Chapter 7

When Sam woke beneath the dirty skylight, night had already descended. Sam forced himself up and groped his way up the escalator to the second floor. His body screamed in protest. The city's light pollution reached the upper floor, and Sam could see black smears on the floor. Further on, he found a sawed off shotgun and flashlight.

Sam swung the flashlight beam up and down the building, then over the ledge. He worried how he would carry the corpse when he could barely hold a gun. He limped ahead, thinking only of finding Jimmy's body. Instead, cold desolation hung in the air.

Jimmy was gone.

The car sat at the edge of the lot where they'd parked it that afternoon. Sam found the keys still resting on the rear wheel. He dropped his gear in the trunk and covered the driver's seat with a trash bag.

Sam sat and tried to assess the situation, but he couldn't be analytical when his head swam and his hands shook. He was afraid. He waited with one hand on the ignition and the other on the wheel. Anxiety sustained him. He found himself hoping that Jimmy would come running.

He didn't.

Sam's stomach sank. He retrieved his phone from the glove box. Pain lanced through his chest as he stretched across the seat. Tears sprung up in his eyes, and only once he could breathe again did he check the display. He had nine missed calls from Bobby - no voicemails. He dialed as he exited the parking lot, leaving the mall behind him.

Bobby wasted no time with niceties. "You never listen, do you?"

"I messed up, Bobby." Sam turned onto the highway and groaned as the movement hurt something deep in his ribs. He needed medical attention. "Still keep the sewing kit in your car?"

"How bad is it? What happened?" Sam could hear the anxiety in the man's voice. That meant he was in Dean's hospital room with no papers to shuffle.

"I fell into some glass. My arm - I think it needs stitches." Sam glanced in the review mirror and frowned. He looked like raw hamburger. "I haven't seen the rest of me yet."

When Sam pulled into the motel parking lot, his uncle was already pacing the asphalt. He shifted into park and let himself relax. He closed his eyes. Bobby was here. He was safe.

Bobby ran and opened the car door. One of Sam's eyes was swollen shut, and his nose sat crooked. He had a split lip and a busted cheek that had puffed up big. His left arm had been bandaged, but the rest of his clothes were just as unsalvageable.

"Must've been some kind of glass," Bobby remarked. He grasped Sam's outstretched hand and helped him stand. Sam swallowed a yelp. "What's that smell?"

"I'll air out the car," said Sam, his voice muffled. He coughed, spat blood on the pavement.

Bobby didn't give a shit about the car. "I told you not to go without backup. Where's your friend? I'm gonna beat his ass." He helped Sam inside and walked him straight to the shower. Sam cringed as the water ran over him, and Bobby said nothing as the blood and oil washed down the drain.

He handed Sam a handful of painkillers and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Sam sat on the sink and took both without his usual question or argument. The alcohol went straight to his head, loosening his muscles. He slumped back against the mirror.

Bobby put his hands on either side of Sam's face, took a deep breath and snapped his nose back into place. Sam gasped and grabbed at Bobby's arm, but it was done. A fresh flow of blood trickled from his nose. He held his soiled shirt against his nose and closed his eyes.

"I lost Jimmy," Sam said, his voice muffled by the cloth. He looked up at his uncle, but Bobby didn't meet his eyes. "Demons - not witches. Demons."

Bobby opened his sewing kit. He ran the needle through a flame and threaded it. Sam handed him the bottle, and he doused the cut before beginning a line of sutures. The needle pierced easily, pulling the arm back together. "Is he dead?"

The pain brought tears to Sam's eyes, but he couldn't tell whether it was the needle, the guilt or the loss that hurt most. He didn't know whether Jimmy was dead, but the man was gone and that was close enough. Sam had screwed up the job and then left him behind. If Dean died now, it was on Sam. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

Bobby didn't press the question.

/A.H.O.F.\

Nightmares crept from the shadows as Sam tossed in the uncomfortable bed. He moaned in his sleep, the darkness sweeping over him. Sleep became a black hole, dreamless and empty. He woke sweaty and twisted in his sheets, suddenly realizing he hadn't drawn salt lines or worn protection charms.

Sam flipped on the bedside light. Bobby, still asleep on the floor by the bed, rolled over with a grumble at the sudden light. Sam forced his stiff muscles up and eased his legs over the side of the bed. He limped to Bobby's duffel and dug through it for salt.

