Chapter 6

Sam pushed through the door and carried his brother into the Emergency Room. A mother with two crying children and an old man with a rattling cough stepped aside, letting them pass. Sam knocked on the window at the admission desk, startling the nurse. The woman's jaw dropped.

"He won't wake up," Sam pleaded.

The rest was a blur. Two nurses helped Sam place Dean onto a gurney. They wheeled him through the double doors while one of them began administering oxygen. Sam followed, trying to fill in the details, until a short nurse with a towering bun put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. He watched as his brother disappeared down the hall.

When Bobby arrived at the hospital mid-morning, Sam was waiting in the cardiac care wing. He had a clipboard in his lap stacked with unfinished paperwork and a cup of tepid black coffee in his hands. A second, cold coffee sat on the table beside him. Seeing Bobby, he abandoned his seat. His shoulders shook as he hugged his uncle.

"I'm here, kiddo. I made it." Bobby patted Sam's back and tried not to think of how the kid smelled like two day old sweat and bad coffee. "How is he?"

"They won't let me see him yet."

Bobby held Sam out at arm's length. He looked wan in the hospital lighting, as if the last few days had drained his vitality. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. The shadows beneath his eyes gave him a haunted look.

"And how are you?"

Sam shrugged and returned to his seat. He cleared his throat, a little tic he had when trying to change the subject. "Paperwork. And I'm still working the case."

Bobby sat beside him. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let me worry about insurance forms. Why don't you get –"

"I'm not leaving until I see my brother," Sam said, eyes fixed on the medical forms on his lap. The pages were still blank. He wiped the gathering tears from his eyes. "I'm not."

Bobby plucked the pen and clipboard from Sam's grasp. "Then go get some casework from the car."

He didn't add that he hoped the fresh air would clear Sam's head. How long had the kid been awake? Bobby thought he must be running on fumes and cafeteria coffee, but the human body wasn't made to last long without sleep. He was crashing. Hard.

/A.H.O.F.\

The doctors let them in 20 minutes later. Dean's bed was adjusted to an almost upright position. An oxygen face mask obscured most of his face, the tubes snaking through the bed's guardrails to a monitoring station. He was barely visible beneath the hospital gown and blankets.

If he was awake he'd find the gown humiliating, Sam thought with a chuckle.

Bobby snorted. "Hospital gown?"

Sam nodded. He was tired and his head hurt, and now he wanted to laugh. "Catches the breeze."

Bobby took a seat in the closest bedside chair. He squeezed Dean's hand and whispered a few words Sam couldn't hear. Then he turned on Sam and narrowed his eyes.

"Say hasta luego to your brother, Sam. I don't want to see you in this room 'til you've caught a couple hours." He tossed Sam a motel key with Stampede Corral carved into a leather ornament.

Sam thought he recognized the name; they'd passed it on the way in. He opened his mouth to argue but recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Bobby's jaw was set.

"I'm leaving my phone on," he said.

Bobby rolled his eyes and shooed him away.

Sam had no intention of sleeping as he drove to the motel, but Bobby wouldn't tolerate him returning for at least three more hours; he might as well make use of the time. He dropped his backpack and duffel bag on the solitary bed and made straight for the bathroom. Once he'd showered and changed, he sat in the middle of the bed and spread his research in front of him.

His eyes were dry and his head pounded. Sam shook off the sleep and continued sorting through Jimmy's printouts, but he couldn't see the pattern. His eyes drooped, and then his head hit the pillow.

He slept longer than he meant to but didn't rest. Fragmented dreams intruded into his sleep, waking him every few minutes. In one, he watched a hole open up and swallow an entire city block, leaving only a black void in its wake. He dreamed that he rode a spinning compass that couldn't find true north. When he looked around him, Sam saw that a menagerie of carousel animals rose and fell. He watched, confusion turning to horror, as each animal crumbled into broken stone and dust and spilled across the floor. He'd seen this before in the St. Louis reliquary.

Sam opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. A phone was ringing. He sat up with a jolt of panic, grabbed for his cell phone in his old pants pocket and flipped it open. It was 6 p.m.

"What's wrong?"

"Just makin' sure you're alive," said Bobby from the hospital room. "Dean was awake for a few minutes. Thought you'd wanna know."

