Sam and Dean spend the next two weeks scouring the newspapers and Internet for any sign of supernatural activity, but without much luck. Dean can't understand it. Only a month ago, there'd been a spirit or monster in nearly every town they passed on the interstate; now, he and Sam spend whole days first finding their next case, and then driving there. Demon activity is similarly quiet. It seems, now that they finally have a weapon and the name of the demon on whom they must use it, the bastards have all slunk back into the sulphurous pit from whence they came. Dean keeps the Colt, loaded with its numbered bullets, with him at all times anyway, even when they're holed up in a warded and salted motel room. He hates this inactivity; it feels like the calm before the storm.
It's with relief, therefore, that he answers his phone one evening to hear Bobby on the other end of the line.
"Hey Bobby. Got something for us?"
"Maybe," says Bobby. "Where you boys at?"
"Illinois," answers Dean. They've just wrapped up a case involving a tulpa and a pair of paranormal investigators, and they're back at the motel after having spent several hours at the local library doing research. Dean is sprawled out on his bed, his head starting to hurt from squinting at the tiny print of the newspapers piled next to him. Sam is, as usual, hunched over his laptop at the table, looking as though he also has a headache.
"Well, that's lucky," says Bobby. "I got a case for ya in Chicago. I think it might be a demon."
Dean sits up very quickly, ignoring the way it makes his head pound. "Those murders?" he asks. "One every night for the last week?"
Sam looks up from his computer, frowning. Dean puts the phone on speaker.
"Bingo," says Bobby. "The police are sayin' animal attacks, but all the victims have been found inside their homes, which don't really make sense. Plus—and this sure ain't makin' it into the newspapers—all the houses were locked from the inside."
"You think maybe a hellhound?" asks Sam. He looks rather tense; Dean notices his fingers drumming on the table.
"Could be. I can't find anything funny about any of the vics to suggest a crossroads deal, though."
"We'll check it out," says Dean. "Thanks, Bobby."
"You boys be careful," Bobby warns. "Hellhound or not, this thing looks nasty. And how about callin' me once in a while to let me know you're okay?"
Dean can't help a faint smile. "We will," he promises, and hangs up.
Sam is already flipping his laptop closed and standing up from the table. "If we leave now we could make it there by ten," he says.
"Yeah," Dean agrees. He slowly gets off the bed and begins to gather up the scattered newspapers and the remains of their fast-food dinner, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. Dean expected him to be worried, even scared—after all, for all they know, whatever is killing people in Chicago could be Azazel waiting to pounce—but he appears perfectly calm.
That's all right, though, Dean supposes. The idea of Sam being anywhere near Azazel scares him enough for the both of them.
It's an hour's drive into Chicago. The streets are still busy even this late at night. Dean keeps his hands tight on the steering wheel, his foot tense over the gas pedal, watching the cars and people surrounding them as carefully as he watches the road. He relaxes only slightly when he pulls the Impala up to their accommodations for the night—an abandoned house on an overgrown stretch of road near the middle of the city. The paint is peeling on the outside and the front steps are in splinters, but at least the windows are securely boarded over and the roof looks solid. And, most importantly, no one is around.
"Dude. Do you think this place is safe?" Sam asks, peering up at the house in some trepidation.
"Of course it is," says Dean, a little more sharply than he'd intended. Does Sam think that Dean would let him stay anywhere that wasn't safe? "I figured it would be safer than a motel," he continues, trying to speak more normally. "Better to lay low."
"Can't get much lower than this." Sam shakes his head. "You know, it's kind of sad that we have to worry about monsters more than street gangs."
Dean gets out of the car and vaults up onto the weathered porch without replying. He can't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound peevish.
The front door is locked, but Dean soon has it creaking open. Inside, the house is dark and empty and, by the feel of it, covered in a good three inches of dust and dirt. Dean toggles a light switch by the door, but isn't surprised when nothing happens. At least the place is dry. He turns to beckon Sam inside, and he comes in carrying their duffels and wrinkling his nose at the filth. Dean clicks on a storm lantern, sets it in the middle of the floor where it can illuminate the room, and rummages in one of the duffels for the salt canister. Sam busies himself setting up the battery-operated radio and scanning for the local police channel.
It's nearly half an hour later by the time Dean finishes warding the room. Sam spends the whole time sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, fiddling obsessively with the radio. Dean supposes he should be glad Sam seems so eager and willing to work on the case, although he thinks it would have been nice to have some help with the warding. He's laid down every protective charm and spell they have; if the thing currently terrorizing the city is Azazel looking for Sam, he'll be hard-pressed to find him here.
