On that long ago moonless night, at his big brother's request, Sam Winchester reluctantly set his prize Science Fair praying mantis free from its glass death chamber. That same devout, strawed insect then went on to live a full life of brisk motionlessness, interrupted only when it was called upon to either pray or reproduce. Thus, generation after generation of nearly a decade of devotees were carefully conjured out of oblivion's broad forehead to flower the Illinois Vermillion River Valley with a flux of brooding, very solitary green little stick-like beings with the most dexterously bred skills of contemplation.

One single member of that fine line, basking under the sun in epic stillness- despite even the gentle breeze that ripples the nearby waters of the Vermillion River- is a sentinal there in supreme anticipation on this day in late May. And it is here that it waits, just waits, in the thunder of its poise.

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It isn't ever very long before the old Chevelle's growls cut across the landscape behind the Impala, which steadily hums as it makes its way through to the end of a winding, softly sloping road. As they near the river, the road transforms into wide dirt path with forested trees hovering like fans on either side. Continuing on for another mile or so, the Impala finally comes to a rest under a large oak sheltering a small craggy pool, with a clearing just beyond the lees. A secluded, almost secret place, where insects swarm to learn its mysteries. The sun is high noon by now, which harkens thoughts of lunch. Bobby can't even remember when he's last eaten, and his stomach makes a cacophony of sounds in complaint. Sam exits the Impala and walks westward toward the trickling sounds of the river somewhere in the near distance. Bobby follows until Sam pauses near a copse of trees at the opposite edge of the clearing and looks up and around.

"Here."

Bobby gazes out at an early afternoon sky lazing in a haze of pale blue. Trees swaying in the gentle breeze cause a commotion of shadows, casting the illusion of a turning ground. He realizes he's had to almost continually reconcile himself to the cold hard fact that Dean Winchester is no longer anywhere here on God's green earth. "Yeah, kid," he squints as rays of the sun shoot splashes bright gold through the leaves, "if burying him is still what ya really wanna do, then this looks to be a real nice spot."

Sam looks back, hesitates, glances toward the Impala. "Yes,' he says, and pitches into the clay earth the small wooden cross he's been holding in his hand.

Bobby knows he should try to change Sam's mind at least once more, every instinct telling him that the only chance to rest the spirit is to burn the flesh. He opens his mouth to speak, but one look at Sam's face tells him he'd be wasting his breath.

"Okay kid," he says. "I'll go now, find what else we need for a proper casket. Got most the tools we need in my car, but need some good pine, and maybe I can find some iron hardware? We'll build a fire after, cook something to eat and…"

"I can't eat."

"Sam."

"Bobby, this isn't…," he hesitates, swallows hard, "I just can't."

"Look boy! You gotta carry on, hard as it is you gotta keep fighting! Dean never wanted you to just give up! You think he'd want…" Bobby's voice was getting higher, almost approaching hysteria as he belts out these cliches with a passion he hadn't realized he possessed. He pauses. He takes a breath, says simply, "Sam, Dean's gone now. He ain't coming back. You're the only one left. You give up, then the demons win."

Sam stares straight ahead, turns to answer, his lips trembling to form words, but they never come. He looks over at Bobby with an expression so desolate and lost that it makes Bobby want to weep.

Sam looks down, nods his head, and finally manages to say, "Right. Okay, Bobby."

"Alright." The relief is palpable. "You set up what you can right here, maybe then try and rest a bit. I'll bring back what we need, also pick us up a bottle of Jack, some Coke to wash it down."

Sam stares at the ground, cupping his face with the palms of his hands. There's a resignation, an agreement, and so much more confined in the roaring silence of that moment. Bobby sighs and turns away.

"Okay then. Be back in a bit."

Back on the road for the moment, Bobby welcomes the relief from the hot, humid afternoon as the wind whips in through the open windows of his old Chevelle. He soon finds himself turning down the dirt driveway of an old abandoned farm that he'd seen this morning on the drive into town. An old shed at the back of the property set beside the railway tracks that run diagonally along the old Route 66 looks to likely contain a veritable treasure hoard of most, if not all, of what they will be needing tonight.

He gets out of the car, walks up to the broken old door, which creaks on its rusty hinges upon opening. The place seems haunted. Memories suddenly come flooding back.