Sam was already pulling on his shoes. He tripped over a shoelace but righted himself with a loud curse. He pulled his papers into an untidy stack and shoved them into his backpack. The black bag bulged. "I'm on my way."

/A.H.O.F.\

Dean was asleep again by the time Sam arrived, but Sam was glad to see that his chest rose and fell evenly now. A bit of color had returned to his cheeks – not enough to look healthy, but just enough to look alive. Sam sat down, his back to the window. He folded his hands and pressed them between his knees.

"Nurse came in to flex his legs," Jimmy said. "She said it helps keep the blood flowing."

Sam nodded. Dean's hands were swollen with edema. It happened when fluid began settling, sinking out of circulation to gather in the extremities. He didn't doubt that, beneath the hospital socks, Dean's legs looked just as bad.

Bobby brought food from the cafeteria. He handed Sam a cold deli sandwich and kept the tuna melt for himself. Sam ate without tasting. All things considered, it wasn't the worst family dinner he'd had.

When his uncle left to sleep, Sam stayed behind. Night crept into the room, drawing a chill behind it. Sam tucked the blankets tighter around his big brother. Dean could be a real baby about the cold.

After two hours he wished he'd slept; his afternoon nap had left him feeling, if possible, worse than before. He got up for a coffee, then another. Stifling a yawn, Sam shouldered his backpack and tip-toed into the hall. He closed the door behind him and walked a slow circuit of the building, studying every doorway decoration and beeping monitor.

When he returned, Dean's door stood ajar. Sam pressed his back against the wall and peered in. The room was dark, but light spilled in from the hallway. A man stood at the foot of Dean's bed, silhouetted against the green monitor screens. Sam's skin prickled. Regretting the decision not to carry his gun on hospital grounds, he pushed the door open and reached for his knife.

The figure turned, and Sam stopped short. "Jimmy?"

"Sam." Jimmy didn't smile. He stood, stoic, like a statue carved to a human resemblance. "I believe you have something of mine."

"I don't know-" Sam's skin prickled at the realization. If Jimmy owned the grimoire, he would want it back. "The book. Of course it's yours."

His eyes searched the room for other intruders or traps. Common sense told him to run, to get as far away from this man as he could. It screamed that Jimmy was dangerous beneath his benign exterior – maybe even enough to harm Sam or the patients.

Sam stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He slung the backpack off his shoulder and opened it. The book was still tucked away in the pillowcase he'd wrapped around it in St. Louis. He removed the bundle and tossed it onto the bed between Dean's feet. A dull ache in the back of his head disappeared.

"It doesn't like me anyway," Sam said.

Jimmy didn't crack a smile. "It's not meant for you." He picked up the bundle and began to unwrap it. Sam winced as the pain returned. The man raised an eyebrow but took the cue and slipped the book into his coat pocket.

"How did you find us?"

Jimmy snorted. "Dean Van Halen? Seriously?"

Sam bristled at the insult. They'd used weirder names. "You have a cursed book."

"It's not cursed," Jimmy said. His fingers skimmed Dean's arm and found the skin cool. He looked up, his eyes fierce. "And he had no right to take it, Sam. None!"

Sam edged closer. If he'd just given Jimmy a book of dangerous magic, he wanted to make sure the man didn't use it to smite him and his brother. "So what is it?"

"A gift." Jimmy looked between the two brothers. He sighed. "Fate keeps bringing back – no matter how fast I run."

Sam shifted on his feed, uncomfortable with the insinuation. "So now you want back in? You're going to help me hunt this witch – just like that?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I don't trust you."

"Good." Sam crossed his arms. "I don't trust you either."

Sam thought they'd reached an impasse, but then Jimmy sat in one of the chairs. The older man ran a hand through his hair. "I don't trust you, but I'm … responsible for the outcome." He rubbed the back of his neck distractedly, as if worrying out a knot. "And I've got something you need to hear."

Sam took Bobby's empty seat by the window. The chair was low, but Sam could look out over Dean's bed at Jimmy Novak. Days ago he'd been sure that the man now sitting before him held the answer, that he could perform a miracle. Now, he sat in a hospital waiting for his brother to die because he'd put his faith where it didn't belong.

"Pardon me if I don't buy it," he said.

