Let me just come out and say it right here for future reference: I don't like torture. I guess it's better to be the one performing it than the one receiving it, in a lot of ways, but I'm not really fond of being on either end. I know that there are quite a few hunters out there who like taking a set of tools to monsters who have hurt people, punishing them for what they've done and maybe even getting in a little payback for everything that's happened to them personally since they got into the job. And I believe that's wrong, but I understand it, because we're all human and we're all prone to dangerous, petty things like that. Those hunters are the whole reason that I'm not posting this on the website. I don't want to offend anybody, because there are a lot of people out there who know where I live, and they're not exactly a rational bunch.

Back on track. I don't like torturing anything, and I think that I might have talked about this at least a little before. I can handle blood or whatever it is that dribbles out when they get cut, but I don't like it. The screams and sobs and pleas bother me, wake me up in the middle of the night and follow me for months after whatever made those noises is long dead or gone. And trust me, I realize how whiny that sounds. Me bitching about having nightmares because I peeled thirty percent of a rugaru's skin off. I'm not the one that got hurt. But that doesn't change the fact that I hate it.

As much as I despise it, though, I legitimately have to do it sometimes. I really wish that I could say that torture never works, but honestly, that's not true. It gets results, and when you're crunched for time, it can be the only option left to you. When you're desperate. When you know for a fact that psychological manipulation and other, non-violent methods are never going to work on whatever you're interrogating.

Torture is unreliable when performed on human beings. But monsters and demons are different, and I just have to do it sometimes.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester

"Oh my god," Dean said bluntly as Sam dropped the stack of books that he'd been carrying onto the seat of his chair.

"Yeah, that's about a third of 'em," Sam told him, nodding as he rested a hand on top of the stack.

"Jesus Christ," Dean said. "A third? You've gotta be kidding me. There's at least a dozen books there."

"Well, y'know." Sam shrugged, trying not to grin, as he lowered himself into the other chair that he'd dragged into the cell. His kitchen table was now devoid of chairs, but he'd eaten breakfast in here anyway, so it didn't really matter. "I have been at it for about five years now."

"Yeah, but this is insane," Dean said, shaking his head. "You're insane, man." He walked over to the pile of books and picked one up, examining it. He flipped it back and forth between his hands, so that he could see both covers. "Is this self-published?"

"Well, technically, Ash publishes them," Sam replied. When Dean glanced at him, he explained. "Computer geek down at the Roadhouse. He makes them into actual books after I send the documents to him, and then Ellen distributes them for two dollars apiece. Mostly to people who either can't access my website or don't want to, because I put all of the information in my books up there, too."

"Your website," Dean repeated, shaking his head as he put the book back down. "I guess I get the books, but I can't believe you've got a website. Literally anybody could stumble on that and see all the information.

"Yeah, that happens pretty often," Sam replied. "I've got a cult following of maybe five hundred people, all across the States. Mostly high school students. They think it's the coolest thing since /x/."

"Since ex?"

1987. Dean had died in 1987, when there hadn't even been such a thing as the internet. And, yeah, he'd been back on Earth for a few years now, but those had been full of repairing his body and how to use the newfound powers that were guaranteed him as a Knight and herding demons around. Probably not playing on the computer and catching up on all the latest stuff.

"They think it's fake," he said, rather than explaining. "I don't have anything to worry about."

"Well, if you're sure. Still seems like a bad idea to me." Dean folded his arms, looking down at the stack of books that sat on his chair. "These look like car manuals."

Sam glanced over at them. Plain white cover, plain white back, plain white spin, standard black text for the title and author. "Didn't wanna waste a lot of money on fancy designs." Or sensationalize hunting. Keeping the books simple and efficient just seemed better for everybody.

"What's the first one you wrote?" Dean asked, beginning to look through the stack. "Are there dates on these?"

"I don't think so." Sam stood up and ran the tip of one index finger down the spines, until he came to one that was fairly close to the bottom. "Here it is." He pulled it free with a deft movement of his wrist, only managing not to topple the whole pile because of his years of practice. He handed it to Dean. "It's really not that good. My writing's gotten a lot better since then."

"'Vampires, Ghouls, and Other Fanged Predators,'" Dean read off. "'Sam Winchester.' Nice title, Sam."

"Yeah, you come up with a better one," Sam replied, shoving the demon's shoulder. "You can go ahead and read those, if you want. I've gotta go get a bag of ice outta the freezer."

"Isn't that the same freezer that you keep all of your frozen brains and stuff in?" Dean asked, glancing up from the book and raising an eyebrow.

"Uh…yeah?" Sam looked at him over his shoulder as he stepped out of the cell. He had started feeling a little guilty leaving, since Dean couldn't and yet had to watch him do it every time. "What about it?"

