5.

History is most often written by those with silver tongues. The proper turn of phrase has the power to calm warriors or inspire generations, to present the truth with poise. One thing Napoleon, John F. Kennedy and Théoden of Rohan had in common was their ability to make plain words seem extraordinary.

If a better wordsmith had the chance, he would have described the trip from Pontiac, Illinois to St. Louis, Missouri, a drive that should have taken three hours, to be a challenge.

Jimmy thought it might be hell. Actually, between the inexplicable traffic, aggressive driving and loud '80s metal, he was pretty sure it was. The brothers had an unspoken language of the road. Dean only had to tap his brother's shoulder for Sam to stop at the nearest pit stop while Sam could evoke a nostalgic chuckle with the faintest nod to a rundown roadside attraction. It made Jimmy feel as though he'd drifted in from the heavens to be their third wheel. He felt grateful when they finally exited the St. Louis Beltway and found a nearby Motel 6.

The motel's parking lines had faded years ago, so Sam parked the Impala on an approximation of where they should be. The pavement was old, cracked and pitted by years of sunlight and rough snow plows. He got out, stretched and went into the lobby to pay. After a moment of tenuous silence, Jimmy decided he'd rather pace the gritty asphalt than sit still.

Sam rented a single motel room with two beds and no kitchenette. Looking out the lobby's dusty window, he saw Dean and Jimmy arguing by the Impala. He hoped his brother wouldn't try to fight Jimmy for the bed. Dean's belligerence extended past small town cops to anyone who made him question his assumptions or place in the status quo, and he'd been grumbling about Jimmy Novak since they'd met. It took Sam a moment to recall the name for that: cognitive dissonance.

Sam grabbed the keys from the receptionist and picked up the pace back to the car. He arrived in time to hear Dean say something uncannily similar to "sucking choir buoy." His face was pallid. Jimmy's hair, which Sam had never seen anything less than perfectly combed since they'd met, was ruffled. Jimmy clenched his jaw. As Sam stopped between them he ran a hand through his hair and looked skyward as though praying for patience.

They unloaded their duffels and several bags of equipment from the trunk. Jimmy was adamant about carrying his own bag. God might send him prophetic visions, but reality told him not to trust Dean Winchester. It wasn't that he was a bad man. He was just reckless, brash, hostile and untrustworthy.

After a bit of bickering Sam let Dean carry something to feel useful. By all rights his brother should be wheeling around in a motorized wheelchair or be bedridden in a hospital. He was only on his feet by determination and spite.

Jimmy tucked his duffel bag beneath the bed closest to the door and sat in the stiff chair by the window. It was a clean motel room, but the curtains were decades old and the maroon carpet had gone threadbare in places. The chair's gold embroidery faded into the green fabric years ago and could use a wash or a replacement.

Sometimes Jimmy could intuit people's motives. It was an act of the soul that took deep-down prayer, but Jimmy couldn't remember the last time he'd gone a day without having something to pray about. Today it was serenity. He settled his heart, and when he opened his eyes again he watched the brothers with the removed focus of a peaceful mind.

Dean busied himself with setting up their work station. He hated inaction, the feeling of spinning wheels when they were on a case. He remembered every time someone died because they needed to do research. It made him angry, and the anger spurred him on because it wouldn't have happened if Dad was there.

Sam unpacked their clothes, folded them and put them in drawers. He didn't know how long they'd stay, but he liked having everything in its place. It reminded him of the life he had at Stanford, one he would have again. Once he healed Dean, once they found Dad, once they killed the demon he could go back. And maybe life could go on.

They operated like two sides of the same coin, one organized and methodical the other chaotic and passionate. On a better day Dean would be all action and vengeance. Now, he fumbled with the police scanner with clumsy fingers and the look of someone who hadn't slept in days. Jimmy sensed nothing beyond the realization that Dean was cold. He reached over and turned up the heat on the window radiator.

Dean saw Jimmy change the dial. He puzzled over it and said nothing.

The police scanner came on with a burst of static. The men crowded around the table and listened to incoming reports. They heard a 10-54 – suspected body, three 10-60s – suspicious persons, and a 211 – a robbery. Sam translated for Jimmy's benefit until Dean shushed him. Cops were talking to dispatch about a break-in at the Basilica. They bent closer to the radio.

" Dispatch, there's a shit ton of broken bone in that church, but the perp's long gone."