Jimmy sat forward abruptly. "I did nothing but help you! I fed you. I sheltered you in my house with my family. You stole from me. I came back to help you when all reason said you might kill me where I stood, and you have the nerve to call me untrustworthy?" He took a deep breath and continued in a lower voice. "I'm here, so show me some respect."

Sam's temper flared like it always did when someone patronized him. It made his blood boil. He clenched his jaw and looked away before he could say anything stupid. His brother's heartbeat crossed the computer screen.

Dean's monitors beeped regularly. Dean had woken up earlier that evening, long enough to complain to Bobby and ask where Sam was. The question seemed to tire him, however, and even though the nurses didn't say it, Sam knew they would move Dean to hospice soon. Sam didn't want to wait by his brother's deathbed.

"What've you got?"

Jimmy played the recording. "Hi James, I received your message yesterday. It took some time to look into, but I found something interesting. There weren't any more desecrations… per say. A friend of mine in San Jose says a powerful agimat disappeared from the local temple. And a talismanic scroll is missing from the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Could be nothing – could be everything. Pray on it. Stay safe."

When it finished, Sam motioned and Jimmy repeated the message. This time, Sam took notes.

"What's an agimat?"

"It's a kind of talisman-" Sam saw the look on Jimmy's face and paused. He dug through his bag, tossed a sheaf of paper haphazardly across the bed and removed an old, leatherbound book. He flipped halfway through. "It's 'a piece of metal, cloth, wood or bone inscribed with power symbols. The symbols help infuse the object with power, usually directed at a specific purpose. Most commonly worn as pendants, agimats can be worn as bracelets, embedded beneath the skin or –' ew, that's disgusting."

"What is?"

Sam handed it over. "You aren't reading this," he said, glancing at his brother. Dean's eyes stayed closed, and for once Sam was glad. Dean would kick his ass if he knew Sam let a stranger read Dad's journal.

Jimmy picked up where Sam had left off. "'- or consumed from an exhumed-' I didn't need to know that." He slammed the journal shut, regretting his curiosity.

Sam chuckled. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be horrified by his life. Jimmy helped keep things in perspective. It was nice to have him around.

"So it's similar to the Miraculous?" Jimmy said after a moment.

"Except that agimat power varies depending on the power sigils, yeah," Sam said, forcing back a yawn. "It's old school, strong – like scrolls."

"If they're all power vessels, why would someone need three?"

The gears in Sam's brain were sleep-crusted. The answer didn't come immediately. While the number three held symbolic power, it wasn't really used in spells. Four, six and 10 were more common. Three… Sam didn't know why they'd need three.

He pulled out his phone and called Bobby, expecting a long wait. His uncle answered on the first ring and announced he would be there in 10 minutes.

He arrived in eight, pushing through the door with a laptop bag. Seeing Jimmy, he stopped short. "What the hell?"

Jimmy stiffened. "Not Hell. I fight on Heaven's side."

Bobby turned to Sam, eyebrows raised. Sam shrugged, too tired to explain, and Bobby pulled a seat over from the corner. He flipped open his laptop. "I got two other thefts like you boys found in St. Louis-"

"Already on it, Bobby," Sam said. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

Bobby looked up. "How'd you-"

Sam gestured to Jimmy, who smiled. "Meet my research assistant, Jimmy Novak."

"A pleasure." Bobby didn't look pleased.

"We just can't figure what they want with three talismans," Sam said.

"It's a triquetra, ya idjit. If you got any sleep like I told ya, you'd have figured it out by now."

"Can we track it?" asked Jimmy.

The triquetra was a version of the trinity: a holy symbol. Bobby knew it wouldn't be used arbitrarily; it held too much power. Laid out across a spell circle, it would make any ritual performed in its nexus exponentially stronger. All three talismans needed to be charged and, as far as Bobby knew, two already were. But there was no way to track it geographically. He shook his head.

"We look for coven activity. Could be anywhere."

"It's nearby," Sam said with certainty. He thought of his dreams, which always seemed to end in Kansas City. Earlier, while walking the corridors, he'd seen the crowned stadium from his vision and recognized it as Royals Stadium. Whatever happened, it would be in this city.

"Like that changes anything? We look for covens around the city." He turned to Jimmy. "I assume you know the signs?"