He was being irrational, but the fear didn't feel unreasonable. Sam knew his brother slept with a bowie knife under his pillow. He'd always rolled his eyes or shook his head, but now is eyes were opened. He felt cautious. And haunted. Was this what Dean felt like every night? Every morning?

This was the part of the day when he should be making shitty coffee while Dean brushed his teeth and complained about the case or the weather or the increasing taxes in a town they'd never visit again. He turned on the TV for noise but quickly muted it. He missed his brother already. He didn't feel safe without him.

Sam nudged Bobby and stepped back before the older man could swat his leg. "Get up! I need to see Dean."

He sat through a budding headache all the way to the hospital parking lot, which wasn't far away but apparently just enough for them to get stuck at two red lights and one left turn. Bobby rolled the windows down just enough so Sam didn't have to answer him when he asked what had happened. Still, by the time he eased out of the Impala, Sam thought he might vomit. His head had its own pulse.

Sam stopped in the cafeteria first and bought two large coffees. He dumped enough cream and sugar into his own to disguise its flavor. A nurse in black scrubs looked up from filling her thermos.

"Bad night?" she asked conversationally.

Sam blinked, only just recognizing her as the same nurse who had been there when Dean was admitted. "Bad week," he said.

"Do I want to see the other guy?"

Sam thought of the demon and how light had poured out of its eyes so fiercely that it stung. Jimmy had reduced it to smoke and flesh. "Probably not."

She chuckled and shrugged as though the answer didn't faze her. Then she frowned and nodded at his arm. "You're bleeding."

"Must've pulled a stitch." Sam felt his bicep. He cursed under his breath. "It's no big deal."

"Let me slap a Band-Aid on it at least." She raised her hands in innocence and added, "free of charge."

Sam hesitated, suspicious. His eyes looked for witnesses or backup. "I should get up to-" he feigned a violent sneeze – "Christo!" He winced, this time in real pain.

"Ghesundheit." The nurse looked at him warily. "Please tell me you don't need X-rays, because I'm gonna have to charge for those."

Sam shook his head. "Bandage is fine."

The nurse led Sam down the open ward to a curtained-off bed. He sat on the bed's edge while she grabbed a gauze packet from a nearby drawer and rolled up his sleeve. She tsked, commented on being left sloppy seconds and bound his arm. When she finished, Sam had to laugh. She'd left her number written across his gauze in bold black lettering.

"I know it's sudden, but you've got this transient vibe and-"

He grinned, flattered despite the bad timing. "I'm Sam."

"Do you want to get coffee –" she glanced at the supply cart with three travel mugs resting on it – "sometime soon and somewhere not here. If you're still around, that is. I'm Kristen, by the way."

"Sounds good, Kristen By the Way." Sam stood, nodding. "My brother's in cardiac care Room 2708. I'll be here until he's better. I'll give you a call – if I don't get my bandage wet."

The smile lasted until he was halfway to Dean's room. What did he think he'd get out of talking to Kristen? Once the job was done and Dean healed, they were leaving. This wasn't his game. It was his brother's.

Sam shook his head and shouldered through the half-opened door. He handed Bobby a coffee and eased into a seat. "How's he doing?"

"Peachy." The oxygen mask muffled Dean's voice. He reached up and tugged it aside. "Thanks for asking."

Sam straightened and leaned forward. "You're awake!"

"And you're alive. Congratulations!" His brother looked him over and shook his head, his expression somber. "Tell me Baby doesn't look as bad as you."

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Your car is fine."

"Smells a bit like sulfur and french fries, though," Bobby interjected.

Dean' eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"I was working the job, tracking down that relic," said Sam. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with his family's scrutiny, and gave the hunters a summary explanation of the previous day. "We didn't think there would be demons waiting."

"First thing: demons are out of your pay grade. You're off the case, got it? There is no case. Just stop." Dean's voice never rose above a whisper, but the scolding still hit hard. "Second: you lost Jimmy. What does that even mean?" Dean demanded. His weak heartbeat raced faster.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know."

"No, tell me Sam. How does your mysterious hunting buddy suddenly get lost on a job that makes you look like the bad side of a Rocky movie?"