Dean sat back. "Now, I wonder what he could be talking about." He looked between Jimmy and Sam. "Looks like the witch got there first. If only we'd had a sense of urgency about doing our job, we could have stopped this."

Sam could hear the blame in his voice, the same tone their dad had used on Sam for years when he screwed up. It stung, but it also made him angry because Dean didn't understand. There wasn't supposed to be a job in St. Louis. They'd made it up.

He cursed under his breath then again, louder. Sam took three breaths, swore one more time and grabbed the car keys. He looked at Jimmy. "Looks like we're going to investigate."

Dean pulled himself to his feet. "I'm coming too."

"You're going to rest." Sam pointed to the bed.

Dean thought that answer was bullshit, but Sam glowered at him from the doorway until he sat on the bed. The mattress gave gently beneath him, softer than the couch at Jimmy's house. He laid back, arms outstretched, and shot Sam a petulant glare. But he had to admit the bed did pull the tension from his body.

He didn't hear the motel door close.

/A.H.O.F.\

Sam navigated St. Louis's maze of streets like a veteran, quickly finding the way to their destination. The cathedral soared above its neighborhood. The roof rose in an immense dome flanked by flying buttresses. On either side, imposing themselves on the skyline, two steeples stood guard. Sam thought you might be able to flag down a small airplane from the top of the right bell tower.

It was a beacon of God to man – or, at least it would have been if the building wasn't surrounded by police cars. Three sets of sirens flashed blue and red up the fronts steps, splashing neon lighting against the stone edifice.

Jimmy frowned. "Sam, I don't understand what we're doing here."

"We were coming here anyway, right?"

"I guess." Jimmy moved back as Sam leaned over him for the glove box.

Sam grabbed a tin, flipped it open and began sorting through a selection of fake IDs. A few had his photo on them, but most were Dean's. He'd been doing the job longer and had the RAP sheet. Finally, Sam found two he could use. He handed one to Jimmy.

"Isn't this a felony or something?" Jimmy studied the press pass. This was a terrible idea.

"Maybe impersonating an officer is," Sam said and held up his own. He smiled brightly.

Jimmy thought it was a good likeness of a smile, but it wasn't a smile. It was a non-smile, an empty expression that people would believe because Sam Winchester was a masterful liar. A chill went down Jimmy's spine. Not for the last time, he questioned his trust in the man.

They got out of the car. Sam began walking toward the sirens. Jimmy looked up and down the street, saw no one watching, and ran after him. "Sam, Sam, Sam! I- I don't think I can do this!"

Sam stopped. He clapped Jimmy on the arm. "I'll talk to the cops. All you need to do is talk to the witnesses. You've got this."

Jimmy almost believed him. It was tempting. The confident smile reassured him enough that he took three steps toward the gathered crowd before realizing he actually couldn't do this. He couldn't deliberately deceive someone for his own benefit. It was wrong.

He stopped and scratched the back of his head and thought. Someone else had gotten into the reliquary before them. They needed to figure out what happened here. On a mission this important, Jimmy didn't believe in coincidences.

He waded into the crowd, a milling pack of bodies just too close to walk comfortably. It was too hot, and he wished he hadn't brought his coat. He looked out of place. Jimmy felt flushed and his palms were damp. He slipped his fake ID into a pocket and wiped his hands against his coat.

A priest stood talking to a plain clothes detective. Jimmy headed over and tapped the man's shoulder. The priest turned. "Yes sir, how can I help you?"

Jimmy ruffled his hair. He couldn't remember the lie Sam had given him. So he said, "What happened?"

The priest shook his head. "Someone broke in before opening, thought they could gain something by smashing up the collection."

"Oh." Jimmy frowned. As Fr. David had explained it, all relics held a spark of the Miraculous. Some sparks could be accessed easier. Some held more power, according to the deeds of the saint, but it was all power against the forces of darkness. The thought of thousands of years of history and power turned to dust in a heartbeat disturbed him. "Did they take anything?"

"Near as I can tell, no." The man shook his head. A look of profound sadness crossed the priest's face. Jimmy knew his words wouldn't comfort the man his loss. The priest was a guardian, and today he'd lost his ward.

Jimmy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "It's going to be okay. The police will catch this guy. Evil doesn't prevail for long."

"You were here to visit the relics?"

Jimmy slid his hands into his pockets and looked up at the basilica. He had to marvel at the irony that the lie they'd told Dean was coming back to bite them. Falsehoods always bore poisoned fruit.

