feet in a flash, clenching her hands rhythmically to get the blood flowing again, her face pale and set in an expression somewhere between terrified and determined. She stopped at the empty doorway, looking at the floor like she was trying to figure out how to step across the threshold. "My daughter?" She glanced back at John, seeming to accept his authority without question. "What about my daughter? Please, can you help her? Please?"

"We'll come back for her. Right now though, we gotta get out of here."

Margaret hesitated, looking between Dean and John like she was a lost little girl herself. Dean swallowed hard. He'd never been good at putting himself in other people's places – probably why he didn't play sensitive too well – but if Margaret's fear for her daughter was even half as strong as Dean's fear when he thought of Sam…

He reached out, laying an awkward hand on her shoulder blade. She looked up at him, the black circles around her puffy eyes making her look like she was in mourning already. "We'll come back for Kiera. I promise. If we can save her, we'll do everything we can."

She closed her eyes at his words, her eyebrows drawn together in sorrow.

"C'mon." John was already pushing past them, his gun held up parallel to his shoulder like he was acting in some bad cop show. "We don't have time to chat now. Let's get outta here."

He led the way down the stairs, Dean pushing Margaret so she was between them. The darkness behind him freaked him out; anyone or anything could be creeping up behind them. He wanted to call to his dad, ask for a gun, but if it was Kiera's tiny ballet slipper-clad feet falling into step behind his back, he didn't think he'd be able to shoot anyway.

Margaret's house was decorated cheaply, flaking white paint on the banisters and faded floral wallpaper on the walls, but the pictures hung along the staircase made Dean's stomach twist uncomfortably. Photos of Margaret with her hair shorter holding a smiling toddler, a younger Kiera in a sparkly party dress opening wrapped presents. A framed scribble of crayon that looked like a duck, Charlie's name printed neatly in the bottom left corner. It was a family home, and now it was forever tainted. Margaret would never feel safe here again, even assuming that both her children survived. Dean wished for the millionth time that he'd never brought Sam here.

The living room light was on, but John stepped quickly past it with only a cursory glance inside. Obviously his dad had checked the rooms before coming upstairs to free them.

The front door was left ajar. They filed down into the small hallway, Margaret pausing for a second to take a last longing look around her house.

In that silent pause, a sweet high voice rang out.

"Mommy? Where are you going?"

Caleb held tight to the Colt in his good hand, using the other to tap restlessly on his knee. The scene outside the truck hadn't changed; Missouri's house was still in darkness except for that one window. Every now and then a shadow would move across it, vague enough that Caleb couldn't tell if it was Missouri's silhouette or Sam's. God, he hoped the kid was okay.

Charlie hadn't said a word since John left, his thumb firmly wedged in his mouth despite the dirt-caked fingernails. The little boy was probably confused, completely overwhelmed. Caleb could remember feeling the same thing the first time he encountered something that couldn't be explained rationally. Although, he thought, he'd at least had time to grow up first, be a normal kid. But nothing had ever been the same since that day he'd walked in on his father being gutted by something with claws as long as his forearms, and most likely this boy would be changed forever too. Caleb allowed himself a second to feel bad about it, a second longer to feel a shameful sense of gladness. Charlie would grow up knowing there were bad things in the world, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be a fighter for the cause. One more warrior against the evil that lurked out there.

They needed as many on their side as they could get.

"Is momma gonna be okay?" The little boy looked up at him suddenly, big wide eyes in a face that looked so perfectly innocent it damn near broke Caleb's heart.

"Sure she is, if John has anythin' to say about it. John ain't gonna let her get hurt." He patted the boy on the shoulder. Unsurprisingly, it didn't seem to help much. Caleb turned towards the window again, pretending to be deeply involved in watching Missouri's house. He could still feel Charlie's brown eyes on him, and he winced. He was no good with young kids. "So, uh, what happened then, kiddo? With your momma and Missouri."

"'Sourri came to our house. She hit momma, and made my sister bad." Charlie spoke like he was reciting lines for a school play, no emphasis, no emotion.

"How'd you get out?"

"Didn't."

It took Caleb a second to process the single-word answer. He frowned, turning back to face the little boy.