The broken down old John Deere tractor had been causing gruesome deaths all throughout the area. Now that they've found the source of it all, Bobby knows that, aside from dousing it with oil and lighting it up, there'd be no other right way to dispel this angry spirit. Armed with the iron hardware, table salt, oil, lighter fluid and a lighter required, he knows this should be a quick fix. Still, this boy has to learn.

"Hey Bobby!" says nine-year-old Dean, with an exaggerated southern twang, from the seat of the tractor, "My name's Earl 'n I'm gonna plerrr this field with this new fangled contraapshon!"

"You get down off of there, Boy! We got work to do!"

"I in't comin' down noooo how an'….," Dean gasps when the rusty old engine of the tractor growls unnaturally to life.

Dean looks utterly terrified, but only for a moment. He clenches his jaw. "I got this," he says, those old-soul green eyes meeting Bobby's all business now, "I do."

Bobby knows he can't let Dean do that, though not because he's afraid the boy might fail. He knows he can't let him because a man would have to be all kinds of crazy to risk his own life putting John Winchester's son into a situation that poses even the slightest risk of injury. John would kill him even if the boy escaped unharmed.

So. Lighter fluid and oil dousing: check. Grab kicking and screaming boy off of the tractor: check. Light the match and get them both the hell outa here: check.

The memory rushes away with the same swiftness that it had rushed in. Bobby shakes away the residue cobwebs, grabs what he needs, and promptly, well, gets the hell outa there.

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Out of a swirl of smoldering smoke, writhing, curling tendrils of hatred, the demon saunters up to Dean. Black eyes glinting, mouth twisting in a horrifying smile that grotesquely animates his long, lantern-jawed face, he says, "Ahhhh: now what have we here?"

Dean struggles to turn away as the demon places his fingers along his close-cropped hair, his eyes and mouth and neck, pinching and piercing the skin as if in forensic examination, working his way downward. Every place the demon touches immediately scalds in blistering pain. The smell of burning flesh is rank in the air, the torture of it unimaginable. This is the furthest extreme of torment, Dean knows. Unrelieved torment.

A four-eyed dog like creature with hunger in its eyes hovers just beyond the little flames of a pool of lava that has boiled up beneath the smoke. The demon probing at Dean's flesh grabs a hot poker and drives it into Dean's chest. Dean tries to gasp, but has no breath to cry out at the sudden excruciating pain, relentlessly intensifying as it swarms into to every quarter of his body and his mind. The demon puts his face within an inch of Dean's. "I am called Alastair," he hisses, the indescribable rancidity of his breath fills Dean's nostrils like a disease. "You'll do well to remember me."

Enduring such intense pain and torture enough to drive a man mad, Dean knows he'll lose his soul unless he can somehow block it out. He reaches for the one weapon that's always been at his disposal: Snark. His voice hoarse and parched is barely audible above a whisper.

"I'd do much better to forget, trust me," he says, "that is, unless you get yourself a butt load of breath mints, you rotten, filthy piece of demon scum!"

Alastair's smile disappears, his eyes fill with dark fury. "Pyggdrizaael!" The four-eyed creature comes to attention, eagerly licking its chops. "Dean, meet my pet, Pyggdrizaael. He is also affectionately known as 'One Who Eats The Excrement Of His Own Hindquarters'. Oh, my boy! Won't One Who Eats The Excrement Of His Own Hindquarters be most delighted to partake of yours!"

Dean tries to speak, but finds his throat is filling with boiling blood. The creature Pyggdrizaael is suddenly hovering over him, drooling, sniffing, licking its chops.

"Ah- ah- ah-!" Alastair warns. "Now don't you get too comfortable assuming it will only be Pyggdrizaael to keep you company down here. THIS IS HELL, SON! Oh no. I shall be returning forthwith. Next time we meet, I shall have my tools with me. Many, many fine tools. I'll then present unto you a fine proposition as well- A very fine proposition."

Dean manages to lift his right hand, and painfully arranging his digits, manages to whisper, "Yeah, well, proposition this!"

He's barely finished that sentence when his hand is crushed, the sudden pain causing him to cry out in agony from lungs he knew he realistically should not even have anymore.

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In the clearing beyond where trees bank the Vermillion River, the impending evening glints the ground with the colors of the setting sun. At the edge of the clearing, the young man digs a hole into the hard clay earth in front of a wooden cross. The mantis prays, then spreads its green tint of bat like wings, then flies away.