He told the man most of the truth, that he'd come to pray for a sick friend when he heard about John of God. The words poured out. The men discussed illness and how much time his friend had left. His brother wasn't taking it well, Jimmy found himself explaining, but remained hopeful. It was more than he'd meant to tell and definitely more than he should have said.

Then the priest said, "We keep that relic separate from the rest. If you can come back tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow?"

The priest smiled. "Sunday. Normal business hours."

That put a smile on Jimmy's face.

Jimmy looked for Sam and found him walking into the basilica. He spoke with several members of the crowd. No one else knew much, but the consensus was that the break-in was a shame and Fr. Minthorn was devastated. With his job done, Jimmy returned to the car and called Fr. David to see whether any other reliquaries had been damaged.

/A.H.O.F.\

Dean slept. He woke groggy and made coffee from the hotel supply in the bathroom. He sat on the counter while it brewed, his cheek resting against the cold mirror and his feet in the bathroom sink. The single-serving pot filled with muddy brown water. He poured himself a cup. It tasted horrible.

He fell asleep on the counter and slept fitfully. He dreamed that a witch had hidden hex bags in their room, but they couldn't find them. Sam gasped, stumbled. Dean reached for his brother but tripped over a prone Jimmy. Sammy was choking on blood. He pointed frantically to Jimmy's duffel bag, but Dean's fingers were too numb to open the zipper.

Dean woke with chest pain. His hands shook as he poured his cold coffee down the sink. He showered since he was already in the bathroom, but the steam made him lightheaded and he sat at the bottom of the tub until the water cooled.

He wrapped a terry cloth towel around his waist and stumbled back to bed. His head swam when he closed his eyes, like a bad case of the spins. He wanted to vomit.

Dean rolled onto his side, then pushed himself up until he sat against the headboard. A duffel bag poked out from beneath the other bed. Just a black cloth bag, tucked neatly away. Dean couldn't remember why, but it unsettled him.

Maybe it's because the bag's owner actually looked comfortable in a suit. Or, maybe it was because Jimmy seemed impervious to normal behavior. Or – and Dean like to think this more probable – it has to do with the innocent fucking bag hidden under his bed.

It occurred to Dean that it would suck to die and be found snooping through someone's stuff wearing only a towel. He paused to put on a pair of boxers. The room spun around him. For a split second he thought that was it - he was going down.

Pull yourself together, Winchester, he commanded himself. Dad drilled it into him as a kid, taught him to control fear. Don't let it get away from you, he'd said. This was no different. He had to believe it wasn't.

He breathed.

The spots disappeared.

Dean dragged the bag out and unzipped it. Most of the contents were terrifyingly normal – slacks, undershirts, flannel pants –but he felt something solid at the bottom. He pushed the clothes aside.

It was a leather-bound book small enough to be a prayer book and old enough to have been printed by Guttenberg. Dean opened it and read the introduction. The language was all wrong for a prayer missal. Even at first glance he could see some of the passages were incantations. This wasn't a book some Normal Guy from Illinois would hide in a suitcase.

Dean read on. In ancient typeface, the book spoke of witnesses who would set the world aflame with divine purpose, paving the way for the Host of Angels. The witnesses would be called forth in power to wage war against the darkness for the end times. They weren't hunters. They were warriors.

Definitely Not Normal, Dean thought. The book scared him, and not in the way that planes or people who "don't drink alcohol" scared him. Dean had been reading lore since he could read – hell, Dad started him off with Grimm's Fairy Tales – but he'd never seen lore that took the Apocalypse this seriously. Most accounts were humorous retellings of fanatics, but this book carried a sense of fate about it. He placed it in his nightstand drawer behind Dad's journal and the Gideon's Bible.

Knowing it was out of Jimmy's hands relieved Dean. Later, he would show the book to Sammy and see what he thought, but now he felt drained. He zipped the bag closed, stowed it back under the bed where Jimmy had left it and went to bed.

The police scanner woke him as its low static murmur gave way to a high squeal. In the distance, he could hear the shower running. He gathered his breath to shout but fluid rattled in his lungs.

"Sammy, noise – ow!" He groaned, coughed and tasted metal. He felt like he was suffocating. "Ow! Fuck me."

"I'm married," someone who was Not Sammy said.