A flash of demonic black eyes, empty of emotion and huge in that childish-chubby face. Caleb's mouth fell open, the beginning of a swear springing to his lips. Before he could say anything though, the wooden box that had held the Colt for all these months connected with the side of his head, and he was out.

Sam was panting for breath in his hunched position on the floor, his arms hanging limply over his bent knees and his head hanging forward. His hair itched with sweat and grease; he hadn't felt like taking a shower that morning, surprisingly.

"Sam, if you can't focus-" Missouri snapped, her voice suddenly sounding deep and almost masculine. She'd been pushing him, riding him hard and barking orders, and the craziest thing was, it'd worked. She'd told Sam to lift the water glass, and he'd lifted the water glass. It had floated, suspended in air half an inch off the floor, and Sam's face had broken into a smile for the first time since Dean had disappeared. He'd set it back down again, carefully, without spilling a single drop. Missouri had given him a smile and a 'good job'. And then she'd told him to lift it again.

His mind hurt, pulsed like a pumping heart, pressing against the inside of his skull with each contraction. And that shield he'd been keeping pulled over all of his secrets was slipping.

A knock on the front door startled both of them. Missouri's head turned towards the sound. For a second Sam was sure he saw the beginning of a smile grow on her lips, but her hand flew to her mouth, covering it.

"Oh my…" Her eyes were wide and she spared Sam a glance before running to the door.

With a grunt, Sam pushed himself to his feet and followed, one hand balanced on the wall.

In the hallway, Missouri was throwing open the front door with one hand. The porch light flickered, leaving sparks on his retinas, and Sam squinted, trying to ignore the fear that gripped him at the thought of outside.

"Charlie! Oh my- What are you doing here, sweetheart? Where's your momma?" Missouri's voice was high and panicked, and she turned, ushering the small boy in with a soft hand on his shoulder.

Charlie looked completely wretched. His face was tear-stained and shiny, dirt smudged over every inch of skin. The blue dungarees he wore were torn at the knees and wet with mud, trailing scuff-marks as the boy shuffled into the house. He looked up at Sam, tiny tremors running through his fragile body like wind through the fine branches of a tree.

"What happened, Charlie?" Missouri dropped to her knees, ignoring the mulch on her hardwood floor. She took both of Charlie's hands in her own, turning the boy to face her. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Charlie sniffed wetly, cuffing his runny nose with the sleeve of his shirt. His mouth worked over words that wouldn't come out.

Using the wall to support him, Sam moved closer. "Charlie?"

The boy looked up at him with the wide-eyed vacant expression of someone who'd seen terrible things. "A man came. He-he hurt momma." Charlie turned and pointed to the closed front door.

With a sick sense of trepidation Sam walked towards the door. His hand stilled on the doorknob for a moment – long enough for him to take a breath and flatten the painful fluttering in his chest, because no one was waiting to attack him on the other side – and then he opened it.

On the curb outside, in the same place the Impala had been only the day before, was John's big black truck. The watery light cast by the streetlights illuminated the bulky figure of a man slumped against the passenger side window.

Behind Sam, Charlie suddenly spoke again. "He's a bad man. He said he was gonna hurt you and Mister Dean."

"Charlie, what does he look like? Can you describe him?" Sam said, spinning back to face the little boy and deliberately ignoring the itch of leaving his back exposed to the outside world.

Charlie looked at him steadily, his face solemn and drawn. "He got a wheelchair. And his eyes turned yellow when he got angry with me."

The words were like a punch to the gut. Caleb. If Caleb was here, in John's truck, then where was John? Why wasn't Dean's father here, trying to help him? Sam's mind tried to put it together, spitting and stuttering like a drained there was no time, because Missouri was already squeezing long fingernails into the dip of Sam's collarbone, her splayed hand framing the vulnerable stroke of his neck as she stared across the front lawn.

"I can't read anything from him." She turned frightened eyes on Sam, the whites flashing like stars in the dim light. "If it's the demon, he's too strong for me."

"What…what do I do?" Sam said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

Charlie tugged on the cuff of his sleeve, leaving dirty black marks behind. "He said he had a gun to kill everyone with, 'cause it was magic."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together. "The Colt? He has the Colt?"

Charlie nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. "It fell. Over there." His eyes dropped to his feet as he spoke, and he pointed to Missouri's empty driveway.

