It took them over an hour to drive from the western outskirts of Malone to the southernmost area of the larger community area. He wasn't even sure what town, village or hamlet they were in anymore. The snow had gotten deeper though, and the road not as well cleared. Dean had managed to snag driving, but he suspect that was only because the agents were more interested in playing twenty questions. Dean let Sam handle most of it, but there were just so many parts of their lives that were frankly nobody else's business. Like what happened to Dad. Dean's own deal. Sammy, the king boy of hell. Ruby. Their past was a minefield of bad things and unfortunately the rest of it didn't make a whole lot of sense without knowing the nastier parts of their lives.

Somehow, he didn't think the feds would be quite so happy to work with them if they knew some of the more questionable choices he and his brother had made over the years. At least Sam had enough sense to keep those parts to himself. He might argue incessantly to Dean in favor of whatever fool idea he got in his head, but he knew better than to try to explain to outsiders what it meant to stand on the edge of that abyss.

They missed the turn off the first time and had to double back to find it. It was already early spring, and while there was plenty of snow still on the ground, it wasn't enough for snowmobiling. The track was deserted. And muddy. The car barely made it through parts, but Dean did his best to keep it moving. It handled differently than the Impala but he'd spent enough time behind the wheel of trucks and whatever else Bobby dug up to know how to use its size to his advantage. Judging where to stop was a bit tricky. The foliage was thick with evergreens packed tightly enough that they wouldn't be able to see the break that led to the old building until they were practically right on top of it.

"We'll stop here," he finally announced, easing the car to a halt on a bit of dry land higher than the soggy rest. "Time to walk, boys. And girl." He added, flashing her a cheeky grin in the rearview mirror. Agent Scully didn't look impressed, but Dean wasn't the type to let that bother him. They all stomped out of the car, the brothers' immediately checking their gear and passing out any extras to their accomplices. The boys were dressed for this kind of weather in jeans and boots, flannel and leather jackets. And while both agents had worn good hiking boots to deal with the elements, they were both still in suits and long wool coats.

"You ain't gonna trip on that, are you?" Dean asked. The looks he got were answer enough. He smirked back, feeling the rush of an upcoming job making him down right lively. It was better than the cold, tight knot of fear and rage. That would come latter, but for now he could be a smart ass.

"Just to confirm. One more time. Sam, you and Scully will enter from the back. Sam's got the knife, so our only function is to give him an opening to use it. Get in, stay low, don't get killed, and wait for a clear chance. You won't get a second one. Mulder and I will go through the front and try to provide as much of a distraction as we can."

He didn't like being separated from his brother, unable to watch his back the way he could if he was standing next to him, but they had to divide their resources as best they could. Sam and Dean would each take point, with the agents backing them up. They'd already passed out their two spare double barrel shotguns to the agents and both had confirmed they knew the business end well enough not to hit a friendly.

"Joseph Jacobson's body is slowly turning into one big ice cube back at his main restaurant," Dean continued. "That means whoever's in here is going to be someone else. No tellin' who, so just assume anyone you meet is an enemy."

"What if they've taken another person?" Scully challenged. "A victim? If they've been taking one a day, then we're due for another."

Sam shook his head. "It's still likely a demon. If they're controlling the person enough to get them here and get them back without remembering anything, then they can use them to kill you just as easily. Don't let that happen. You won't do anyone any good that way."

She looked like she wanted to object but still nodded that she understood.

She'd hesitate. Dean knew it. Mulder would too, probably. Newbies always did. Even Sam and Dean did sometimes. That was one of the worst parts about demons. You couldn't take any pride in killin' them, because it meant also taking out whatever poor shmuck was their first victim. No one won that fight.

"Just focus on the task at hand," Dean told them all. "We've got a demon we got to stop before he does anything worse. And trust me, there's always a worst. Get in, kill the demon, and we all walk away from this."

Sam nodded and shouldered his gun. He knew the drill. But the two agents were back to staring at Dean like they were trying to figure him out. Like there was some great mystery behind him or deeper meaning or maybe they were back to just thinking he was crazy.