"Dean," Bobby said, his tone sharp.

Dean shook his head. "No, Bobby, you don't know this guy. The things he says, and he's got this psycho book about Armageddon." He looked at Sam. "You showed him the book, Sam, didn't you? Tell me you showed Bobby the fucking book."

Sam looked at his hands. Slowly, he shook his head. "I gave it back."

Dean took a long, deep breath. "I gave you the damn thing to keep safe."

"You stole it," Sam retorted. "There are decent people worth trusting in the world."

"Yeah, because Mr. Holy Prophet Apocalypse really sells ad space on AM radio," Dean said. He rolled his eyes and caught his breath in the ensuing silence. "Sam, I know you won't believe this because you're an idiot, but he sent demons after you. He tried to kill you."

"He saved my life!" Sam gestured broadly with his hands, trying not to shout. "You weren't there. I thought I was going to die, but there was this light and he killed it."

The room went quiet. Dean glanced at Bobby. He looked like a deferent child, his eyes both hopeful and afraid. "Is that even possible – to kill a demon?"

"Not with anything I've seen," Bobby whispered. He scowled. "Sam, you best go find me that book."

Sam nodded and went.

They were silent for a few minutes while Dean closed his eyes and thought. If what Sammy said was true – or he thought it was – then Sam was using Jimmy to heal him. Dean couldn't believe his methodical brother would fall for something so foolish. He had to know that his plan wouldn't work.

Dean's eyes were heavy. He pressed the bedside remote control and pushed himself further upright. "You know this is bogus, right? It's make believe."

"Maybe," said Bobby, reviewing his notes. Aside from the glaring obviousness of the coven, he couldn't find a fault. No signs pointed to demons. There hadn't been a demonic omen in the area for weeks.

"There's no such thing as prophets and mystical powers, Bobby," Dean insisted. "Just like there's no unicorns and no angels and no God."

Bobby flipped his notebook closed and fixed Dean with a hard look. "Don't you ever say that in front of your brother."

"He doesn't get it, Bobby." Dean sighed. "I keep trying to tell him-"

"He knows you're dying," Bobby said, cutting through the rest of Dean's argument. "Sam don't need you reminding him of that. He gets it. If this is about yesterday-"

"He's my baby brother, Bobby," Dean pleaded. "I can't lie to him."

"It ain't a lie. The kid's hanging on by a thread, Dean. He needs hope. Don't take it from him."

Dean glowered, rebuked. His little brother might have hope, but Dean wondered what would happen once he lost it. What about when I'm gone? What does Sammy get then? His brother didn't need hope; he needed acceptance. He needed peace.

Sam returned a few minutes later with Jimmy's duffel bag. Dean watched as he crossed the room and presented the bag. Bobby dug out the book, and Sam took a step back. Curious.

"That's it," he confirmed as Bobby flipped the book open.

The older man skimmed six pages, frowned and flipped to the end of the book. He found no identifying markers, no author signature. He returned to the beginning and turned the pages slower, reading for comprehension.

The language worried him. Bobby regarded himself as an old salt and a scholar in all things supernatural, but he'd never seen anything like this before. "Could be an obscure form of Revelations, but some of the passages…" he trailed off with a low whistle.

"And, lo, a new prophet arises before the throne, a living saint of neither flesh nor bone but the fire of God. He shall walk before the end of days, his hands set ablaze, his eyes alight." Bobby looked between Dean and Sam, who was seated now. "It goes on. Care to read for yourselves?"

Sam cleared his throat and leaned back. "Already did. Go for it."

Bobby flipped further into the book. "See, the mouth of Hell gapes. The righteous tremble. Evil shall masquerade as innocence, foe as friend. The Holy Ones gaze at the oncoming darkness but are not dismayed for the power of God is at hand and by his light do they see." He parsed several more pages in silence before Dean interrupted.

"And?"

"And haven't you been listening?" He stood, set the book within arm reach of Dean and stretched the stiffness from his back. "I'm gonna phone a friend on this one, boys. Give me a minute."

Bobby returned with a pack of vending machine cookies and his phone tucked under his ear. They caught the tail end of his retelling of the demon's death. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, listening. His eyebrows furrowed as he frowned.

"Well shit. Say all that again, will ya?" He pressed the button for speakerphone.

