A/N: To my guest reviewer: Thank you so much for your very kind comments! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story :)
Sam spends the next week hitchhiking westward from Illinois. People of all kinds stop to pick him up, from young families to grouchy old truck drivers, but Sam doesn't talk to any of them beyond asking to be dropped off in the next town that has a public library with an Internet connection, and he looks carefully into all of their eyes before boarding their vehicles, checking for any demonic shadow. When they let him off, he stays only long enough for some research and a night of fitful sleep before heading back to the highway, walking until someone offers him a ride.
Sitting hunched at a library table now, sifting through hundreds of dubiously credible websites looking for some clue about the demons' plan, Sam thinks grumpily that it would be faster and easier just to let Azazel find him. He's found nothing so far that would explain why the demons might be interested in his psychic abilities, aside from various theology articles condemning them as coming from the devil. On the subject of Azazel himself, Sam reads through what feels like several encyclopedias' worth of lore. It's all very murky and difficult to follow, but one consistent thread associates Azazel with Lucifer—a thought that usually has Sam reaching to feel for the Colt tucked into his waistband.
The Colt, of course, reminds him of Dean, which is hardly a more pleasant train of thought. Sam's life for the last several days hasn't been much different from the months he spent with Dean; he's still constantly on the road, still eating mostly fast food, still laying down salt lines and warding sigils before he goes to bed. But somehow, none of the cars he's ridden in since then have felt as much like home as the Impala, the fast food is even less appealing than usual, and no matter how many protection charms he uses he never feels quite as safe as he did when he was with Dean.
There's no use thinking about that now, though, Sam tells himself, twitching his shoulders irritably. It was Dean's suggestion that they separate, after all. Sam supposes the amulet he gave to him must have proven to be too much of a burden, especially since he'd just been nearly tortured and then eaten because of Sam. So Sam doesn't blame Dean for not calling, and he respects Dean's wishes by not calling him. It's easy to slip back into the pattern of wondering where Dean is and how he's doing, so familiar to Sam from his years at Stanford.
It's getting dark outside and the library is nearly empty. With a sigh, Sam stands up from his table and slings his bag over his shoulder. He's been avoiding motels, opting instead for the same sort of abandoned house Dean picked out in Chicago. They're squalid and depressing, but that fits his mood.
The librarian says goodnight to Sam as he passes the front desk on his way to the door. He glances at her, not paying much attention.
She smiles. A horrible, sharp-toothed, hungry smile.
Sam stares, his heart suddenly pounding. The girl's face is still smiling sweetly at him, but underneath he can see the demon leering, its black eyes gleaming like an insect's beneath hers.
His first instinct is to grab for the Colt, but he doesn't draw it. This demon is only a minion, Sam is certain, a spy, a scout—he needs to save the Colt's remaining bullets for Azazel. Whom he might be meeting sooner than anticipated if he doesn't get out of here. The demon laughs as Sam scrambles for the door, and he sprints blindly outside, not stopping until he reaches a dark alley two streets away, where he hunches over, breathing hard.
A rustle from farther down the alley makes him start violently. He retreats rapidly, back out onto the sidewalk where a streetlamp is casting a yellow circle of light, his finger straying towards the handle of the Colt again—but it's only a ragged old man, emerging from a tattered and stained sleeping bag that was tucked up against the wall of the alley.
"Any spare change, sir?" he asks in a hoarse, rasping voice.
"Um," says Sam, continuing to back away as the old man sidles nearer and nearer, "no, I—"
The man steps into the glow of the streetlamp, and Sam sees its light reflected in solid black eyes. This time he doesn't stop to stare; he's running almost before he's registered what he's seen.
He slows again when he's put a few streets between himself and the second demon, and continues walking at a brisk but normal pace, not wanting to draw attention to himself.
A woman passes him on the sidewalk. Their eyes meet briefly. Hers are demon-black.
Sam forces himself to keep walking, and the woman passes him without speaking or making any attempt at contact.
There are at least three demons in this town, Sam thinks, and he has to assume they know who he is; but they haven't tried to come after him, which must mean they're only keeping tabs on him until Meg or Azazel arrives. Sam is carrying several hex bags with him, and a devil's shoestring is braided around his wrist, but he's still exposed and vulnerable out here on the sidewalk. He needs to get to the house where he'd planned to spend the night and surround himself with salt, goofer dust, and protection symbols. And even that might not be enough to stop a demon like Azazel.
He's glad he has the Colt. But he'd like it even better if Dean had the Colt, and were here beside him.
There's a man sitting on the front steps of a house Sam passes, smoking a cigarette. He, too, has black eyes.
By now, Sam is walking so fast he's nearly running again. That's at least four demons waiting in the wings. Sam is quickly becoming worried that the Colt might not be the trump card it seems. There are only two bullets left, after all; one for Azazel and one for Meg. But then what about the other demons? He'll never be able to trap and exorcise them all.