A voice crackling over the radio interrupts his thoughts. Sam straightens, his hands clenching convulsively. The brief staccato of conversation that follows informs them that two more bodies have just been reported on opposite sides of town.
"Two bodies?" says Dean, startled. "That's different. It's usually only one, ain't it?"
"Which one do you want?" asks Sam.
Dean stares at him. "What do you mean?" he asks, though he knows exactly what Sam means.
"Two bodies," says Sam. "Two of us. You take one, I'll take the other."
Dean is shaking his head before Sam is even done speaking. "No. No way. We're not splitting up."
Sam rolls his eyes, exasperated. "Why the hell not?"
Dean opens his mouth to enumerate all the reasons why the very idea makes his stomach clench—the demons looking for Sam, not to mention what happened the last time Sam went off on his own, at the very top of the list—but Sam cuts him off.
"Look, if we each take one it'll be faster, we can meet in the middle and compare notes. The faster we can get a lead, the faster we can find this thing."
This is true, and if their run-in with Bela Talbot taught Dean anything, it's that Sam can handle himself during a hunt—but he's never been less inclined to admit it. "What's got you in such a hurry?" he asks, stalling.
Sam frowns at him. "Don't you want to get this over with?"
So that's it, Dean thinks. Sam wants to get to the monster, get to Azazel, get rid of the threat against his safety, get his foray into the supernatural over with, and get on with his life. Get back to Stanford, back to Jessica, back to normalcy. Leave the Impala on the road where she belongs.
"Uh, yeah," says Dean quickly, before the silence can grow too strained. His voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. "Yeah. Sure."
"So—I'll take the one on the north side, and you take the one on the south?"
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, though in his opinion it's far from okay. He doesn't know how to articulate this without provoking the bitchface, however, so he just turns away and grabs a few extra knives out of the weapons bag to stick into his boots.
The bronze amulet hangs heavy around his neck.
*S*P*N*
Sam is nervous approaching the crime scene in the back of a taxi, which he'd called before Dean could offer to hotwire a car for him. Not only would it be a supremely bad idea to drive to a crime scene in a stolen car, but Sam doesn't need Dean's help with transportation. He's an adult, and he spent four years navigating Palo Alto on his own before Dean decided to show up.
Now, if only it were so easy to navigate a police investigation without Dean there to lead the way, bluffing past any questions with that disarming smile of his.
But Sam won't be able to depend on Dean forever. Eventually, his patience is bound to run out—his moodiness over the last few hours, and the ease with which he'd agreed that they should split up, is proof enough of that. Sam has been in the life for nearly six months now; it's time he started acting like a hunter. It's time he faced his fears.
Of course, considering what Sam's biggest fear is, he doesn't mind starting small.
He takes a deep breath and walks directly up to the sheriff, who's standing on the front steps of the apartment building with his hands on his hips. Sam ensures he makes eye contact as he approaches, and is relieved to see no demonic shadow in the other man's gaze. He pulls his fake FBI badge from the inside pocket of his blazer, and flashes it at the sheriff, whose eyes move skeptically from the badge to Sam's face.
"Aren't you a little young to be in the field on your own?" he asks.
"My partner's over at the other crime scene," Sam explains. Saying it causes him a pang, wondering how Dean is faring on the other side of the city.
The sheriff still looks unconvinced, but he waves Sam under the police tape across the door. "Fourth floor," he says. "And hold onto your dinner."
Indeed, when he enters the apartment where the body was found, Sam has to swallow a few times to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong. When he has himself under control, he shows his badge to the sergeant presiding over the various members of the forensic team, who are dusting the room for fingerprints, bagging potential evidence, and photographing the body. Or rather, the remains; for it looks as though the victim has been partially consumed. It's hard to tell what's missing, though, as there are so many pieces scattered around, littering the apartment with gore. There's not much, besides a hellhound's wicked claws and teeth, that Sam can imagine creating such a grisly scene. The crossroads deal theory is looking more and more likely.
"What can you tell me about the victim?" Sam asks the sergeant.
"Caucasian female, between twenty-five and thirty years of age," replies the sergeant. "We're pretty sure it's Meredith, the girl who owned this place, but we're going to need dental records to be positive."
At that moment, a team member comes up to the sergeant holding an evidence bag. "Sir, I think you should see this."
The bag contains a dusting of yellow powder.
"Is that sulphur?" asks Sam, frowning. None of the lore ever mentioned hellhounds leaving sulphur behind; that's supposed to be something only demons do.
The sergeant opens the bag and sniffs it, then pulls away, wrinkling his nose. "Yep," he says, and Sam's still-queasy stomach gives a lurch.