Dean blinked, fully awake, and propped himself up on the pillows. Jimmy sat at the table with Sam's laptop open in front of him. He looked like a holy investment banker, but Dean had seen plenty of evil things wearing good disguises. Dean put his hand on the gun beneath his pillow; the cool press of the barrel reassured him.

Jimmy had several pages of notes spread in front of him but turned toward Dean. He tilted his head. "Are you okay, Dean?"

Dean felt sick and cold and hot all at the same time. His lungs hurt when he breathed, and he could feel the blood retreating from his toes. He forced a smile in the face of his enemy. "Peachy." The shower stopped. Dean glanced at the bathroom door. "Got any leads?"

Jimmy hesitated. He didn't know what Sam wanted to say – or if Sam had a plan – but he couldn't say nothing. He just didn't know what to say. "They keep this relic separate from the others," he said finally.

Dean's eyebrows rose. If the relic was separate, they could nab it before the witch showed up. Maybe they could even catch the sonofabitch. "So it might still be there?"

Jimmy could see the wheels turning in Dean's head and knew he'd set something in motion that couldn't be undone. He wanted to kick himself for speaking. Reluctantly, he nodded. "I've got an appointment for tomorrow."

"But you know we're going tonight, right?" Dean said. The bathroom door opened and Sammy emerged wearing jeans and a baggy t-shirt, his shaggy brown hair dripping. "Sam, tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"That' we're going back there tonight."

"Oh." Sam gave Jimmy an apologetic look. "Yeah, we kinda have to."

Jimmy paled. "What about the police? Won't someone be watching the place? And – and we can't just break inand steal from a church!"

Dean rolled his eyes; they'd done it before. He started to speak but Sam cut him off. "We can wait until tomorrow, but whoever smashed that place up won't." Sam paused. He forced himself not to look at Dean. "I can't – we can't risk that."

Sam's face was still, even mournful, Jimmy thought. Sam didn't say the obvious - that they'd been planning on stealing the relic all along - but a shadow passed behind his eyes that Jimmy couldn't miss. It put a bad taste in his mouth.

It occurred to Jimmy that he didn't really know either man. He'd trusted a dream to be prophecy so he could feel important. Now he was hundreds of miles from home with two strangers, bound to a plan that was illegal at best. At worst, it was a horrible trick that would end with his body lying on the floor. His heart began to beat a little faster.

Jimmy turned back to the laptop. "I'll keep looking for the witch, I guess."

Dean scoffed silently and gestured toward Jimmy's back, a crude form of Can you believe this guy? Dean couldn't. He doubted the man knew what a witch looked like, let alone how to survive if one attacked.

Despite Dean's best efforts to convince Jimmy to take a break, the dude wouldn't budge. He was busy, he said, looking for similar robberies or desecrations. Dean wished he would get up for fresh air or a stretch or even a piss. Dean wanted to show Sam the book and warn him about his new hunting buddy.

The sooner Sam came to his senses the better. Jimmy wasn't family. He was a stranger, and trusting a man who believed in angels and the Apocalypse-with-a-capital-A could get them both killed. Hell, he could be the job.

They ordered takeout to the room and ate quietly in sweltering heat. After dinner, Dean wrapped a blanket around himself and watched X-Files reruns with the volume muted. Jimmy finally removed his sweat-soaked oxford shirt and began scouring news articles in his undershirt. Sam watched the TV for a bit before he stretched out with a wet cloth on his forehead and slept.

They waited until after midnight before driving to the job. The unlit church shadowed the street, its stone mass rising tall against the light pollution. When they got out of the car, the streets were empty. A cat yowled in the distance.

The brothers argued, going back and forth about who was the better locksmith until Jimmy intervened. They unloaded some gear from the trunk. In the end Dean, refusing to let Sam find himself in a dark corner with Jimmy, accompanied them.

Sam had scouted the entrances earlier while investigating the crime scene. The church's main doors were heavy slabs of wood exposed to the street and barred from the inside. He skirted the others around street security cameras to the side of the building and down a set of chipped concrete stairs. Windswept street debris built up in the landing at the bottom, but the door could be picked.

Dean brushed past Jimmy and took the lead. He tripped over a plastic bottle almost immediately. Dean went down without his customary round of curses. He stayed down.

"Dean?" Sam rushed down the stairs, but Jimmy had gotten there first.

"Anything broken?" Jimmy prodded Dean's limbs and torso. His heartbeat was erratic, his skin clammy. Bringing him was a terrible idea.

"My fucking dignity," Dean growled. "Get off."

