Thank you to my betas, Wolfschild and K. Hanna Korossy. Their work had made this chapter considerably better than it otherwise would have been.

Thank you to every reviewer. I'm sorry I didn't get this chapter to you earlier. It's the last chapter of the first section of the story, so it's exceptionally long. I hope that makes up for the wait.

There's some action in this one, and some angst. I hope you all enjoy chapter 5.

Chapter 5: Remission

Dean had, for the first time in God knows how long, gotten up before Sam. He'd showered, dressed, and gone out to get breakfast, fully expecting Sam would be awake when he returned.

He pushed the door of the motel room open to find that Sam was still asleep, the covers pulled all the way up to his neck. It was almost 9:30, as late as he'd ever seen Sam sleep when they hadn't been out hunting the night before. Sure, Sam had to be tired, but he'd gotten fourteen hours of sleep the previous night. This had to be the drugs. The doctor had told them that tiredness would be a side effect.

Time to wake up, Sammy.

Dean dropped the food on the nightstand and tossed the local paper he'd bought at his brother's face. Sam groaned and moved a little.

"Come on, man. You're missing the best part of the day," Dean teased.

Sam rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his arms, the newspaper falling into his lap. He looked over at Dean confusedly. "You're up early," he mumbled groggily.

"Not really, it's 9:30."

Sam looked momentarily shocked, then Dean saw realization dawn. "Drugs. Right," he muttered, pulling himself back against the headboard and sitting up. He grabbed the paper Dean had thrown at him. "Next time could you, I don't know, wake me up a little more gently?"

"It was that or an earful of Black Sabbath," Dean replied with a grin.

"Never mind, then. I'll get used to the newspaper-in-the-face thing." Sam studied the headlines intently even as he spoke.

"A2, below the fold: 'Preacher Claims He Can Heal Mystery Ailment,'" Dean told him. Sam turned to the page.

"'The Reverend Harvey Bales claims to be able to heal the mysterious psychotic disorder spreading throughout Jeremiah. He says he will demonstrate his ability Sunday night at midnight…'" Sam stopped and looked up at Dean suspiciously. "That was last night. You don't think this guy can really cure people, do you?"

"Either he's lying, or he's somehow responsible for what's going on; it's just a little too convenient," Dean answered.

"So, what, do we talk to Bales or his flock first?"

"Neither. We talk to the reporter who wrote that article. My guess is she attended the 'healing' last night. I'd like to hear how it went."

They were soon on the way over to the newspaper office Sam didn't feel great, but he felt relatively normal. His mild headache and queasy stomach were either side effects of the drugs, or a product of his tiredness.

Sam stifled a yawn, and Dean noticed. He had been watching Sam intently since he'd woken up.

"You're still tired? After all that sleep?" Dean asked concernedly

"Yeah," Sam replied.

It was functionally a lie. While Sam was tired, in reality, he hadn't slept much. He'd certainly slept late, and he'd blamed it on the drugs because he knew Dean would believe that, but he'd had a great deal of trouble getting to sleep. He'd stared at the ceiling for hours. He'd tried slowing his breathing, even resorting to cliché and counting sheep, so desperate had he been. The last time he remembered checking, the digital clock had read 5:15 AM. He guessed he'd gotten four hours sleep from then until his awakening by projectile newspaper.

There was no shortage of potential reasons: it could have been the stress of what was going on, the effects of the new drugs (which, bizarrely, could cause either somnolence or insomnia), or the fact he'd slept fourteen hours the previous night. It could even be a symptom of his psychosis. Whatever the reason, Sam had found his thoughts impossible to chase away, and it had been a miserable night.

So he was tired. On the other hand, he was free and clear. He was aware and alert, emotionally sensitive and mentally sharp. He was in good enough shape to help, at least. He was glad Dean had brought him along, instead of letting him sleep as he had the day before.

"Listen, Sam. You don't have to say anything; I'll talk to her," Dean said as they pulled into the parking lot.