If these murders are the personal work of a demon, then something much bigger than crossroads deals is happening in Chicago. Sam thanks the sergeant and exits the apartment, taking the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time, and ducking under the police tape. As soon as he's out of earshot of the crowd of police and medical responders surrounding the building, he reaches for his phone. Before he can dial Dean's number, however, the phone starts to ring in Sam's hand. He smiles slightly when he sees the caller ID. Dean must be reading his mind.
"Was there sulphur at your crime scene, too?" Sam asks by way of greeting.
The only response he receives is static. Sam's smile fades. "Dean?"
"Sam."
"Dean, we should get back to the house. I think this might be more than a few crossroads deals coming due," Sam says urgently.
"No. Come to Fullerton Avenue." Dean's voice is almost lost in the static. "Warehouse."
"What? What are you doing there?" Sam asks, not sure why his heart is suddenly beating so fast.
There's no response, and for a moment Sam thinks he's lost the connection. Just as he's about to redial, though, he hears two more words that send him running to the curb, where the taxi he'd hired is still waiting for him.
"Help me."
*S*P*N*
Dean leaves the crime scene on the south side with weak knees and a sick, fluttery feeling in his stomach. It's not the horrific state the body was left in that's causing his hands to tremble as he extracts his phone from his pocket; it's the other thing he found there—the yellow, sulphurous powder. Whatever has been killing the residents of Chicago, he's certain it's much worse than a hellhound or even a crossroads demon. And Sam is out in the city, alone.
Dean checks his phone's screen. No missed calls. That must mean Sam is okay? Surely he would have called for help if he needed it? Assuming, Dean thinks darkly, he has the chance to call. But surely Sam's psychic powers will warn him of any demon trying to sneak up on him.
Dean can't quite keep himself from thinking that Sam might not call even if he did need help.
Dean takes a few deep breaths, trying to reason with himself. Next second, any calm he managed to achieve vanishes as his phone rings in his hand, Sam's name flashing up on the screen. Dean rushes to answer it.
"Sam? You okay?"
"Dean," says Sam's voice. There's a lot of static on the line, but even so, he sounds scared.
"Where are you, Sammy?" asks Dean, already fumbling one-handed with the keys to the Impala, pressing the phone so hard to his ear that the plastic creaks.
"Warehouse," says Sam's voice faintly. "Fullerton Avenue."
"All right, Sam, hang on. I'm coming," says Dean.
He wrenches the car door open and flings himself inside. The Impala's engine thrums to life, and the car leaps forward as Dean presses the gas pedal all the way down to the floor.
The warehouse, when he finds it ten tire-squealing minutes later, is dark and quiet, a sharp contrast to the turmoil of fear swirling in Dean's brain. He forces himself to pause before getting out of the Impala, checking the flashlight in his pocket, the knives hidden in each of his socks, the spare revolver in a holster under his arm, and the Colt tucked securely into his waistband. The feel of its smooth wooden handle calms Dean slightly. At least he has a guaranteed way to kill whatever son of a bitch dared to take Sam. After he rips its lungs out.
There's no sign of a threat—demon or otherwise—or of Sam. Dean gets out of the car and shuts the door quietly. The warehouse has no windows, and nothing is moving nearby. Dean clicks on his flashlight with one hand, pulls his spare revolver from its holster with the other, and holds them crossed in front of him as he sets off around the perimeter of the building, sticking close to the wall. He tenses every time he rounds a corner, but goes around three walls without seeing anything but graffitied industrial siding and cracked pavement.
Then, coming up on the last corner, Dean hears movement. He quickly clicks off his flashlight and stows it in his pocket, gripping the revolver with both hands. Whoever is on the other side of the wall doesn't seem to have noticed his presence; he can see the glow of their flashlight growing stronger and stronger as they approach the corner. Dean waits, pressed against the wall, until the lens of the flashlight pokes into his line of sight. Then he leaps forward, gun at the ready.
"Dean?"
It's a full five seconds before Dean can register what he's seeing. It's Sam, not hurt and bloody the way Dean has been trying not to imagine since the phone call, but perfectly okay, staring at him in evident confusion and lowering his gun uncertainly to point at the ground.
"Sam!" Dean finally manages to say, lowering his gun also. "What the hell is going on?"
"I was just about to ask you the same thing," says Sam, staring at him.
"What?"
"You called? Told me to come here?"
"No, you called," says Dean, "and told me to come here…."
The realization hits them at the same time.
"Crap," they say together.
A sharp blow descends on Dean's head from behind. At the same time, Sam cries out. Dean doesn't have time to reach out for him before his vision goes black.