"Let's get this over with," Dean snapped, turning away and trudging down the last of the trail. The snow here was even thicker and banned by densely packed ruts and boot-catching drifts. It made walking slow but that gave them time to get their head in the game and scope out the area. As predicted, there wasn't a lot of warning before the trees broke and a clearing extended on both sides. The right hand was flat and empty, the road visible on the other side. On the left was the old building. At one point, it must have served as a kind of bar with aspirations of being a rest stop diner. Bits and pieces of the original design remained, all classic 80s modernism. The building itself looked solid, however. Built to handle the winters out here. Mr. Jacobson had probably had plans of remodeling and expanding his budding restaurant business.

Dean gave a sharp wave to his brother as they separated at the edge of the tree line. Sam would have the longer walk around to the back and they'd lose all sightlines of each other in the meantime. The one good thing was seeing Agent Scully on his six, gun held at the ready and attention focused. She wouldn't do as good a job at having Sam's back as Dean would, but maybe she'd be alright.

Agent Mulder was a bit less reassuring. His step had him wandering a bit farther from Dean's side than he'd like. It made Dean twitchy feeling he had to watch both ahead and to the side to make sure the man kept up. There wasn't much to see outside. All of the funtimes were waiting indoors.

But Mulder stopped near the front door and gestured for Dean to look over. There were three cars parked out front. Dean hadn't paid too much attention to them. If the demons had killed off a few victims, they'd have collected a number of cars at this point. But the very last car was eye catching, and Dean suddenly understood the frantic tone to Mulder's gestures.

Sheriff Department vehicles were pretty distinct.

"Well, fuck."

Dean had only talked to the Sheriff once since being in town, back when they got their very first look at Mr. Haymond. Back when Dean and Sam could still pretend to be FBI agents here to save the day. But he knew the real FBI agents had been in regular contact with the man.

"You tell him about Jacobson?" Dean muttered, trying to keep his voice low, but needing to know.

"No," Mulder whispered back quickly. "But the information was faxed over. He could have seen it."

"Faxed?" Dean couldn't help but hiss back. "Who the hell faxes anymore. I thought you guys were-"

Someone screamed loud and shrilly from inside the house. The kind of animalistic scream Dean had heard one too many times from people who knew they were about to die.

Dean cursed, then cursed again as Mulder bound up the front steps and into position by the door. He wasn't waiting for a discussion on how this might change their plans and Dean had no choice but to back him up. They had one shot at getting anyone out of this alive.

He kicked open the door and lead to the left while Mulder fanned out to the right.

The room was rectangular and straight forward. A pass-through to the kitchen on the back wall. Booths along all the windows and a few tables and chairs still scattered across the floor. Old Formica and metal things that had probably once been imitations of the minimalist movement or some shit. Now they were dirty rusting tripping hazards. And they certainly didn't provide any cover from what was happening in the center of the room.

The demons had built an honest to God altar. Made of wood and stone and everything. Though the markings running up and down its base and along the top looked like they had been done with a sharpie and not something more esoteric. The poor bastard trussed up and squirming on top of it was much more authentic. Dean recognized him from their list, some guy working at one of the local dairy farms that had stopped for gas the same time he and Sam did. They got the man's name from the cashier and it was Mike something-or-another. A bit older than Dean but skinnier and pale with a buzz cut and a predilection to camo but who'd joked easily with the gas attendant while getting his change and who'd yielded politely when trying to get back on the road. A nice, normal guy. Now screaming his head off at a pitch he'd probably never thought he could reach before. Dean didn't blame him.

There was only a split second to make some choices in. The Sheriff was standing the closest to their position, his back turned to them which either meant he didn't care that someone just exploded into the room behind him (most likely demon possessed then) or he was more focused on watching their vic and what was clearly a demon bitch hovering near him (still on the side of the good guys and trying to help). It was a bad call to have to make, so Dean went for the low hanging fruit. The female demon was up near the altar, a knife in one hand, a smile on her face and eyes as black as sin.

Dean shot her.

It wasn't his best shot. A bit too low for a head shot and the bitch could move when motivated. It caught her in the shoulder and didn't even slow her down as she pulled the bound man off the table and pinned him in front of her with an arm around his neck and the knife tucked up against the fleshy bit of the man's side.

