Chapter 3.

When in New York-walk, Dean thought, remembering the words of the faded copy of the New York guide that sat abandoned in the glove compartment. Walk whenever possible. Walking allows you to avoid the inevitable traffic jams that occur at all hours of the day.

The Impala nudged forward an inch, and then growled to a halt.

Take the subway. New York's subway is over 700-miles long and runs all day. Great , huh?

Dean switched on the ignition, heaving a heavy sigh of relief as the grid-lock in front of him roared to life,the yellow cab in front of him showing signs of promise as it jerked forward. Then it stopped. Again.
He cursed under his breath. I really hate New York.

Take the bus. It's slow. Real slow. But it's better than being stuck in the middle of Manhattan with Sammy who's acting like everything is just peachy, when you know ….when you know it isn't.

He patted the dash, his eyes still focused on the taxi in front of him. You and me forever, baby.

Peering out his window, Dean looked around at the block of cars that hemmed him in: UPS trucks, yellow cabs, sleek sedans, the faces behind the wheels looking just as depressed as he did. He was thankful for the sun that hid behind the too-tall, too-expensive luxury boutiques and designer shops that lined the sidewalk, his eyes getting a breather from its harsh yellow glare.

He switched off the ignition, sighing heavily as he did so. It looked like they were going to be here for a while.

The midget pine trees stretched down the smooth concrete -a world away from the cracked pavement outside their apartment building- thin slivers of green swaying overhead. Just a few feet away from the clogged street, well tended hedges sat delicately at the foot of pre-war architecture, while large mesh-like scaffolding clung to some buildings; men in plastic hats milling around underneath.

The Upper East Side, he thought. New York's Gold coast. Home of old money, high society and Madison Avenue. No demon hunters allowed.

Dean looked over at his brother again, his brows rising questioningly while he watched Sammy smile into his Blackberry.

"Yeah…Bobby," Sammy said, his voice both annoying and cheerful. "Yeah? Well you know how Dean feels about the subway..." he chuckled. "Yeah …yeah… and the bus."

Dean gripped the wheel even tighter, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the road. Ok, ok I'll play along for now. "We're not taking the bus, Sammy." he said, his voice taking on a mock chiding tone. "You and the other kids can see the Empire State building some other time."

Sam snorted and then laughed into the phone again. "I know… we should have taken a plane."

We're laughing, Dean thought. It's the damn apocalypse…the end of the world. And we're laughing. We must be nuts.

Let him alone, Dean. Bobby had said, his grizzly face looking a hundred years older. Let him deal with this his own way. Let him heal.

Yeah, we've done that before. See how well it turned out.

Sam nodded sharply, pushing his brown hair aside quickly, the lines on his forehead deepening. The smile was gone. "Uh…no….yeah…"

Dean looked back at his brother, feeling the worry twist inside him again. What now?

"Well...I'm okay. So is Dean." Sam glanced at him, catching his older brother's gaze. He turned away just as quickly. "We should be there soon, if we get through this traffic. Yeah, it's murder…"

Dean snorted. Even Bobby couldn't follow his own advice. He was also trying his best to figure out where Sam's head was at. No-one had ever been able to do that, not even Dad.

"Yeah, we'll be there soon…" Sam sighed, a sudden tired, despairing sound. "Yeah…well…we'll be there soon…"

Dean didn't shift his gaze, searching Sam's gaze for something. Anything. Maybe he's ready to talk now. Maybe…God knows I am…

He still remembered the shell-shocked look in his brother's face, the way he had to practically drag Sam out of that chapel; the day everything went wrong, wrong, wrong.

He'd searched for the large metal doorway like a mad man. It seemed to have disappeared in the searing white lights that enveloped the chapel, blinding him ; the blood pumping at his temples as Sam kept on repeating the words,' He's coming…He's coming …' over and over again.

"C'mon, Sammy! C'm…C'mon…" he'd yelled, yanking his brother along, feeling the cold waves of fear waft off his brother's frame. His own form trembled as he tore past halls of stone which shone white and hot, barely hearing Sammy's desperate strides behind him.

Then the lights went out.

And there was just silence.

A damned silence that echoed in the woods as they both jumped into the battered Datsun, following them while the car shook and groaned over rocks and hidden roots, tearing past trees and wild bushes.