Leave it to his brother to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. Sam glared at Dean. "I'm fine," he said measuredly.

"Absolutely, yeah," Dean backpedaled, "I'm just saying that…given everything…I can handle this one."

Translation: I don't trust you to not fuck up. As much as Sam consciously knew that he was a little oversensitive about his usefulness at the moment, he was getting angrier by the second. Which was his most normal emotional reaction in the last couple of days.

"Look, if you don't want me here, or you don't need my help, why even bring me with you? Why not just go alone, like when you went to the hospital?" Sam rejoined pointedly.

Dean was silent, his features locked down tight, not displaying a hint of what he was thinking. Sam decided to tone down the intensity.

"I get it. I really do. You saw me go crazy, and now you don't trust me," Sam started. Dean looked as if he was about to protest. Sam cut him off. "But look: this thing, whatever it is, it's in the early stages. I just started medication. My head is clear and I feel fine. I can help."

I need to help, his pleading eyes said. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

"You brought me out here for a reason," Sam said. "Let me do my job."

Dean sat there for a long moment, looking infuriatingly conflicted.

"Fine," Dean said finally, with just a hint of a sigh. "Let's do this thing."

The reporter they were looking for was apparently not in yet. They waited for her at the reception desk, which was really not much more than a long folding table in the foyer of the old Victorian house that served as the offices of the Jeremiah Clarion. Dean had barely managed to flirt with the comely young receptionist; he was a little distracted.

Yeah, Dean had brought his brother with him for a reason. But it wasn't so Sam could push himself too hard trying to prove something. He'd brought him because he wasn't supposed to leave Sam alone. He'd barely managed to rationalize the five minutes it had taken him to raid the bagel bar in the motel lobby that morning. Of course, that wasn't something he could tell Sam without making things worse.

Dean wasn't mad at his brother; he was mad at himself. What a dumb shit he was. He had wanted Sam to know that he could take it easy, that Dean would pick up the slack. He hadn't even considered that it might sound an awful lot like I don't need you. In hindsight, it was obvious. If he'd just taken thirty seconds to think about how he would have reacted to that, had their roles been reversed, he could have predicted Sam's response.

For now, he'd trust Sam. The kid had earned it.

A chubby middle-aged woman entered the room. Flat shoes and utilitarian clothing suggested a pragmatic lifestyle, and her features were strong and matronly, but she looked haggard and spent. She cursed as her purse got caught in the door and yanked it out unceremoniously. Dean shielded an inadvisable grin with his hand.

"Morning, Maggie. You're late," the secretary chided genially. "And in such a sunny mood."

"Shut it, Jeannie," the woman replied with a kind of casual hostility. She looked at the brothers, then back to the younger woman. "These your boyfriends? 'Cause the Bible says to share."

"They're all yours, Mags. Jason Kent and Derrick Johnson from the World Herald. They want to talk about Bales."

The older woman looked Dean in the eye and went quiet for a moment. "How'd you guys get here from Omaha?"

Sam jumped on it without hesitation. "We were here before the quarantine. We've got a contact at the CDC who said there might be a story in Jeremiah. So the WH sent us out here. We got trapped. We read your story about Bales, and we want to know more."

The woman eyed Sam skeptically. "What are you, twelve?"

"Twenty-five," Sam lied. "And I know that's young. They don't exactly send the A-squad to backwater shit-holes like this one."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and Dean thought for sure Sam had fucked up. Then the woman erupted in laughter. She put out her hand.

"Anyone that honest is a friend of mine. Margaret Olds, senior reporter and news editor for the Clarion."

Sam stood and took her hand. "Jason Kent."

Dean remained seated, but waved his hand nonchalantly. "Derrick Johnson."

"You want to blow the lid off that jackass, am I right?" Olds inquired conspiratorially.

Sam nodded comfortably. He was in his element. Once again Dean kicked himself for doubting him.