"This is a terrible idea," Sam muttered as Jimmy helped Dean up. Dean swayed on his feet. Sam expected his brother to keel over here and now, but his brother righted himself.

It took Dean three times longer than usual to get the lock. He told himself it was because he had two people breathing down his neck but knew better. It was hard to concentrate with his head spinning and his fingers going clumsy on him.

Finally, the door clicked open. Dean straightened and leaned against the door frame to catch his breath. When he was ready he nodded to Sam. Sam snapped to attention, flashlight raised, and pushed through the door. A step behind him, Dean brought up his pistol and followed.

Jimmy stayed in the doorway until they cleared the church hall, the mausoleum and the reliquary. He stuck well behind the brothers as they swept up the stairs in silence broken only by Dean's labored breathing. They moved from the stairs to the narthex and from there into the nave and up the main aisle toward the altar, only stopping when they'd checked every shadow.

"You brought a gun?" Jimmy said, joining the hunters. He didn't know why he found it so unexpected, but hearing about the hunt and witnessing it were two different things. Jimmy looked between the brothers.

Dean rolled his eyes. Where did Sammy find this guy, again? "Uh, yeah, Dick Tracy. I did."

"Dean, it's a church. Nothing's going to happen here," Sam whispered although he had a pistol tucked in his waistband. His voice carried through the expansive building. He suppressed a wince.

Dean sighed. Sammy's biggest fault was naivety. Being armed was the first rule of hunting. He didn't want to know what his little brother would do once he was gone. Dean curled his fingers into a hook and took a swing at his little brother. "What about the sorority girls? Father Hook Hands?"

Sam dodged the attack easily. He grabbed Dean's arm and pivoted, using the man's momentum to swing him into a pew. His brother landed heavily, laden pockets thunking loudly off the wooden seat. Sam didn't want to know what was in them.

"Stay," he said.

Winded, Dean did as he was told.

Their footsteps echoed off the stone as Sam and Jimmy took the three steps up to the altar platform. Smooth marble tiles the color of moonlight extended before them to the eastern wall, checked only by the draped altar. Jimmy crossed himself and turned his flashlight to the floor, moving with purpose.

Sam turned in a circle, scanning the area. "Okay, what are we looking for, exactly?"

Jimmy pointed to the floor. "Every church has a relic." He dropped to his knees and felt along the floor tiles. "Usually they're buried beneath - or close to - the altar."

Sam followed the grouting lines, testing each tile for give. The cathedral floor felt cool beneath his palms. Although Sam had lost count of the number of buildings he'd broken into over the years, this was the first one to make him uncomfortable. He worked quickly in the empty silence.

Jimmy stood and stretched before Sam could finish.

"Did you find anything?" Sam asked.

Jimmy shook his head. He gestured toward the altar with his chin. "It might've been built into that."

Sam hopped to his feet. He regarded the altar for a long moment before turning to Jimmy. The anxiety he'd felt since entering the building redoubled. Sam licked his lips, fighting back a nervous gulp. "Are you sure?" His voice sounded less confident than he'd hoped.

Jimmy shrugged, a frown creasing his forehead and turning down the corners of his mouth. "We could just… check to see," he said without real conviction.

The altar table was veined marble polished smooth by expert craftsmanship. As Sam approached, his boot crunched on loose stone. His stomach dropped. Mouthing a silent prayer, he flipped aside the altar cloth. The marble beneath was cratered as though a small explosion had blasted the stone apart. The relic was gone.

They were too late.

"Don't move!" said a man's voice from the dark.

Sam spun, flashlight in hand, but the man's voice carried in the open cathedral and Sam couldn't pinpoint his location. A shotgun cocked in the darkness. Sam stilled.

"I've called the police," the voice shouted.

"Sam?" Jimmy whispered. He'd frozen mid-stride and now stood, trying to gesture toward the pews with his eyes. Sam looked. Dean was gone.

Sam cursed under his breath before remembering where he was. He muttered an apology and scanned the empty church. Dean was nowhere to be seen, which didn't surprise him in the least.

"You can just let us leave," he called to the rear of the building, hoping Dean would stay quiet and let him diffuse the situation. "We're not armed."

Sam heard a small scuffle somewhere to his right. "Speak for yourself, Sammy!"

His brother never listened. Sam reached out, wasting no time as he pulled Jimmy to the floor by the belt of his trench coat. A gun went off, the bullet cracking the stone mere feet away. Stone bits peppered them. Jimmy cried out and covered his head.