More specifically, he pointed to the gun lying in Missouri's empty driveway, polished silver and shining like a sword fallen on a battlefield.

Missouri's hands closed on his upper arms, her grip strong enough to hurt. "Sam, you have to kill him! You have to! This might be our only chance!"

Kill him. Kill Caleb.

Sam could feel the words vibrating through his mind like an invisible person whispering in his ear. He didn't want to kill Caleb. Caleb was his friend, one of the few people who actually liked him.

He shook his head numbly. "No, no…"

Tendrils of something, slipping through the backdoor of his mind, creeping like ants on his skin…

"Sam, you have to do it!" Missouri's voice took on a possessive tone, demanding things he didn't want to do, wouldn't do.

Then why were his feet moving? Why was he walking down the driveway, each heavy footstep bringing him closer and closer to the Colt?

Why was he outside, when outside was so obviously not the place he wanted to be?

Missouri and Charlie were following him like mourners behind a funeral procession, their feet crunching in the gravel that surrounded the pretty flowerbeds on the lawn. Sam bent, dazed like he was in a dream, picking up the Colt in one hand. It seemed heavier than it had been the last time he'd held it, as if the weight of his responsibility was dragging it back down to the ground.

The streetlights overhead seemed to flicker and dim as he walked, electric sparks that sizzled and popped in his ears like they were alive.

As he moved closer to the car, he could see a bruise at Caleb's temple, sluggish blood oozing from the wound and running down over that long scar dissecting the side of his face. The other man was slouched with his head against the window, his eyes closed.

The hand holding the Colt rose slowly, until it was level with Sam's shoulder. Aimed at Caleb's motionless head.

Why was he doing this? Why was he aiming a gun at an unconscious man?

The rhythmic pulse in his head wriggled behind his eyes, tugged and tangled with the nerves there, sickening like fingers playing in his brain. It made him shudder, twist his head away, try to get whatever it was out of him.

"Sam! You have to kill him!" Missouri's voice rang loud and clear as a command from God. The words made Sam's eyes burn like they'd been seared in hot oil. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, and he felt tears leaking down the curve of his cheeks, the dips at the sides of his nose.

He didn't want to kill Caleb.

"Sam!"

Through streams of tears, Sam looked over his shoulder at Missouri. She stood on the sidewalk, neat and collected as ever, Charlie silent by her side.

His hand shook; the gun wavered.

"He's possessed by the demon, Sam. Kill him." Missouri spoke calmly now, almost conversationally, like she was discussing knitting patterns with her friends.

Sam blinked away the tears blinding him and almost immediately more took their place. His head felt heavy; too much, too many voices, all overloading his attempts at rationality.

And then something in his brain coiled, trying to shrug off the confusion and clouds. It wrapped around his thoughts like a snake, squeezing them tight and pushing them together. Sam knew this thing, whatever it was. It felt familiar, like the nerves in his hand or the veins running up his arm. He'd felt it, every time a vision had pushed its way free, whenever some bizarre new power had whipped out without his permission. It seemed to choke the fingers pulling at his brain, starving them of their power and cutting them away. Sam blinked, and he could think clearly again.

He raised the gun, and despite the sweat greasing the palm of his hand, it stayed steady.

Missouri's face drained of colour as Sam aimed the barrel of the gun, a precision shot that would hit her right between the eyes, just as Jim Miller taught him to.

"Sam? What-what are you doing? Caleb is possessed by the demon, shoot him!"

Sam swallowed hard. "Caleb's not the demon. You are. It's always been you."

A nervous, near-hysterical laugh burst out of her and she wrung her hands, her eyes never leaving the black unwinking eye of the gun, just as a normal woman would do when confronted with a crazy guy threatening to shoot them. Sam's aim didn't falter. "Honey, whatever you're thinking-"

Sam cut her off brusquely. "No. No lies. I know you're possessed."

"How?" Missouri spread her arms wide, a visible tremor running through her and making her stumble on her feet. "Sam, think about this! The demon is right there! It's messing with your head! What proof do you have that I'm possessed?"

"You told me Dean left." Sam said simply. "Dean would never leave me, not without saying something first. So why don't you stop pretending, and tell me what you've done to him?"