"It's not going to be easy," the woman sighed. Dean detected cigarette smoke, tomato juice, and a little gin on her breath. He liked her already. "Well, come on back to my office. The coffee's shitty, but it's free."

"So," Sam said, piling into the car next to his brother. "Demon possession."

"Looks like," Dean replied. "Pretty bold to do it in front of hundreds of people. He's probably a demon himself."

"Yeah," Sam agreed pensively. "He says he'll 'heal' someone else tonight."

Dean pulled the car out of the spot and navigated them back to the main thoroughfare. Sam sat there thoughtfully.

"It doesn't feel right."

"What?" Dean asked.

"Demon or not, I don't think Bales is the one causing the disease."

"Why not? You said yourself, demons sometimes use those phyrak things to drive people crazy and make 'em easy to possess."

"Not every patient hallucinated about scary monsters, Dean." Sam's tone was quiet, almost sullen. "I didn't."

"They're shapeshifters. They can take a lot of forms."

"But they always appear as creatures hunting people. They don't turn into fake altars for demon-worship. It's not their M.O."

There was silence, and Sam saw Dean working through it in his head, trying to make things fit.

"So Pastor Evil found another way to make people crazy. I don't buy that this is a coincidence," Dean argued.

"Yeah," Sam acquiesced.

The blocks rolled by, and there was a comfortable silence. Comfortable for Sam, at least. Dean was working his jaw a little, and fidgeting. That was how he got when he was about to say something uncomfortable. Sam knew exactly what it was.

"Look, Sammy—"

"I know, Dean," Sam interrupted him. "And I'm sorry for overreacting."

"Right. Good. Okay," Dean sputtered.

Sam grinned to himself.

The arsenal was strewn across their beds, and Dean was carefully disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling every single weapon in the lot. Sam was sitting at the window table searching their journals for something that would help them.

Sam felt a little foggy, and was having considerable difficulty concentrating. Once again, the diagnosis was a toss-up between tiredness and the meds.

"What's up, Sam?" Dean asked, breaking the silence. "You've been staring at that page for like fifteen minutes."

Sam decided that ignoring the question was the best way to proceed. "I don't think we're going to find anything better than exorcism, Dean."

Dean sized his brother up. Sam tried to look focused. "There's at least one, probably two, and maybe more of them. I can see us trapping and exorcising one, but if there's more, the others aren't just going to stand around and let us do it."

"So we trap them all and exorcise them one by one," Sam replied, aware of how ridiculous that sounded, but unable to think of anything better.

"That's either one big circle or a bunch of stupid demons," Dean retorted. Sam looked at his brother frustratedly, but didn't argue. Dean was right that the idea sucked. "Maybe we should try out Dad's theory."

Sam raised his eyebrows and gaped with incredulity. The theory Dean was referring to was mentioned in their father's journal, that a demon could be forced out of a human body if enough damage was done to the host that the demon could no longer hold the body together.

Dean noticed Sam's dismay. "What, you don't think it'll work?"

"No, Dean, I'm sure it will work. But we'll need a whole lot of explosives, and it'll be pretty hard to maintain a low profile if we're chucking grenades inside a church," Sam protested. "Plus, it'll kill the hosts. Innocent people, Dean."

"Maybe, Sammy, but your idea will get us killed. We won't do anybody any good if we're dead," Dean said coldly, as though that was the end of the discussion. It made Sam furious when Dean acted paternal like that.

"Blowing these guys apart doesn't send the demons back to hell. It just leaves them without a body. And with the number of crazy people in this town, it'll only be a few days before they've found new hosts," Sam shot back heatedly.

"Which is enough time to figure out what's causing the craziness, assuming it doesn't stop when we force the demons out of their hosts. Once people aren't crazy anymore, the demons won't find any easy victims," Dean raised his voice just a little, and fixed his eyes on Sam's. Sam did his best to manage his anger.