"Stay where you are!" she shouted. "Or I stick him like a pin cushion!"

Dean hesitated. It was a dumbass thing to do and he knew better, but they had one clearly non-possessed civilian in the middle of his line of fire. If he stalled, if he bought them time…he might be able to come up with something…

"You too!" the demon shouted, turning so her back was pointed to the far windows, the altar now between her and the rest of the room. She wasn't not watching Dean and Mulder, but it was clear that she was directing that last warning towards the kitchen door.

Sam was already there, moving slowly but calmly away from the bottleneck by the door, gun up and trained on her. Scully followed just behind, her weapon trained without hesitation on the Sheriff.

"We were wondering when you boys would show up," the Sheriff commented mildly. He turned towards Dean, his face still lined and solemn. He looked as serious and firm as ever but that sure as hell wasn't the Sheriff inside pulling the strings.

"Goddamn motherfucker," Dean replied with feeling. He shifted his gun over, not trusting Mulder to shoot the man if needed.

The Sheriff managed something that looked like a smile. "And how do you plan to fix this one, Dean Winchester?"

Dean eyed the rest of the room, adding up resources and possibilities and still coming up really fucking short. Sure, there were four of them, and only two demons. But two demons were enough to kick their ass given the right circumstances. And none of that would help Mike, the guy from the gas station.

"You won't do it," Dean finally challenged. Because when in doubt, stall like mad. "You need him, don't you? For your little pet project here. He's one of your special, demonblood fed sad fucks. Killing him will mess up your plan."

The Sheriff shrugged. "Actually, no. Yet another failure, I'm afraid. We've already made the attempt with him, so there's nothing left to do now bu clean up the mess and try again. He's worth nothing to us now. So it doesn't matter to us if he lives or dies, but it does matter to you, doesn't it, Winchester?" And that was part of the whole demon charm – they were damn good at finding your weak points and stabbing them with a stick just to watch you squirm. "Or have you gotten so used to getting other people killed that it doesn't even register anymore?" the demon continued. "How many of the rumors about you two are true? They say you're working with those feather freaks, but we demons know the truth. We know how close you are to our side of the world. Both of you. Why, Dean, word is you fit right in down there!"

"Give it up!" Dean interrupted, because the last thing he needed was to hear that shit. And Sam looked about two seconds away from saying something himself and Dean couldn't let him. Their only hope of getting out of this thing with anybody alive was the knife Sam had. So Dean would buy him some time and keep the attention off of his brother as best he could. The lug was already doing what he should, shifting slowly, one step at a time, closer to the demon holding their hostage. Dean raised his voice and projected like his elementary class teacher always told him he should. "Whatever you were trying to do here, you've failed. We're on to you. The FBI's on to you. And the angels won't back off either. They want you gone." Which okay, it was sort of a bitch move invoking the name of the feather brigade, but come on – the guys had juice even if they seemed to high and mighty and shit to use it properly.

But the Sheriff didn't look impressed. He sneered back at Dean. "And yet none of them are here. Don't you find it odd that they haven't even been in contact with you since you arrived here?"

"Why would they? Do I look like a freakin' angel messenger boy?"

"Yes, actually." The Sheriff's face twisted into something nasty looking that made it very clear how disgusting he found Dean. Dean chose to take it as a compliment and ignore the implication that it made him the angels' bitch. "But as long as you're here, you're completely on your own, hunter. No backup coming to save you this time. We've made a perfect bubble. We could do anything and no one could stop us!"

Aaaand cue the bragging rant. Seriously. If Dean had a dollar for every time some big, bad and nasty told him he was too puny to succeed – well, Dean wouldn't be living off of diner grub and in flea infested dives, that's for sure. "Doesn't seem to be working out well for you so far," he pointed out smugly. "Another failure, you said. Which means the others were as well. Which means we're going to stop your ass before you get any further." He was rambling a bit now himself, but Sam had made good progress. Scully had taken the opposite side, but she was clearly shuffling along in a much more blatant, aggressive manner. It had the demon bitch focused on her and the gun in her hands. Dean didn't know what the fuck Mulder was doing, he could risk checking, but he hoped the man had a cleaner shot than he did, because as of right now, Dean stood a good chance of getting not just the Sheriff but everyone standing behind him – which included the other demon but also their vic and possibly his brother.