Finally, Sam arrives at the abandoned house, a once-homey suburban two-bedroom not unlike the old house in Lawrence. He glances around before entering, and, seeing no one, slips inside. Immediately, he pulls his flashlight from his pocket, clicks it on, and rifles through his bag for the salt canister. He extracts it hurriedly, and begins laying down lines at the doors and windows, trying not to notice how light the canister is, and how distressingly thin some of the lines are.
The salt runs out before he can cover the last door.
Sam shakes the empty canister a few times, as though doing so will cause it to magically refill itself. When that doesn't happen, he tosses it aside in frustration and rummages through his bag again for the can of spray paint. He might not be able to salt that door, but he can still ward it.
Halfway through shaking the can of spray paint, he stops. He could seal himself in this room, sure, but then he'd be little better off than a cat chased up a tree by a barking dog. The demons, like the dog, know where he is and can wait indefinitely; and, like the cat, Sam will have to come out eventually.
It's not as if Dean is coming to rescue him. And besides, wasn't Sam just thinking this whole thing would be better if he just let Azazel find him?
There's one thing he can't let Azazel find, though. The Colt.
Dropping the paint can back into his bag, Sam sweeps his flashlight beam around the room. The floor is covered in at least ten years' worth of dust and dirt, but in the bare patches disturbed by his footsteps he can see that it's hardwood. Perfect.
He drops to his knees, wiping a section of floor clean in the corner of the room, then sits back on his heels, clutching a small dagger that he usually keeps in his boot. This he uses to work under the nails at either end of one floorboard. His face is sweaty with fear and exertion by the time he finally pries up first one, then the other, with a horrible screech of metal on wood. Then, fumbling in his haste, he removes the floorboard and sets the Colt carefully in the hollow below.
He leaves the nails somewhat raised when he hammers them back in with the hilt of the little dagger. Hopefully it will be enough of a clue for Dean, if he ever comes looking for his Colt.
Sam has barely finished replacing the nails and moving away from the hiding spot when the front door of the house swings open. He doesn't recognize the man standing there, but the man recognizes him.
"Hello, Sam. I've been waiting a long time to meet you."
In the light of Sam's flashlight, the man's eyes gleam yellow.
*S*P*N*
Dean normally spends the down time after a case driving aimlessly, until another lead pulls his steering wheel in a specific direction. He finds it comforting—no monsters, no killing, no fear like a constant background noise, just him and the car and the road. And Sam.
This time, though, he finds himself pulling off the highway at the first town he comes to. It just doesn't feel right, anymore, driving along without someone in the passenger seat.
Normally, too, Dean wouldn't stay more than a few days in any one place, even if there wasn't a case calling him away. But this time, once he's installed himself at the local bar, he just can't seem to summon the motivation to climb back into that empty Impala, or to scrounge up any leads that he would have to follow with no backup. So he spends a solid week (eight days, to be exact—not that Dean is counting) drinking whiskey and and trying not to think about the bitchface Sam would be giving him if he could see him now.
In fact, he spends so much time trying not to think about Sam that he ends up circling back around to Sam being the only thing on his mind. When his phone rings, therefore, rattling against the bar where he always sets it while he nurses his whiskey, he's so sure he knows who it must be that he doesn't even bother looking at the caller ID before answering.
"Sam?"
"No, but I know where he is," says the voice on the other end.
"Bela," growls Dean, disappointment turning instantly to anger. "How the hell did you get this number?"
"You had a few business cards in that wallet I lifted off you," says Bela blithely. "Do people ever actually believe you're FBI? I would think those baby faces of yours would give you away."
"What do you want?" snaps Dean, ignoring this.
"I have an offer to make," says Bela, more serious now. "An exchange, actually. I know where Sam is, and I know what Azazel is planning for him. I'm willing to tell you, if you'll give me some information in return."
Dean sets his glass slowly back on the bar. "Really?" he says, doing his best to sound skeptical rather than desperate. "Because last time you said you didn't know anything about what the demons were doing."
"Oh please, did you expect me to give up all my bargaining chips in one sitting?" says Bela, exasperated. "Even you wouldn't do that. Now, are you interested in my offer, or not?"
Dean sighs. It's plain that she already knows he won't refuse the deal—the mention of Sam was enough to guarantee that. "What kind of information do you want?"
"Well, to be honest," says Bela, while Dean rolls his eyes, "life on the run isn't really my style. I need better defenses."
Dean chews his lip, thinking. He and Sam gave Bela every protective charm and sigil they know. But Dean figures not even Sam knows all the lore on what keeps hellhounds at bay. What Bela needs is an expert.
"Tell you what," he says. "I can tell you how to find a friend of mine who might be able to help. Bobby Singer, you heard of him?"
"I have, actually," says Bela. "I could have found him myself ages ago, except that I'm also quite certain he's heard of me. I think he's more likely to shoot me on sight than to help me."
"Well, tell him I sent you," says Dean. "He might still shoot you, but he'll probably hear you out first. Do we have a deal?"
A swell of static over the line tells him Bela has just let out a deep sigh. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
Dean smiles. "Ladies first."