"Look, Dean. This is crazy. What are we going to do? Put bombs in their cars? We're not terrorists! What about bystanders? Family members? You blow enough stuff up and there's going to be some collateral damage."

Sam saw a kernel of doubt in his brother's eyes. "Fine. Two shitty ideas. There's got to be something else."

"What if…" Sam started, trying to put his thoughts together. "What if we just go after the one we know is a demon? We get him when he's away from the church, exorcise him, then crash Bales' next healing with the crazy guy with us. It'll prove he's not healing anybody. Turn his flock against him."

"How would that help?" Dean asked, suspicious but intrigued.

"Some demons feed on the belief people have in them. That's why there are demon cults. If Bales is one of those, then the more followers he has, and the more faith they have in him, the more powerful he gets," Sam suggested. "Right now he's probably way too powerful to take down. But once he's revealed as a fraud, he'll get really weak, really quick."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed. "What do we do with him then?"

"If he's weak enough, blessed weapons might kill him. Or we could at least bind and exorcise him," Sam concluded.

"In front of all those people?"

"I know it's weird, but it's our best idea so far."

"Good call," Dean said, pulling the slide on the gunmetal M1911 back into position. It released with a satisfying click. "So where do we find him?"

Jeremy Halstadt, the man they knew to be possessed, was single, which was almost incredibly lucky. Moreover, he lived in the only apartment building in the city, and neither of the apartments adjacent to his was occupied. Sam and Dean didn't have to worry so much about being quiet.

Sam felt a little uneasy as they mounted the steps to the second floor. It was just nerves, he told himself.

They made their way down the hallway, dim due to poor lighting and the time of day; it was just after 10:00 PM. They'd spent quite a lot of time preparing for this encounter. Dean was almost at Halstadt's door. Sam tensed as he crept up toward Dean, feeling like something was watching him. He noticed some movement at the edge of his vision and his heart jumped. He spun to face it.

Nothing.

"Sam!" Dean whispered harshly. "Let's go, you pussy!"

Sam glared at him and then joined him at the door. Dean pulled a heavy sheet from his bag and unfolded it carefully. It had a circular hole in it, around which were the carefully drawn wards of the Devil's Trap. He bundled it up for quick deployment, then put three fingers up.

"Three," Dean whispered, then counted down silently on his hand, pressing himself up against the wall beside the door. When he reached "one," Sam knocked on the hollow-sounding door. A few seconds of silence elapsed.

"Who is it?" came a voice from within the room. Dean moved as if to break down the door, but Sam waved him off.

"My name's Jason Kent. I'm from the Omaha World Herald. We heard that Reverend Bales healed you of the psychotic disorder that's been spreading through town," Sam tried. His entreaty was met with silence. "We'd really like to talk to you."

They heard footsteps approach the door, the handle jiggled, and the door popped open just a crack.

That was all Dean needed. He burst through the door and threw the sheet over the man before him. Sam was right behind.

The demon cried out as it threw Dean around the room. Dean clung on tight, getting a grip around the thing's waist from behind. It bucked against him, but still he held despite getting tossed around like a rag doll.

Sam grabbed at the sheet, pulling it down over the creature. He'd almost gotten it aligned properly when a flailing hand found his chest and sent him flying backwards into a bookcase. His back impacted painfully against one of the shelves. He stumbled and dropped heavily to the ground.

Dean finally got the thing around the neck and pulled its head and shoulders through the hole in the sheet. Its struggles ceased almost immediately as the binding runes took effect.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked as Sam rolled over onto his back.

"No permanent damage," Sam groaned, taking a moment to lie there.

"I will kill you both!" the demon screamed. Dean turned back to the trapped demon, its youthful face contorted with hate. Behind him, Sam climbed to his feet.

"Sammy, did you hear that?" Dean chortled, pulling the sheet even and flat around the demon's feet. "Demon says he's going to kill us."

"Maybe he means when he finally gets back from hell," Sam suggested. "'Course, that'll be like two centuries from now."