Jimmy swallowed. "You said 'coven,' as in there's more than one?"

"What kind of research did you say he does?" Bobby said with a jerk of his thumb.

"It varies."

While Bobby used his laptop to crack into old police records, Jimmy and Sam looked through the remaining printouts for leads. It seemed to Sam that Jimmy had printed anything and everything out of the ordinary he found. Sam skimmed through reports on everything from failed crops to traffic light malfunctions in a 300-mile radius.

The work was – and Sam hated to say this – boring. The others plugged along. Jimmy frowned, comparing two articles to each other. Bobby jotted down a note from his findings. Sam thought about fetching them another round of coffee when his head nodded. He fell asleep sitting up.

/A.H.O.F.\

Dimly, Sam became aware of the pain. It started as an ache and spread, radiating through his skull. With a groan, he rolled away from the source – and twisted out of a bedside chair.

The brief fall woke Sam and startled Jimmy, who jumped. A paper cup of hospital coffee balanced on his knee tumbled to the floor with a hollow toc!

The pain in Sam's skull stilled. He was still in Dean's hospital room. Sam returned to his seat, rubbing his temples, and watched as Jimmy set his prayer book down and began mopping up the spreading spill.

At the foot of the bed, Bobby had fallen asleep over his laptop. He'd written pages of notes before passing out, though. Sam wondered how far he'd gotten in deciphering the coven's plans.

"Corruption spell – we think," said Jimmy from the floor, answering Sam's unasked question. He tossed a clump of sodden napkins into the trash bin with a sigh. "But we can't figure out what they're corrupting."

"But you know where?"

Bobby grunted. "Don't run your damn fool head into a grave just to beat your brother." His voice was a deep rumble. He sat up, and his entire body seemed to crackle as he stretched. "I've been reading lore –"

"I thought you were sleeping," Sam interjected.

Bobby glared. "- and using these kind of talismans to work dark magic takes some serious juice. You need to be ready. If you bust in there with a jug of salt thinking it'll do anything, you'll be dead too fast for a reaper to give you last rites."

"But you do know where." Sam could feel his anger rising, pressing its way into him. Its intensity scared him; he'd spent years learning how to keep his darker feelings in check. What was the point if he failed now?

"First, we eat."

"We don't have time!" Sam's voice rose to a near-shout as his temper won out. "My brother doesn't have time!"

"It's six o'clock in the morning, boy. We've got nothing but time."

Sam scowled, but Jimmy had to agree with the grizzly man. He had real smarts about this stuff – book knowledge out of hand and experience. And, Jimmy noted as they packed up their night's research, he commanded respect. Although Sam grumbled, he would comply without real argument. His willingness to listen suggested familiarity usually reserved for family.

They ate pancakes, powdered eggs and cold bacon. Bobby refused to talk business at the breakfast table, so they ate in silence, each man absorbed in his own thoughts.

After finishing his plate, Jimmy excused himself and called home. Amelia answered, her voice tired but sweet, and Jimmy heard Claire making breakfast in the background. He felt himself smile. It felt good to hear them, to know life continued beyond the pull danger. He talked with them for a few minutes, promised to call in the evening, and returned to the table.

Bobby slid a slip of paper across the table. Sam read it. "Jade root, crushed spindleweed … you want me to go shopping?"

"I want you to stop sitting around waiting for the end," Bobby said, standing up with his tray. "But I also want you to get the job done right." He stalked away.

Sam thought about it. The case had too many open questions, like what the coven was up to. If he was working the job with Dean, Sam would pick Bobby's side. They shouldn't go on the offensive without all the facts. That was Dean's style. He liked to crash in, guns blazing, dispensing vengeance – or, as he cheerfully called it, justice.

Sam had no similar illusions about his motives. He knew Dean never forgave the world for killing his mom. Now, under threat of losing his brother, Sam was walking in Dean's footsteps. Vengeance didn't look so bad. He'd lost his mom and his girlfriend. He couldn't let his brother die, too. Sam would rather die himself than let that happen.

Sam wanted to save his brother but couldn't bear to leave his side. Jimmy understood the kid's sentiment. When Jimmy's mom had been in the hospital he'd been terrified that she would die while he was asleep or running errands. But having real hope was making Sam reckless. He didn't have himself together; he was unbalanced, unraveling without his brother.