The Sheriff's face was turning red, a look that wasn't good for him at all. "We still have 16 more days!" he shouted. "That's plenty of time! We'll find one of these meatsacks that works!"

Sammy's steps faulted, just slightly and Dean clamped down on the urge to focus on him. Something had startled his brother, and givin' the way he was staring at the Sheriff now and not the demon closest to him, he figured it had to be something the man had said. Dean's thoughts raced and it took him a longer second to figure out the connection. "Lent. You're using the forty days of lent," he finally said flatly, testing the idea out loud and finding it worked very neatly. Demonblood steaks on Mardi Gras, one vic a day every day since then, with dozens of people lined up and waiting… It was basic supernatural methodology. Seasons, moons, special days and times, all that shit matter in magic. And lent was supposed to be the most holy time of the year for the Christian church. It was filled with all kinds of rituals and meanings. It wasn't surprising that a demon had latched onto it for some nefarious purpose.

The demon wearing a mansuit was now smiling again. "And we're only on day 24! Plenty of time left!" he cowed, like it was a freakin' blow out sale advertisement. Figures. Bastard was probably a used car sales man in another life.

But 24 people. Jesus. That was even more than they had identified, and those were the ones they'd performed step two of whateverthefuck this was on. How many more where lined up and waiting? Did everyone on this freakin' mountain go in for steaks? Where were the vegans when you needed them? Dean shoved down that bit of hysteria and focused on keeping the demon pissed off and looking at him. "And none of them worked? Guess you aren't too good then."

"Shut up, maggot!" And, ah, they were back to the name calling. "You don't even know what you're talking about!"

"Some stupid plan about death and destruction, I'm sure."

"Ha! Idiots! This is about rebirth! We will create the perfect vessel!"

"…what." Because that made shit for sense. There were rules about these kinds of things. Strict rules. Natural order of the world and all that jazz. As unbreakable as a demon deal. Sure, Dean's life was three kinds of crazy but the one constant had always been that there were limitations to everything. Every monster, every bit of magic, every supernatural thing had some law it had to follow. It was the only thing that gave humans half a chance at survival.

The Sheriff was moving closer to Dean and gesturing broadly his hands, his body language no longer the tightly controlled presentation Dean was used to from the human and it was like seeing the demon inside more clearly. "Human hosts are so limited! So…annoying," he complained, sounding more like a frustrate yuppie complaining that their coffee was too hot instead of a mass murder. Dean glared back, thinking about how demon possession wasn't exactly fun times for the host either. But he didn't interrupt for once. The bastard wanted to talk, so let him. The bitch demon behind him was nodding along, paying more attention to her friend than what Sam was doing.

"We'll make one that can't be destroyed!" the demon continued preaching. "One that can't be exorcised. One not bound to ridiculous limitations. And once we have perfected the method, not only we will have an advantage no other demon will possess, but we will be the ones to present our solution to our great lord and master, he who-"

"Oh my god, shut up already!" Dean exclaimed, unable to hold it back any longer. Jesus H. Christ, he was not going to stand around and listen to some uppity demon with delusions of grandeur rant about his mancrush on Satan. There were just some things a man couldn't stand. Besides which, he was having a hard time keeping a straight face when confronted with this much bullshit. "What the fuck. I don't know what glue you've been sniffing or what nuthouse they dragged your ass out of, but it can't be done."

The demon actually started screeching at that point. "Yes! Yes, it can!" he yelled, stomping closer to Dean and forcing him to back up practically into one of the booths. "All rites have powers, just as they have limitations. We simply had to find a method of combining the strength of some of the most basic governing elements to circumvent the pitiful limitations imposed upon us. We will no longer be ruled by such constraints!" he shouted, arms waving wildly and Dean tried to jerk back even further. "The others may have doubted us! Called us crazy! Claimed it was sacrilege! But we know the truth! We'll prove it to them all! We will-"

The demon's hands reached for Dean mid-rant and he fired the shotgun point blank into the man's chest.

All hell broke loose then.