The demon shook with rage, throwing itself against the walls of its invisible prison.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, Black Eyes. Fighting isn't going to help you," Dean coaxed condescendingly. "The only thing that might is telling us what's making the people in this town go crazy."

"How would that help me?" the demon breathed, low and menacing.

"Sam?" Dean asked cheerfully.

Sam pulled a plastic water bottle out of his bag. He handed it to Dean, who proceeded to wet his fingers with the liquid inside. He flicked some on their prisoner. It sizzled and burned as it made contact with the demon's skin, and the thing screamed in pain.

"How's that holy water feel?" Dean taunted. "Either way, you're going back to hell. The question is: how do you want to spend the next twenty minutes?"

"I don't know!" the demon yelled desperately. "I truly don't know!"

Dean looked taken aback. "Sammy? Get the book."

"You believe him?" Sam asked, genuinely curious. He shuffled through the bag to find their book of exorcism rites.

"Not sure." Dean carefully filled the cap of the bottle with holy water, and held it threateningly out in front of him. He looked right into the demon's eyes. "Is Bales a demon?"

"…Yes," the demon whispered fearfully.

"What's his true name?" Sam asked, coming up alongside his brother, holding the tattered ritual book.

"I don't—"

"Wrong answer." Dean flung the capful of holy water in the demon's face, and it screamed horribly.

"I don't know his true name! But he calls himself Aphorael!" the demon yelled, panting and trembling with pain.

"He's probably telling the truth. No demon would be stupid enough to trust another with his true name," Sam whispered. Dean nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on the demon.

"Is he the one making people crazy?" Dean demanded, raising his voice. Sam could practically feel his brother's anger, and it was a little scary.

"No," the demon started quietly, almost apologetically. Dean fingered the bottle and the prisoner quickly continued. "But he knows what is. He didn't tell me what it was, but it's why he came here."

Dean looked at Sam. Sam nodded.

"Okay, Sammy. Make with the exorcism."

Sam sat there, in the back seat of the Impala, trying to keep the newly demon-free Jeremy Halstadt calm. It wasn't as hard as one might expect, given how far along his symptoms were. He didn't speak, at least not coherently, and he barely reacted to anything around him.

Halstadt was bound, his hands behind his back, but at this point that wasn't really necessary. He wasn't very big, perhaps 5'9" and 150 lbs, and he wouldn't have been a match for either Sam or Dean even if his brain did work.

He was perhaps Dean's age, clean-cut and good-looking. He was fit and strong despite his size, as Sam had found trying to wrestle him into his seat.

He was smart, too. After the exorcism, they'd searched Halstadt's apartment and discovered that he was a second-year surgical resident at the local hospital. Or at least, he had been before he'd gone insane.

Looking at him now made Sam sick to his stomach. Halstadt just sat there, curled up against the door, nodding absently. He whispered and mumbled gibberish.

Halstadt suddenly moaned deeply. It was an angry sound, and the man started to strain his seatbelt, trying to get it off of him as though it were causing him pain. Sam put a hand on the invalid's shoulder and tried to push him back down. Halstadt bleated an incoherent protest.

"Can you settle him down back there, Sammy?" Dean asked, pulling over to the side of the road.

"I'm trying," Sam replied, pulling off his seatbelt so he could use both hands. He pulled off Halstadt's seatbelt and the man seemed to still a little. It was only for a second. Sam could see his triceps flexing underneath his tee-shirt as he tried to free his hands. When he wasn't successful, he screamed again.

"Seriously, you need me to come back there?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam said. "Gimme the wire cutters. He doesn't like being restrained."

Dean sighed deeply, but did as he was told. "You'd better keep him under control."

Sam cut the plastic tie holding Halstadt's hands behind him. The man immediately lashed out, lunging at Sam's chest.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, throwing the door open and getting out of the car.