Sam needed help, Jimmy realized. His stomach sank. He didn't want risk his life out in the field when he had a family to protect at home.

"The ingredients are for protection charms," Jimmy offered. "Your uncle showed me how to make them."

Sam kept his voice low. "Do you really know where the coven's hiding out?"

Jimmy nodded. He leaned in over the table, conspiratorially. "There were all kinds of signs. The place is kinda like a homing beacon."

Sam thought of the brute force used in St. Louis. The witch could've used a simpler spell but opted for power over precision. The coven was effective but sloppy. Finally, something was going right for them. He smiled.

/A.H.O.F.\

When Jimmy found himself riding shotgun in Sam's car half an hour later, he couldn't deny he'd seen it coming. While part of him drew the line at offering advice, a quiet voice within whispered that words were not always enough. He should've known better than to doubt the answers he received in prayerful stillness. The angel on his shoulder was never wrong.

Sam called the hospital three times that morning, each time receiving the same reply. No, his brother had not woken again. He worried distractedly whether he'd ever get to talk to Dean again. Once the thought would have appealed to him – Dean got irritatingly talkative just when Sam thought he was falling asleep – but today it left a hollow pit in his gut.

It took most of the morning to drive around the city fetching all the ingredients. Once everything was in hand, Sam pulled into the empty parking lot behind a barbeque grill. Jimmy laid out all the ingredients on the trunk of the Impala and began mixing the hex bags. Sam disassembled his gun and checked the parts, pretending not to watch.

"I don't get why Bobby won't let us go take care of the problem," he muttered, lining up the pistol's sight. He sighed. Now he even sounded like his brother.

Jimmy shrugged. "Maybe …" He bit the inside of his cheek in concentration. Some of the ingredients were rare and he had to work carefully, using leather pouches to prevent the wind from blowing any of it away. "Maybe he's not convinced. I mean, it's seems unlikely that a diabolical mastermind would hide in an abandoned mall."

Sam stilled, his gun laid out in separate pieces before him. He glanced at Jimmy to see whether he'd caught the slip, but the man worked diligently. Experience told Sam that Jimmy was more inept at deception than Dean. "Maybe it's something about the surrounding area?"

"Hard to believe." Jimmy tapped a pinch of yellow powder into one of the leather pouches. "What can a coven corrupt in Westgate that hasn't already been done by time?"

"Are you sure you didn't make a mistake? I mean, it was pretty late."

Jimmy stopped, realizing his error, and looked at Sam with narrowed eyes. Distrusting. "Your uncle told us to come right back. If you-"

Sam held up his hands. "I'm just suggesting we look at the surroundings to make sure. You're the one who said their hideout was improbable, not me."

Jimmy frowned and returned to his work. He was almost done, and Sam knew that he'd want to go back to the hospital from there. He couldn't let them sit around arguing strategy about an enemy they'd already identified. Dean didn't have the time.

"Look, we'll just scope it out from the car," he said, trying to keep the plea from his voice. "We have hex bags and- what's that?"

"Oh." Jimmy held out a handful of large capsules. "Swallow them and you'll be witch-proof for an hour - even if they take your hex bag."

Sam was impressed. He took one, inspected it, and slid it into his pocket.

"I got the idea from the journal when you were talking about agimats," Jimmy said. "They're safe to eat."

"Pretty cool." Sam tossed the car keys to Jimmy and walked around to the passenger's side.

With his hands full, Jimmy stumbled back. The keys fell, clattering to the sun-bleached asphalt. Jimmy packed away the finished capsules and retrieved the keys. "You can't be serious."

"You're the one who knows how to get there." Sam shrugged and waited for Jimmy to take the bait.

Jimmy looked from the car to Sam, who leaned expectantly over the hood. He tried not to be swayed by material things, but he had to admit he'd been impressed by the car since it showed up at his house. It was beautiful. He shook his head, grinning to himself. "Are you sure?"

Sam was. "What my brother doesn't know won't kill him." He paused. Actually, there were a lot of things out there that could kill them. Statistically, they hadn't even scratched the surface. "Well, you know what I mean."