"You've got yourself one of the Prophetic Scripts, Bobby. Nobody's ever read one in action, but it's a hot ticket to power money can't buy and a great reason for every demon on Hell and Earth to want you dead. If you're seeing signs I bet you a pickled frog leg it's the real deal." Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and Sam scrunched his nose. Bobby snapped his fingers to recall their attention.

The man continued, "There's this organization, used to be a keeper of this sorta thing."

"Who are they? How do we find them?" Sam interrupted, leaning toward the phone. Bobby shushed him.

"No one knows much, but I can tell ya they've been quiet for years. Some say they're all dead. Others think they're hiding in plain sight."

"Others?" Dean asked.

"Conspiracy nut jobs, mostly. Frank-something and some guy calls himself Dr. Bad-Ass," he said. "I'd say they're crazy, but considering … well, you know."

Bobby nodded. "Hear anything else, let me know." He disconnected the line.

/A.H.O.F\

A nurse opened the door with a knock and shooed Sam and Bobby from the room. They stood in the hallway for several minutes discussing the developments. Bobby didn't doubt Sam's story now, and he told the kid to keep digging. Then he tossed the bag of cookies to Sam and excused himself to make more phone calls.

Sam paced the hall until the door finally opened. He waited until the nurse's back had turned before sliding into the room. The lights had been turned down, and Dean's eyes were closed. Sam made sure Jimmy's book hadn't disappeared while he was gone. It hadn't. He sat down and helped himself to some cookies and cold coffee.

With food and a calmer head, Sam assessed the facts. It looked bleak. If demons had been willing to employ or impersonate witches, they hadn't been waiting at the mall by chance. They had a purpose: Jimmy. If they needed him, they wouldn't kill him outright.

Sam tried to think of that as a perk. He couldn't. Jimmy was suffering, and it was his fault. He pushed down his guilt. Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't save Jimmy – or his brother.

He had to work from the perspective that Jimmy was an oblivious prophet. To see why the demons took him, Sam needed to figure out what they wanted with a clueless prophet and a relic. He assumed it wasn't for something as innocent as a corruption spell.

Dean's voice was a croak. "Sammy, we gotta talk."

Sam nearly jumped, surprised to see him awake. He eased to his feet and fetched his brother a cup of water. Dean hesitated and then accepted the drink.

"The doctor came by yesterday, said they'd add me to the donor list," Dean said. He took a raspy breath and continued before Sam's expression brightened any more. He looked him in the eyes. "I turned them down."

Sam stiffened. "What?"

Dean could see his outrage "This could be my one chance to be normal, Sammy. I'm gonna take it."

"You're gonna die, Dean," Sam reminded him. His eyes burned, but he forced them shut and turned away. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't.

"I haven't been all bad. Who knows, maybe I've earned a ticket upstairs by now."

Sam snorted. "You don't believe that," he said, and his voice betrayed him.

Dean heard the despair. He leaned up on his elbows, trying to catch his brother's gaze. "But you do."

"I think I need more coffee." Sam gathered his papers into a messy pile and stacked Bobby's notes on top. He didn't meet his brother's eyes as he sidled toward the door. "Get some rest."

A cup of untouched coffee still sat on the window sill beside Sam's chair. Dean fell back into his pillows, exhausted, and let him go.

/A.H.O.F.\

Sam retreated to the cafeteria and picked a table in the corner so he could have his back to the wall. He slammed the stack of papers down and clenched his fists, too angry to think straight. Rage boiled his blood. He wanted to kill something, to make it pay for hurting his brother.

He sat, spread the notes and compartmentalized. Sam once excelled at separating emotion and logic. He'd done it his whole childhood, staying unattached as they criss-crossed the country on jobs. He could do it now.

He checked his notes, but he'd already seen them and soon set them aside. Bobby's printouts proved more helpful. Sam sifted through several police reports and a slew of missing persons papers. The abduction and runaway rates were abnormally high for the region. Suspicious.

He looked the names up on his laptop. He recognized two: the man who Jimmy killed and the woman who threw him off the mall's second story balcony like a toy. If these two were possessed, it made sense to guess most of the 18 were, too.

At least he had an idea how many they were up against. He turned the page to continue. A scribbled list at the top of the page caught his attention.