"Nothing…nothing." Dean shook his head, looking back down at the book. "Not like I've gotta eat anything that comes out of it."

Sam just snorted, walking over to the back door and stepping into the boots there with his bare feet. It wasn't like any of his food touched any of the monster food. Most of which had been intended for Vaughn and Nadia, but…he was sure that he'd get something else that ate blood and brains. Someday. Eventually.

He stepped outside, pushing the door closed behind him, then walked out across the wild area that technically served as his back yard. The day was cloudy, and from the looks of the sky, it was going to rain later. The cabin was sealed tightly (which Sam had made sure of in his first year, getting the place fit for a person – especially a disabled person – to live in), which he was glad of. He could just spend the rest of the day with Dean, listening to the rain hit the roof. Reading. After the past couple of weeks he'd had, so relaxing a day sounded absolutely priceless. Even if it would be his own books that they were reading.

Into the shed. Prop up the lid of the big chest freezer. Haul out a bag of ice and sling it over his shoulder, because it was too cold to carry in his bare forearms. He'd been through the routine a million times before and could do it without thinking, which was why he was absentmindedly looking out the window while he did it. Which, in turn, was why he saw a figure, too far away for him to be able to make out any details except that it was human, walking through the trees near the very edge of his property.

Sam immediately dumped the bag of ice back into the freezer and got away from the window. It was entirely possible that it was just a hiker; he got a lot of them up here. At least once a year, someone knocked on his door and asked for directions or water or something like that. But considering that he had a damn Knight of Hell locked up in his room, one whose people had already tried to reclaim him once, he wasn't about to take any chances.

He grabbed a backpack leaning against one of the shelving units, a dark, lightweight one that held a kit he'd thrown together a couple of years ago. Once he'd picked it up and gotten both straps over his shoulders, he headed for the door. Outside, he hesitated, wondering if he should tell Dean what was going on before he took off. He decided against it after about a second, turning and limp-sprinting into the forest. He couldn't afford to waste the time and he could let Dean know when he got back. It was like the demon could come out and help him if he didn't come back after a while.

Sam stood at six-foot-four and weighed just over two hundred pounds. And only one of his legs worked right. He knew better than to try and be quiet as he moved over twigs and rocks and pine litter. What he focused on instead was moving fast and not being seen, keeping as many trees as possible between himself and the person he was after. He ducked underneath low-hanging branches, pressed close to the chunky bark that covered the trunks of the trees, and tried to keep his leg from dumping him into the dirt. The paralysis that yesterday's meltdown had caused was over, thankfully, but putting it through too much could bring it right back.

It only took him about five minutes to reach his target. Despite the noise he had made, she (because he could definitely tell that it was a she now) seemed oblivious, which wasn't surprising. People who hadn't lived out in the forest for ages like Sam had tended to have a tough time distinguishing between normal sounds and ones that had been created by another person.

Sam noticed other details besides the apparent obliviousness in the first second that the woman was in his line of sight. Things that made him realize that something weird was definitely going on, and he wasn't just dealing with some random hiker. For one, she definitely wasn't wearing hiking clothes. She was a fit woman, average height, looked like she definitely could have spent a day or two out on the trails if she felt like it, but she wasn't dressed to do so, in a pantsuit cut from navy blue silk. It was in remarkably good shape, if she'd come all the way up here in it: no rips or tears at all that he could see. The top half of her straw-colored hair had been gathered into a very loose tail and secured with a clip, leaving a shimmering curtain, unbound, to sway beneath it every time she moved. That hairstyle would snag like hell on twigs and needles.

And her feet, planted firmly shoulder-width apart on the soft layer of mulch that covered the forest floor, were strapped into a pair of sensible leather pumps.

So, yeah. Definitely not hiking.

She was standing with her fists on her hips, looking away from Sam. Towards his cabin, actually, if he hadn't gotten himself completely lost. He doubted she could see it through the trees, no matter what she was, but it was still a little unnerving that she seemed to know the exact direction.

He was pressed to a tree, peering through a screen of branches and needles. Well-concealed. But some instinct still made him duck out of sight when the woman turned her head to where she could possibly see him. He swallowed as he laid his cheek against the bark of the tree, because he hadn't moved quite fast enough to avoid noticing her eyes. Her black, featureless eyes.

Her silk suit rustled as she turned away from him, heels crunching smartly over the pine litter, and he waited until he was sure that she was heading in the opposite direction to move. His boots made marginally more sound than her heels and he tried not to care about that as he put some distance between them. As he walked, he realized that they were far outside the boundaries of the salt-soaked rope that he'd buried in the ground, which was definitely a good thing. Meant that it was working like it was supposed to.