/A.H.O.F.\

They drove up 71 with the windows down. Hot air rolled off the asphalt in visible waves. Jimmy wove through decaying suburbs where single-floor homes with little porches sat vacant in brown lawns. Stunted trees hunched in on themselves, fruitless. The Impala coasted down empty boulevards and through quiet intersections.

Sam's phone buzzed. He checked the ID - Bobby S. - and silenced the call, then the phone itself. The car stopped briefly and continued through an empty intersection, moving slower than before. Something in Jimmy's deliberate stillness rose the hairs on the back of Sam's neck. He looked to his right just as the Impala passed a spray painted sigil on a street sign.

An embankment blocked his view, but he saw a looming sign for the mall, its white background faded and torn. Someone had painted over the "A" with a malicious symbol. Sam shivered, though a moment ago he'd been sweating.

"Pull in here," he pointed ahead. Jimmy glanced at him and swallowed hard. Still, he pulled into the mall lot and began a circuit of the perimeter.

Sam didn't understand. Witches weren't normally this obtuse, leaving visible threats for the average person to see - or maybe they were meant for the only people who would know what they were. What were they doing in there?

"Stop."

Jimmy obeyed. He slid the gear into park and stared ahead, his hands tight on the wheel. Sam unbuckled his seatbelt. He reached into the back seat and grabbed one of the hex bags.

"We can't do this on our own." Jimmy's voice was tight, clipped. Sam could feel the fear in his words.

"Suit yourself," Sam said, opening the door. He got out, shut the door and leaned through the window. "I'm going in."

"Sam, don't. It feels-" Jimmy turned off the ignition and followed. "It feels wrong. Evil!"

"Witches are generally evil people," said Sam. He popped the trunk and flipped up the false bottom.

"We should call Bobby. We need his help!" Jimmy pleaded.

Sam handed him a sawed-off shotgun and a flashlight, almost enjoying the horror that passed through the man's eyes. "You're the one that drove us here, remember?"

Jimmy held the gun, his stomach roiling, and said nothing. He looked up at the mall, a two-story structure that hadn't thrived since the late '70s. Even in the brilliant afternoon light, the building looked shadowed. The air felt tainted. Jimmy wasn't familiar with witches, but their presence alone made his skin crawl. He wondered whether Sam felt it, too.

"I have a family, Sam," said Jimmy, turning his back to the building and the darkness within. "I want to see them again."

Sam nodded. He stuffed a carved stake into his back pocket and a rosary into the front. "You will."

Jimmy didn't trust words alone, especially not from Sam Winchester. He grabbed Sam's arm, jerking the boy around to meet his gaze. "Can you promise?"

The earnestness in his blue eyes made Sam's heart ache. He wondered what it felt like to love someone so completely. He'd loved Jess, but time already made him doubt himself. Had he loved her like this? Sam had thought so until fate dragged her away and left him breathing. Of course you couldn't keep your loved ones safe. It was impossible.

"I promise."

Jimmy nodded, trying to reconcile his promise to help with his desire to survive. He wouldn't run into a dangerous situation like this unless his family was at risk, but he reminded himself that Sam's family was at risk; he wasn't thinking clearly. That was why Jimmy had come along - to prevent Sam from making rash decisions.

He might not be able to stop him, but at least he could help Sam think clearly. "What's the plan?"

They went in together from the northern side through a department store that jutted out from the otherwise rectangular mall. Sam went first, his expertise giving him the advantage in quick-draw situations. Jimmy followed, his gun half-raised and awkward in his grip.

The store was mostly cleared, but a few racks remained propped against dusty walls. Sam turned a corner to the escalator, gun raised. He gestured toward the wide doors where the store merged with the empty mall. Jimmy covered the entrance, backing up the escalator after Sam.

Their feet kicked up clouds of dust as they climbed. Jimmy stifled a sneeze in the sleeve of his shirt, stumbling as the movement took him off balance. Sam paused, already on the second floor, and shot a disparaging look his way before turning to the room around him.

Emptiness had settled into the building. Water-stained ceiling panels bulged and dangled, leaving huge sections of the ceiling in gaping darkness. The still air smelled musty. He didn't see any footprints.