Sam subdued the man with some difficulty, pinning him to car door with considerable force and holding his arms at his sides. They were face-to-face, and for just a few seconds the man seemed like he was there with him. Not rational by any stretch of the imagination, but at least aware of Sam and what was going on. In that moment, Sam saw his terror. And he could practically feel the man's sense of unbearable loss. That was what awaited him.

He couldn't handle it.

Dean had made his way around the car, and he opened the door against which Sam had Halstadt pinned. The man was calmer now, arms hugged across his chest, completely unresponsive as before. Dean was able to jostle him into his seat without much effort.

Sam was barely able to wait that long before he fled the car.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean called.

Sam ignored him, running as far as he could before his reflexes took over. He fell to his knees just off the road, doubled over, and threw up.

"Sammy?" Fuck. It was 11:30. The exorcism had taken longer than they'd thought it would, and they didn't have time for this. Dean slammed the door and sprinted to Sam's side, ignoring Halstadt completely. It wasn't like the guy had anywhere to go.

He dropped to one knee next to Sam, and tried to put a hand on his shoulder. Sam jerked away.

"Get off of me!" he growled, shoving Dean hard enough to knock him on his ass. Oh. So it was going to be that way. They definitely did not have time for this. Sam tried to scramble to his feet, but Dean caught his leg between his own and twisted, bringing him down face first. Sam writhed around and grabbed Dean around the midsection, forcing him against the pavement.

Sam was fighting hard, but not particularly smart. Dean trapped Sam's arm against his chest, snaked his left leg over Sam's right thigh and rolled them over, achieving the full mount position. He struggled to get hold of Sam's arms.

"Sam, if we had the time, I'd let you work this out yourself, but we don't!" Dean yelled, pinning Sam's hands to the ground above his head. "So let it out! Deal with it! Fuck your pride!"

Sam squirmed to find some position where he could hide his face. He failed. He looked at Dean furiously, struggling and desperate to push his brother off of him, and Dean knew exactly why; there was only so long that Sam could keep down his fear, hide his vulnerability, and the kid didn't want him to see it when he couldn't anymore. Dean felt sickeningly guilty, not just because he was short-circuiting Sam's ability to deal, but because he had let his brother sit back there with Halstadt. There was a difference between knowing that something was going to happen to you, and seeing exactly what it would look like when it did. Sam had handled the first pretty well. The second…not so well.

For just a moment, Dean let his attention slip. Sam took advantage of his distraction to get a foot up against his brother's chest. He kicked, throwing Dean hard onto his back. Sam was on him again in a flash, connecting with a huge right-cross to the temple that made everything go blurry. When Dean's vision cleared, he saw Sam above him, his fist held high. Dean put up his hands defensively, but the blow never descended.

Sam was trembling mightily, tears in his eyes. He wheezed and tried to get disentangled, desperate to escape, but Dean quickly sat up and grabbed him around his chest. Sam struggled against him, but he was weaker now, unable to fight, and eventually he just gave up.

After a few more seconds of fighting back tears, he finally gave that up too. He buried his face in his brother's shoulder and cried.

"You're not going to end up like him, Sam," Dean whispered as his brother sobbed in his arms.

It was a few minutes before Sam had calmed enough for Dean to pull away. He held Sam at arm's length and looked him in the eyes.

"We've got a job to do," Dean said, for once knowing exactly what to say. "And I need your help. Are you up to it?"

Dean saw a trace of doubt cross Sam's eyes, but it quickly disappeared. "Yeah," Sam managed painfully.

Dean smacked him on the side of the head. "Good. Put your game face on. It's time to show these people who that self-righteous bastard really is."

He was disturbed that his servant had not yet arrived, but he could wait no longer.

"As you saw me heal Jeremy Halstadt, so shall you see me heal another tonight!" he called from the pulpit, gesturing at the woman sitting next to him. "This lovely young woman, Rebecca Wright, is afflicted with a disease our own sins have brought down upon her."

The crowd gasped, and the reverend calmed them with a gesture.