There was no second gunshot. After a minute, Sam scrambled to his feet on the tiled marble and ran in the direction of the shot. A man in black marched into view with his hands over his head and his jaw set in anger. A priest.

Sam shouted for Jimmy to help and brushed past the priest, a rail thin and shaking older man. He found Dean leaning against a pillar, eyes closed. His brother was breathing hard, his jaw clenched in a grimace. Dean still held his pistol, but his hands were shaking.

Sam stepped over a shotgun on the floor. He put his arm around Dean, plucked the gun from his hands and slid it into his jacket pocket just as Dean's knees buckled.

"I got you." Sam helped his brother back to the front pew.

"Sammy, I gotta tell you-" Dean's breath came in harsh, rattling gasps. He gripped Sam's arm when his brother tried to pull away. "Jimmy!"

"Dean, it's fine. Jimmy's fine," Sam said, although he wasn't sure it would be. Jimmy couldn't maintain control over the situation for long, and if the priest didn't recognize him from earlier, the police he'd called would certainly recognize Sam. Either that or the real enemy would return and kill them all.

"He's not –" Dean's voice faltered as black spots swarmed across his vision. He felt himself fading. This could be his only chance to warn Sammy. "In my - book," he managed.

"Dean. Later." Sam turned his brother onto his side. Dean groaned, but his grip loosened as darkness rushed over him. Sam stood.

The priest stared. His heart began to beat faster, adrenaline pumping as he recognized the man lying on the bench. He remembered seeing the face on the news, remembered praying so hard in the face of human cruelty that he almost wept. And here was the dead man now. Alive. In his church, defying nature.

How was this man here? How did he know where to find a high relic? The priest backed away, horror creeping up his spine as the only answer rang between his ears. Demons.

"Impossible." He shook his head. He bumped into one of the men and turned, eyes wide. The man looked at him, head cocked in query, and the priest recognized this one as well from earlier that day. He swayed on his feet, the shock threatening to knock him over.

"Are you okay, Father?" Jimmy asked.

The priest shook his head clear. He pointed past Jimmy and Sam to the man on the bench. "He's a demon."

Sam put a hand over his brother's mouth to be sure. "No, he's -" he began then stopped as the priest's expression of terror intensified. Sam remembered where they were. St. Louis.

He held out his hands and stepped between the priest and Dean, trying to switch gears. "You know what? This is just a big misunderstanding, and I'm sure-"

"He's a murderer!" The priest said, looking from Sam to Jimmy. "And he died. I saw it on the news."

Jimmy turned to Sam, his blue eyes wide. "What's going on?"

"Total misunderstanding," Sam said. He laughed nervously, and Jimmy could tell it wasn't a misunderstanding.

"Sam-"

"Look, we're just here to make sure no one steals the relic," Sam said to the priest, speaking over Jimmy.

Jimmy watched as Sam Winchester backtracked on his story with another lie. He had a curious ability to deceive that didn't match his innocent face. The man was tapped into a lava flow, but there was building magma hidden beneath the mountain; the volcano would erupt with time. He had the potential for real evil inside him.

The priest looked to the altar, its stone broken open. His indignation soared. "What've you done? What have you done?"

His fear and outrage were real. Sam had lied about Dean. He had called him worthy to Jimmy's face. He'd begged for help. Jimmy gave aid where he was called to, but the priest wasn't lying when he spoke about Dean. Jimmy could see it through Sam's deception, and it scared him. What didn't he know about Dean Winchester?

Sam kept his hands raised. "Okay, someone got here first. But we tried."

"You think I'm going to believe that?" The priest started toward the broken altar.

Sam's pulled the gun from his waistband before the priest moved two steps. He leveled it at the man, stepped back and squared himself with the target. Dad had trained him well – too well.

"We'll be leaving now, but I wouldn't move until we're gone. Got it?" Sam knew he was going to Hell for this. He wasn't exactly sure what to do now that someone had beaten him to the relic and destroyed Dean's last chance. He was desperate.

Sam backed away, his gun drawn. "Jimmy, c'mon."

Jimmy hesitated, caught between a criminal record and two dangerously desperate men. He'd had reservations before, but the priest said Dean was a murderer. Divine will or not, he hadn't signed up to help killers. He shook his head. "No."

Sam stopped, disbelief spread on his face. Jimmy thought it might even be sincere.