They proceeded into the mall with careful footsteps, staying close to the walls as they checked darkened storefronts. The two-story building had an open center surrounded by metal railing that offered them a view of the ground floor. At the heart of the mall, an indoor courtyard full of plastic shrubbery once attracted visitors. With the vending carts and customers gone, only a partly dismantled carousel remained beneath the dirty skylight.

Something about the carousel drew Sam's attention. He lowered his gun, puzzled by the sense of déjà vu. It reminded him of home, of lazy days with his brother on the playground. He thought he'd never feel that sense of childlike brotherhood again, but here it was. He took a step forward.

Jimmy pulled him out of the light. "Something's wrong." He looked around, eyes darting toward the corners, which seemed to pull light from the rest courtyard. He could feel malevolence in the air, making it harder to draw breath. "Really wrong."

Sam felt like a thirsty man finding an oasis, but Jimmy's hand stayed him. He could feel what Jimmy felt now, the corruption seeping from the concrete and brick, and he had to agree they should go. But he hesitated, alerted by an electric charge in the atmosphere. Someone was behind him.

Sam spun, gun raised. A woman stood where there had been no one moments before. The stench of sulfur hit him hard. He fired twice, turned and shoved Jimmy forward.

"Demon!" he shouted. "Go!"

To his credit, Jimmy didn't drop his gun. He took off, running toward the department store where they'd begun their fruitless exploration. Sam sprinted after him and had almost caught up when a man appeared as if from the shadows, his eyes black.

Sam stopped short as an invisible force slammed Jimmy sideways. His partner crashed into the twisted metal railing and went still, the gun still gripped tight in his hands.

Sam dove over the counter of a pretzel hut. He landed loudly on tarps and broken light bulbs. The glass sliced through his jacket easily, cutting his back and left arm. Sam bit back a cry and, cradling his injured arm against his chest, pushed himself up. He scrambled through the darkness.

He reached the rear wall before he could come up with a plan. Sam sat with his back to the wall. Wetness dampened his back as he dug through his pockets for something – anything – useful. Blood trickled down his wrist in easily traceable dribbles that would get him killed if the blood loss didn't finish him first.

Despair settled over him before he thought of Jimmy, flung through the air. He'd warned Sam not to come here, not to go without telling Bobby. Sam hoped Bobby had seen through his ruse and come after them. He shook his head clear; he could use backup, but what he really needed was a salt line or some holy water.

The wire shelf to his left was jammed with equipment covers and damp cardboard boxes. On the bottom shelf, Sam found a half-empty jug. He pulled it loose with his good arm, unscrewed the lid and caught a whiff of rancid cooking oil.

That'll do. He dropped his rosary into the jug and whispered a blessing. Soft feet landed behind the counter, catching Sam's attention. He rose to a crouch and stumbled for position, hauling the holy oil behind him. He didn't know what to do.

/A.H.O.F.\

Jimmy lay still, playing dead as best he could. His head throbbed and his back felt like he'd come half an inch from a broken spine. Either his legs had gone temporarily numb or he was too frightened to move.

He heard glass break and knew Sam was in trouble. Moments later, a metal crash echoed out from the pretzel shop. Someone screamed. Jimmy didn't know whose scream it was, but he couldn't lie still and find out in the afterlife.

He rolled to his feet and fired toward the woman as he ran. The shotgun blast went wide but bought him time. He planted one hand on the shop's counter and vaulted over. He felt a momentary Indiana Jones-type thrill before his feet crunched on broken lightbulbs. Jimmy thanked God for his thick-soled shoes and, sobered, continued toward the back.

The interior smelled of sulfur and burnt oil, but instead of turning his stomach it filled him with peace. He murmured prayers as he inched forward - mostly pleas to spare his life, but also half-remembered calls for power and courage he'd picked up in his book. A sense of mission carried him forward, pressing on his senses until he felt it white-hot and pure. He would save Sam Winchester.

He flicked on his flashlight and found Sam half-buried beneath a metal shelving unit with a demon on his chest, its hands wrapped around his throat. The demon released its grip on Sam's neck and whipped its head to face him. Jimmy's heart froze. The beast wore a human suit well, but Jimmy saw its true form pressing at the burning, peeling skin.

Sam was glad of the distraction. He gasped in a breath and grabbed the stake from his pocket. Pinned as he was, he didn't have much leverage, but he swung the spike hard. It hit with a spray of blood.