"But your penitence does not go unrewarded. For as your faith grows, God empowers me to do more, to heal more. Tonight I shall heal one, but tomorrow it shall be two!"

The crowd began to murmur excitedly.

"The day after, it shall be three!" He shouted. "And then?"

"Four!" the crowd cried back, wholly in his thrall.

"Before long, my friends, no man or woman shall fear this disease. All God needs is our faith, and the more you can convince to come to this church, to listen to God's word, the faster he'll allow me to heal all those who have been stricken!"

The crowd exulted.

"Like you healed this man?" came a voice from the back of the church. A tall man in a ski mask stood there, holding Jeremy Halstadt next to him. The man trembled violently, clearly insane. The demon within him had been exorcised.

The crowd went deathly silent, and, for a brief moment, Aphorael felt fear.

"Fool!" the preacher yelled, his eyes glistening black. He put up his hand, and an unseen force took hold of Sam, slamming him into the back wall.

The crowd saw the preacher's naked hate, saw the depth of his evil, but it wasn't working fast enough.

"Come on, Dean," Sam whispered to himself as the force began to compress his ribcage. He couldn't breathe.

A loud crack rang out, and a hole appeared in the preacher's head. It was not a small one, but it began to close up unnaturally. Dean came up behind the pulpit, and drew his wicked blessed machete.

"He's a demon!" Dean yelled. "God doesn't give gifts like that!"

The crowd was screaming now, fleeing from the room in a panic. It was pandemonium, even as the demon held his concentration on Sam. Sam could feel the force holding him weakening gradually, but not nearly fast enough.

He blacked out.

Dean stalked up to his enemy and shoved the machete directly into the preacher's chest.

It sizzled as it entered him, and the demon screamed, dropping the hand reaching toward Sam and striking Dean across the jaw, knocking him off the dais. He landed awkwardly, twisting his right leg as he tried to avoid falling face-first into the first row of pews. He heard his knee pop and his leg buckled under him. He yelped in pain as he dropped to the ground.

The crowd was running for their lives. Across the room Sam dropped to the floor, out cold.

Aphorael struggled to pull the machete out of him, but he was weakening by the minute. Dean rolled into a prone position and pulled out his M1911, shooting the demon three more times.

The demon finally got the blade free of his body. It threw the machete at Dean, who dodged it easily. Dean struggled to his feet and fired again, and Aphorael staggered backward.

It was looking for the back door. Dean could see the demon's indecision, vacillating between rage and fear.

Finally, the preacher made his choice. He flung his hand out at Dean, using all his remaining power to toss him to the floor with considerable force. By the time Dean got back to his feet, the demon was gone.

Dean momentarily considered going after him, then remembered Sam. He jogged down the now-empty sanctuary to where his brother lay, limping heavily and grunting as he did. He dropped to his knees with a grimace and pulled Sam's mask off before removing his own. He put a hand on Sam's chest and felt it rise; he was breathing.

Dean allowed himself a moment of relief. He clapped his hand against Sam's cheek, not hard enough to be very painful, but enough to reflect the situation's urgency.

"Hey, little brother. Wake up. The police are gonna be here any minute."

Sam groaned and coughed. It took him a moment to focus his eyes.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Chest hurts," Sam gasped dazedly. He breathed some more, in and out, and Dean watched him carefully. After another moment Sam smiled weakly. "Next time you're the distraction."

"Why?" Dean asked, smirking condescendingly as the worry left his face. "You're so good at it."

Sam ignored his brother, often the best policy. "Did you get him?"

"No, but nobody here is going to believe anything he says from now on," Dean replied. Sam moved as if to sit up, and Dean leaned back to give him room.

Sam sat up carefully, rubbing his chest lightly and wincing. His eyes fell on Halstadt, who was gibbering mindlessly in the aisle. Rebecca Wright was similarly catatonic up on the stage.

"They're still crazy," Sam said, voice heavy with disappointment. "This isn't over."