Sam dropped into a painful crouch once he felt like he was far enough away. His leg almost gave under him, and he was forcibly reminded that there was a reason he didn't hunt. He swept the dead needles away from a reasonably large area, exposing the powdery dirt underneath, then scrawled out a simple, familiar symbol with two fingers. Once he was finished, he grabbed onto the nearest tree to help him back to his feet, opened the backpack, and rummaged past the canisters of salt and flasks of holy water to find a small handgun. After kicking the litter back over what he'd drawn in the dirt, he raised the gun, and fired a shot at the sky.

It echoed. Of course it did, he was in the mountains. Everyone for miles around must have heard at least a faint suggestion of it – and they didn't have the hearing of a demon.

Just like he'd predicted, she came running. As the bait, he made sure that he was extremely visible, standing calmly between two trees with the backpack dangling from his hands. She did better in heels than a veteran stripper, wove around trees as a blur, her eyes widening in recognition once she finally had a clear line of sight to Sam – and then she stopped dead about two feet from him. Her face registered shock, then realization. The black faded back into her pupils as she looked down and swept some needles aside with one pump to reveal several of the lines that Sam had drawn in the dirt.

"I should have expected this," she said, shaking a strand of hair out of her face as she raised her eyes to look at him. "They told me you weren't stupid. Not after what happened last time, at least."

"You're here for Dean," Sam replied. It wasn't a question. He already knew it was true.

"Knight Dantalion," the demon corrected. "Alastair's going to be pissed when he finds out that he gave you that name.

"Alastair can't get to him right now," Sam replied. He really hoped that he was right; he hadn't exactly designed his wards with a Lord of Hell in mind. "Let's talk about something more relevant." He unzipped the backpack again. "You have black eyes and you're not a Knight of Hell, which means that you're about as weak as a demon can get. Why did you come here alone?"

She switched her eyes back to black and stuck out her tongue. "I'm not going to answer your questions just because you managed to catch me in a devil's trap. I can wait you out."

Sam sighed a little, and reached into the backpack, hand closing around one of several flasks. He pulled it out, unscrewed the top, and splashed about a quarter of the contents into the demon's face. Steam billowed up and she immediately started to shriek, hands flying up to try and claw the holy water off. She spastically stamped her feet and shook her head from side to side.

"Tell me why you're here all alone," Sam repeated, shaking the flask where she could see it, "and I won't do it again."

"I'm a fucking scout, you crazy bastard!" she screamed at him. "They sent me here to check out what kinds of wards you'd set up after Castigli's raid! But I can't even get within, like, a mile of your stupid fucking house!"

Sam was shocked into silence for about a second. "Have you…never had holy water splashed on you before?"

"No!"

"Okay. Awesome." He turned the flask slowly in his hand, watching the demon calm down. Her eyes were clamped shut and both her face and hands were smeared with wet makeup. He could see the vessel's skin under the stuff as it dripped off. Dry, sallow-looking, bluish. Like something that had been dead for a few days. "I've got a few questions I want to ask you. About Dantalion."

"I don't know anything!" she protested, opening her black eyes a slit. Her eyelashes were matted together with damp mascara. A few of them looked loose.

"Well, we'll see," Sam replied.

"I don't know about – about Cain, or what Alastair and Lilith's plans are, or how Dantalion's been leading all the others," she insisted, reaching up to wipe the mascara out of the way with her fingertips. "I mean, I know why they wanted him and how he became a Knight and all that shit, but that's it, and everybody knows that."

Sam blinked, then smirked at the demon, absentmindedly swirling the holy water around in its flask. "That's great. 'Cause that's exactly what I wanna know."

"Okay, okay – " She licked her lips, then spat out a mouthful of lipstick. Maybe something else, too. A foul smell suddenly hit Sam; this vessel had been dead for at least a week. She obviously wasn't as good at taking care of her meat as Dean was. "If I answer your questions, will you let me go?"

"Sure." Of course not. He stepped a little closer to the devil's trap. "Tell me what he sold his soul for."

She squinted at him, then snorted, before using one sleeve of her expensive-looking suit to wipe the dripping makeup off of her face. "You don't get to be a Knight of Hell by selling your soul, dipshit. No, that's how you end up where I am." She pulled her arm back and glared critically down at it. "Damn. Why do chicks wear so much makeup?"

Despite the vessel, Sam was beginning to doubt that he was actually dealing with a female demon. But it was easier just to think of it as a she. So, more confused by what she had said than the gender of the soul inside the body, he asked her, "If he didn't make a deal, how'd he wind up in Hell?"