You will stop it…

"Dean…c'mon…"

You're going to stop Lucifer…

"Dean… we're moving…"

God has left the building…

"DEAN!"

Dean felt his body jerk forward sharply, stopping himself just in time before knocking his head against the steering wheel. He turned to his brother, staring into Sam's wide-eyed look of surprise while loud honks piped behind and around them.

Did I black out?

"Dean…" Sam said, his brown eyes worried. "What's wrong?"

Dean rubbed the back of his head, shaking his head slightly. His heart thumped against his chest while the horns blared even louder. He looked over at Sam, something sinking inside him as he saw the hidden plea in his younger brother's eyes.

Say something, he thought angrily. We have to talk.

He looked back at the road.

Tonight. We'll talk tonight.

"Nothing," he muttered, his voice cold as he slotted the key into the ignition. He avoided Sam's gaze while he fixed his own on the yellow cab in front of him, the Impala purring past the traffic lights.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Becky rubbed at her eyes again; the fourth time in fifteen minutes while the computer screen flickered. A series of white boxes and pixilated lines filled the monitor's frame. She sighed. I'm so… exhausted.

She tapped at the keyboard again, her other hand reaching toward the table lamp switch, the white light hurting her eyes. There was no need for it anymore, the over head lights had been turned on.

She'd left their studio apartment before dark, showering and dressing in record time. She still remembered how her fingers trembled as they closed over the metal knob, closing the door softly behind her. She didn't want to wake Rachel up.

God knew her sister needed the rest.

These past few nights had been the worst.

Rachel was propped up in bed, three sodden pillows behind her. Her blonde hair matted to her forehead with sweat, her limbs thrashing.

"Becky…" she'd rasped, her hands gripping the sweat-drenched sheets. "Becky…I'm burning…help…"

She hurried to her older sister's side, and perch on the bed beside her. Her sister's head was hot. "Don't worry, Rachel," she said, feeling the tears run down her face. "I'm here…Becky's here…"

Rachel coughed, red mist spraying into the air and dotting the sheets. "Becky…don't…"

"Hush…" Becky said, cradling her sister's full face in her hands. She's so beautiful. Even now. "Don't say anything…okay…"

But Rachel pushed her hands away, her eyes wild while she struggled to get up. "You're not going to do it…" she persisted, trying to turn her face upwards. "I won't let you."

Becky's hands hung in mid-air, the familiar cold wrapping itself around her. She had to get Rachel back to sleep. And quickly. "You're delirious." She made as if to get up. "I'll get you some water."

The hand that gripped her wrist wasn't weak. It dug into her flesh, making her wince.

"Don't go to him, Becky." Her sister's eyes were pale blue, her breaths coming and going in desperate heaves, chapped lips trying to form words. "Don't let Dalzell make…make you do anything."

Becky looked at her sister, her lips trembling as she remembered the way she'd once been. The way her blond hair fell down in loose waves to her shoulders, the pleasant fullness of her v-shaped face, her blue eyes crinkling when she smiled. The way she'd hated her. This is my fault.

Rachel grasped her palm. Her grip was weakening. "Please…Becky…no more..." She coughed, a gurgling sound bubbling up in her throat; she was drowning in her own blood.

Give Dalzell another offering. Give it to him now..

And your sister will live

Rachel's eyes rolled upwards, her irises no longer visible. Her mouth was rounding into a shuddering 'O'. "I…I'm…cold."

Becky gripped her sister's face again, gagging as the foul stench of sweat and blood thrust itself up her nostrils. The cold wrapped itself around her again as she pulled at the covers, spreading it over her sister's quivering form.

"Don't worry, Rachel," she muttered, her sister's lids falling slowly. "I'll take care of everything. It's going to be fine." She waited for her sister's grunts to ease, her trembling hands to fall from hers.

Hesitating for a few more seconds, she took one last look at her sister and headed for their small kitchen. Making sure the door was shut tight behind her, she grabbed her silvery Nokia off the fridge and quickly dialed a series of numbers.

Her eyes could barely make out the red colors twirling on the screen in the darkness. All she could see was the guy with the brilliant smile who wouldn't stop flirting, his grey eyes teasing as he placed his phone number on her desk. Jonathan Spade...