The demon screeched in outrage. It turned on him, striking him so hard that Sam's vision crackled. Something crunched and he tasted copper. Blood dripped onto his face, blinding him, and he couldn't tell whether it was his or the demon's. He jerked his head away, spitting.

Jimmy ran to help. He leapt on the thing from behind and clamped his hands on either side of its head. The demon's lurched backward, eyes opened in surprise as the light filled them. Jimmy concentrated, channeling the power through his hands. He didn't know where it came from, but the heat felt opposite of this stained corruption. It felt holy.

The demon flailed, screaming. Light poured out of its mouth, spilled from its eyes and ears. Then, without warning, it dropped to the floor. The fight was over.

Jimmy pushed the body off Sam and helped him out from under the shelf. Blood and cooking oil dripped from his clothes. "You okay?" he asked, though he knew the answer from Sam's swollen face.

"Holy oil didn't go as planned." Sam wiped his mouth. "How did you -?"

"I, uh, read it in my book." Jimmy picked up his flashlight. He held it up to Sam.

Sam gestured to his left arm. "Like, you actually read it?"

Jimmy looked over the arm quickly, frowned and cinched a strip of dirty fabric around his bicep. Sam had other injuries, but they didn't have time to worry about the lesser ones. "Think of it like a double exposure."

With his history in ghost stories, Sam had seen plenty of photos like that; he nodded. "You see the picture, but there's a fainter image hidden beneath."

"I read the after image, Dean reads the picture, and you-" Jimmy switched off his light and dropped to a crouch. He swiped his gun from the slick floor; it was coated with a film of oil. "God knows why, but you can't see the image at all. Is there a back way out of here?"

"Blocked." Sam spat blood. It sounded like he had a broken nose.

"What's it waiting for?" Jimmy asked. He wiped his palms against his pants. It didn't help.

"Best guess? They're playing with us."

"Why would they do that?"

Sam didn't have the heart to answer. Keeping low to the ground, he edged around the pretzel case and peeked out into the half-light. He couldn't see anyone, but he felt less sure of himself now.

There was only one way to get sure. Getting a foothold on a cart bumper, Sam hoisted himself onto the counter. Pain radiated through his arm and back as he strained the damaged muscles; the only thing that could hurt worse now was blowing his nose. He paused to catch his breath and master the pain, then slipped over the edge and dropped to his knee, gun drawn.

"Clear!" he called before remembering that Jimmy wasn't his brother. He stood, tucked his gun away and extended a hand to help Jimmy climb over.

It happened too fast for Sam to brace himself. The force hit him like a truck, spinning him aside. He spun in the air, hit the floor hard and began to skid. Reality turned off and back on again, and Sam found himself pressed against the metal railing overlooking the courtyard.

He rolled to his side and drew his pistol. There was no one there. Sam climbed to his feet, his legs shaky. He limped forward. "Jimmy!"

Jimmy dropped over the counter and appeared in sight. "Sam!"

Sam waved him away before Jimmy could take three steps. "Just… run!"

The older man hesitated but continued. Sam wanted to scream. They didn't know where the demon was hiding or what it wanted. Why wasn't he running?

The woman appeared from the air behind Jimmy. Sam stopped midstride and raised his gun, ignoring the screaming pain. Jimmy's eyes widened as he saw the gun rise. He dropped flat an instant before Sam fired.

Three bullets hit their mark. The fourth went wild as the malevolent force hit Sam again. He fought it with his rage, as if he was leaning into the wind, but even trees cannot stand up to a hurricane. It overpowered him in seconds, flinging him over the railing.

North became up became west became down. Sam recognized the carousel by its ornamented glass roof. Fear turned to panic in his throat, choking back reason. Sam closed his eyes tight and retreated to the back of his mind, to the primal darkness that he kept buried there. He latched onto that side of him and shoved it ahead like a shield.

The glass shattered into thousands of multicolored flecks as Sam's body slammed into the carousel. His fall slowed and then stopped. For a moment he hung suspended beside a rainbow of broken glass. Then, in the instant it took him to open his eyes, the miracle vanished.

Butterflies flew in his stomach. Sam fell.

E/N: I love to hear from readers, so send me your thoughts/fears/hopes for the story! Never fret! Chapter 7 is in-progress.