"They tracked him down," the demon replied. "Beat him into submission. Took a couple of days, from what I've heard. Then they sicced the 'hounds on him and had Alastair waiting for him in the Pit."

Sam listened but, honestly, it just confused him more. Why go to so much trouble for just one hunter? If he was really worth all that, why didn't they just kill him?

"What was so important about him?" he asked out loud, shaking his head. "I was a hunter, too, just like him, and nobody ever kidnapped me and forced me to become a demon."

"Probably because you sucked." He raised the flask, and she squeaked in fear. "Sorry, sorry, sorry – you probably didn't suck, sorry."

"What was so important about him?" Sam repeated, all business.

"He was gonna shut us down," she replied, her fear apparently having passed. "For good. All of us. We would've been done forever if he'd been able to finish what he was doing when they finally caught up to him."

"And…what was he doing?" Sam asked uncertainly. He had never heard of anything like that before. Had Dean been systematically wiping out the demonic race, one at a time? No, because a lot of hunters tried to do that. Some for years before they realized that it was a lost cause, because of the exponential rate at which they multiplied. Like ants.

"Trying to close the Gates of Hell," the demon he'd caught replied. "Capital G. Not one of the little gateways. It would have locked us in forever – no way to get out or make new demons."

"That's impossible," Sam blurted before thinking. He hadn't even known that there were main Gates (capital G) to Hell. The Bible made a few references to them, sure, but he had learned the hard way to take everything that the Bible said with a grain of salt. Pretty much everything in there was a misinterpretation. Or maybe just a mistranslation. He didn't know; he'd never read the original Hebrew.

"Well, apparently not," the demon said, tone just a little snarkier than it strictly needed to be. "There were three tasks that he needed to do, and he'd finished two of them before they stopped him. We all felt it whenever he completed one." She gave a quick jerk of her shoulders, as if trying to get rid of a crawling sensation between them. "They really took a lot outta him. They thought so, anyway. Alastair was shocked it took so long to break him, from what I heard." She showed her teeth. "And they really went all out."

Sam felt loathing rise in him like vomit induced by food poisoning, and flexed his self-control in an effort to tamp it down. There was more he needed to know. More he could learn from this thing.

"Tell me how he actually became a Knight," he ordered. He was done phrasing it as a question. "Instead of just a normal demon."

The demon rocked back and forth in her pumps, poking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, and just stared at Sam, not answering. He raised the flask of holy water. She shrank back to the far side of the devil's trap and threw her forearms up in front of her face.

"I'm just thinking!" she yelped. "Give me a minute."

"You have ten seconds," replied Sam, who wasn't feeling very patient at the moment.

"Okay, I, uh – Alastair did him first. Like he does. Gave him special attention. We had to have him on our side, so he'd be invested in keeping the Gates open." She raked a hand agitatedly through her hair, wincing when she hit the clip. "Then they brought Cain in."

"Cain."

"Yeah. You know? Oldest son of Adam and Eve?" She was talking fast. Probably trying to avoid having Sam splash her. "Father of murder? First Knight of Hell? Lords have gotta be made by Lucifer, and Knights have gotta be made by him."

That was quite a bit of information to take in, but Sam guessed that he would sort through it all later. Preferably with Dean's help.

"It took forever to track him down," the demon went on, "and he disappeared once he was done. Dantalion's the last Knight he ever made."

"Okay." Sam let out a huge breath. Sort through it all later. Right. "I've only got one more question."

"Aaand…then you'll let me go?" the demon asked hopefully.

"Yep," Sam lied. He leaned forward a little, unconsciously. His leg didn't like it. "Does Dantalion still remember how to close the Gates?"

"He shouldn't," the demon replied. "Alastair and Cain really fucked with his memory. So nobody could torture it out of him, I guess."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, of course."

"Let me go," the demon demanded, pointing to the edge of the devil's trap. "That was your last question. You said."

"Yeah, I'll let you go." Sam screwed the top back on the flask and dropped it into his backpack before pulling out a replica of the knife that he kept inside the cabin, in his bedroom closet. "So you can go and tell them what I asked you, and what my wards are like."

The demon screamed and threw dirty at him. It didn't slow him down much. Especially because she was already rotting; the blade went in easily.

As the body burned, Sam returned the backpack to the shed and picked up the bag of ice that he'd originally gone out for. He hesitated before walking inside, but then screwed up his courage and got it over with. Dean called out to him as soon as the door opened.

"What happened?" he demanded. "You were gone forever – I heard a pistol shot. Did you kill someone? Did someone try to kill you?"

Sam put the ice in the freezer, silent, then walked over to Dean's cell, where the Knight was waiting with his jaw set and his arms crossed.

"I need to know how to close the Gates of Hell," Sam told him.