Relic, Agimat, Thunderbird

Sam hesitated, sure he'd misread the third item. Thunderbirds were mythic creatures whose beating wings called down thunder and lightning. According to lore, thunderbird eggs were sacred power vessels. Medicine people, intercessors to the spirit realm, harnessed their power to bring rain. The power faded over time. Unless a thunderbird favored the tribe, it became useless within years.

But here it was in ink, drawn across the page in Bobby's unmistakable scrawl. He hadn't known about the stolen scroll in New York. There were four power vessels, not three. How had he missed that?

Spells of Four were reserved for strong magic. They required totems that, when combined with other ingredients, grounded the magic and made spells stronger. The vessels were setup for the spell itself, but they had to be charged to make it work.

Sam reached for his phone but stopped as he saw Bobby enter. The older man paused in the doorway, scanning the tables. Sam raised his hand and waved him over.

"We've got a problem." Bobby sat across from Sam and leaned in. "I talked to one of my guys, and there's demon activity showing up all around the city. It's a damn hotbed. Something big is going down.

"An aunt of a friend of a friend of a researcher says she's heard of something similar to the book we're dealing with. Some big fire tore through a club in 1958 and killed everyone inside." Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Police kept the details hush-hush, but this lady sneaks in with some friends and finds occult symbols plastering the place. It's even got its own library – mostly burned out, but there's one book that catches her eye. I'll let you guess which one she read."

"So we're guessing it's not a fire?"

"Police confiscated some surviving books. A few days later, a couple priests show up and lay claim. The case is closed. Life goes on," Bobby said. "Point is, your friend Jimmy picked up his book somewhere. There ain't no doubt the best place to hide something this important from demons is in a church."

Sam's stomach churned as he recalled Jimmy telling him he'd gotten the book from a friend and mentor. He probably meant a priest.

This was getting out of hand. "Add it to the list," he said, flipping Bobby's notebook around so the man could read it. He handed over the police reports, also. "You overlooked the talismanic scroll in New York. There are four power vessels missing – and these missing persons are demon possessions."

Bobby looked over the evidence. "You sure?"

Sam pointed to the top two reports. "I met these ones yesterday."

"Balls!" Bobby removed his hat and massaged his scalp with both hands. "Four's a damn serious number."

"I know."

He rubbed his eyes. "Run those names off again for me."

Sam did. Bobby's brows furrowed as he concentrated. Sam sat quietly, waiting for his uncle to reach a conclusion. But the minutes stretched on, and his patience waned. "I thought it could be a summoning or temporal fission."

Bobby grunted. When he opened his eyes, he took Sam's laptop, spun it to face him and began typing. He logged onto a secure FTP server that held backup scans of all his lore books. Bobby used the Method of Ioci and a rigid digital cataloging system, and the site was organized in a hierarchy by subject and topic. He opened an unauthorized text of second century prophecies and read. The news wasn't good.

The blood of a living saint hath shewn the way through the Four Corners. Vast darkness riseth, consuming the night. Then shall the Ninth Circle lay valleys low, and the damned shall rise in age-old carnage.

"It's a Four Corners spell," he said, "a damn gateway to Hell."

Sam considered the news. If Bobby was right, then each vessel corresponded with a corner of the Earth like the lines of a compass. North – the relic, East – the talismanic scroll, South – the agimat, and West – the Thunderbird egg. It made sense.

"You know it's creepy how you know everything, right?" Sam said.

Bobby shrugged. He enjoyed his leverage over the younger generation of hunters. "Says here the spell requires 'the blood of a living saint,'" he said. "This could be big, Sam. Like, Apocalyptic big. This spell opens pits of Hell we ain't seen before."

"But the talismans need to be charged –" Sam stopped, the color draining from his bruised face. He'd seen Jimmy convey visions and understand hidden prophecies. He'd seen the devout man command holy light. If anyone could charge a talisman with spiritual energy – or be saintly enough to attract demonic attention – it was Jimmy.

Sam looked up. "Jimmy's still alive, and we need to save him. Fast."

E/N: Thanks to all my new followers, reviewers and fans for supporting this story! Share with your friends and leave a review - even if it's just to recommend your favorite Supernatural fic. I'd love to check out some quality stories. =)