"I need your help." Sam pinched his lips tight. Anger boiled up from deep within him at the betrayal. He wanted to scream, to lash out – but his voice never wavered. "You know weneed your help."

"I – I don't know anything about you," Jimmy said, watching the pistol carefully. He could read the gun's intentions better than he could interpret Sam's face. He gestured toward Dean. "I don't know who he is, either."

Sam thought he could hear sirens in the distance, but he might be imagining them. He tried pulling Dean upright, but his brother's limp body slumped over. Pink foam frothed between his lips.

Wake up, wake up! Sam pleaded silently. But of course, Dean couldn't. Because this entire job was a disaster and having his brother capable of walking would be too much to ask.

Sam heaved Dean up and slung him over his shoulder. His brother coughed into the back of his shirt. The dead weight staggered him but took a step and righted himself with a grimace.

"Don't follow me," he said, hoping the words were convincing. Neither Jimmy nor the priest moved. Sam waved the gun halfheartedly in their direction as he retreated down the center aisle.

No one pursued him. Sam unbolted the front doors and carried his brother down the front steps to the Impala. He heaved Dean into the front seat and buckled his seatbelt, got behind the wheel and drove to the motel. It was only when he arrived that Sam realized he'd made a stupid move; if Jimmy told the police anything, they would swarm the lot within minutes.

He left Dean in the car and went inside. The heater was still blowing hot air. He turned it off and surveyed the room. The beds were messy. Dean had left his towel draped over his headboard and a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Stacks of paper covered the table and walls on the western side. The research could be useful and Sam didn't want a paper trail. He ripped the clippings down, stacked the paper in organized piles and stuffed them into bags.

He packed their clothes into duffels. Sam hated packing so quickly. Each time they skipped town it reminded him of their hectic childhood – of The Life. He'd put it behind him with Jess, but it seemed that once you were a hunter you couldn't have a home. Sometimes Sam questioned his routine and whether he should unpack at all. This was one of those times.

He left the duffels by the door, shoved his laptop and charger into the computer bag and went to the bathroom. Someone had made coffee and left the cup. Sam couldn't risk that it had been Jimmy's paper cup. He grabbed the plastic bag from the trash bin and tossed the cup inside. The bathtub would be clean, he knew; Sam checked the drain for trapped hairs after every shower.

Whenever the brothers stayed at a motel they made sure to clean up after themselves. Dad drilled it into them as kids until they could break down a command station and move on a moment's notice. Sam found and disregarded Jimmy's bag; the man might need it if he ever returned. He stowed the duffels, the trash bag and his computer bag in the trunk and checked his watch.

The first sweep had taken ten minutes when it should have taken six.

Sam returned to the room for a final check. He'd had learned this trick the hard way after he'd forgotten a lore book at a dive in Omaha. Dad backtracked hours for the book, but it was gone by the time they returned, swallowed up into the waste stream. It had been Bobby's. Dean tried to cover for Sam, but their dad knew it was a lie and punished them both. The moral of the story was this: check the nightstand.

The extra time was worth is once he opened the stand beside Dean's bed. When he removed Dad's journal Sam found an older book hidden behind it. The book bore cryptic gold lettering and worn edges. It definitely didn't belong next to a Gideon's Bible. Who else but Dean would know he'd check here?

Sam grabbed the book and turned it over, his haste momentarily forgotten. His skin prickled. He examined the outside cover for clues as to where Dean got it but found none. Curious. His hands itched. Sam rubbed his palm against the thigh of his jeans and opened the book.

The paper was in good condition despite the book's age. The letters were written in large archaic letters, but Sam couldn't make out the wording. His eyes watered, stinging as though he'd wiped pepper sauce in his eyes. I shouldn't be reading this, Sam thought, suddenly convinced that he was allergic to the book.

Pain lanced through his hands. Sam dropped the book and stuck his fingers in his mouth. The book landed face down on the floor with a soft thud. It looked harmless, but Sam thought it might hurt him if he touched it again. He wrapped a pillowcase around it before bringing it to the car. He felt like a child who just learned not to touch hot pans without potholders.

Dean was asleep – if you could medically call it that. The shallow breaths he did take were wet with fluid buildup, and his fingers were beginning to swell. Dean's silver talisman ring was cutting into his skin. Sam wriggled the ring off his brother's finger, slipped it into his pocket and slid the Impala into gear.

He wasn't sure where he was going, but it had to be better than here.