Chapter 31 All Power Must Be Paid For

The sharp shrill of his phone grabbed his attention and he pulled it out of his pocket, still sniffling a little.

"Excuse me," he said to Portia, getting up and taking the call. "Yeah."

"Where are you?" Sam's voice was loud on the other end.

"Witch bar." Dean walked a little further from Portia. "Why?"

"Listen, I just got the labwork back from the blood on James' shirt."

"And?"

"Not good," Sam said. "Blood's an exact match to victim number three."

"That pretty much says it all, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Word here is that no one's heard of a spell that can control another witch."

"Even better."

"Yeah," Dean said, wetting his lips as a thought occurred to him. "The thing is, that James made a lot of enemies in this 'community' over the last year, Sam. And they're really not the sharing, caring kind of community."

"So?"

"So if it's not James, the field could be pretty wide."

"James said it would take enormous power, right?" Sam said, thinking back over the conversation. "So you can rule out the low-levels and the dabblers and the hangers'-on."

"Yeah, but even so," Dean said, looking around at the people – or what looked like people – sitting at the tables and bar around him. "We can't exactly ask everyone to hand over their credentials."

"No. But if Portia makes it impossible for James to leave the apartment tonight, we'll know if it's him or not, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

The chains rattled as she lifted them up from the bed frame, her hands burning at the touch of the cold metal. She hid the pain from the man lying in the bed, slipping each pin through the holes in the manacles, checking that they were in and they were tight.

"I hate doing this to you," she said as she fastened the thick band around his wrist.

"It's okay, really," James said, looking at it. The iron, across the blood vessels of wrist and ankle, cut off the pervasive double sight he'd slowly gotten to used over the years, the ability to feel the movement of the earth in its orbit, the stars in theirs, the power of the sun and moon and the steady breathing of every living creature over the face of the world. Energy was infinite and it had fed him since he'd opened himself to it, a secondary skin encasing him that he drank from without thought, breathed in without effort.

He looked at her as she fastened the chains on the other side.

"We don't have to," she told him, looking back at him. "They don't have to find out."

"Portia," he said, very gently. "If I believe I'm innocent, then I have to do the right thing. And if I'm not innocent, then … I have to do the right thing."

Moving beside him, she leaned close to him, feeling her heart expand with her feelings. He couldn't do it, she thought, not this man, this man who'd spent his life trying to do the right thing. It didn't matter what it cost him, she knew. He wouldn't take a life.

"We're as one, you and I," she said softly, looking into his eyes.

The desire that filled them surprised her. And lit the same fire inside, a desperate, explosive fire that common-sense and the rulings of the shadow world in which they existed couldn't dampen or put out. He'd turned away when he'd blocked her out, and she'd begun to wonder if she would ever feel his soul rise to meet hers again.

Hesitantly she touched his lips with her own and felt him tense against her, his eyelids fluttering shut. She felt his will struggle to overcome the feelings that shifted and fluxed through him and she waited, wanting that closeness again, that deep, deep intimacy between them, but not unless he wanted it too, with all his heart.

When he opened his eyes, she had her answer, and she kissed him hungrily, his feelings expanding to mesh with hers, the way it had always been with them, mind to mind, heart to heart, soul to soul, body to body. At these times she was only ever a woman, and he was only ever a man and the world fell away, unimportant, unrecognised, lost in a passion that seemed as infinite as the energy flows on which they drew.

James groaned, pulling against the iron as her mouth moved over him, teasing pleasure from well-known wells, building an arousal that frightened him in its intensity, in how much he needed to feel her, how deeply he'd been starved of the comfort of her touch. He felt her heat and his back arched involuntarily, then he felt her enclose him and every wall dissolved, blown away, blown apart, his mind seeking hers.

Portia's eyes flew open as she felt him again, the rush of his soul sweeping through her own, his mind overlapping hers, like walking from a dark room into a world of colour and light. She stared at the images that filled her, blood and rent flesh, broken bodies and staring eyes, and blood, and blood, feeling him, seeing him. But nothing else. He thrust into her and her body shook around him, muscle and nerve igniting and in her mind she saw only the kills, only the deaths, nothing else.

Sam looked up as Dean's phone beeped, brow wrinkling in query.

"It's from Portia," Dean said tightly. "Come quickly."

Sam grabbed the bottle Dean'd made up to kill a witch, and hurried out to the car.

"You think he's gone darkside?" Sam asked as they got in and Dean started the engine.

"I don't know," he said, turning around to reverse out. "Maybe he killed someone while he was chained up."

"How?"

"Sam, he's a witch."

"Chained in iron," Sam reminded him. "Nothing he can do can past that."

Portia opened the door before Sam could raise his hand to knock, her face filled with an excitement that seemed to be part fear, part relief, part something else entirely.

"It's not him," she said as she closed it behind him. "Definitely, not him."

"How do you know?" Dean stopped in the living room, looking at her.

For a long moment she didn't answer and he looked past her to Sam, one brow rising. Sam shook his head a little, waiting.

"Tonight …" she started softly, her voice strengthening as she looked up at them. "There is never supposed to be a physical component between a familiar and the witch with whom they bond."

Dean flicked a glance at Sam. "But there is, between you and James?"

"Yes."

"For the last four weeks, we haven't," she said, picking her words carefully. "It was one of the ways in which he shut me out, blocked me out."

"That changed tonight?" Sam guessed, looking at her. She nodded.

"And every block collapsed," she said. "I saw it all, saw every murder, every victim, how they died and where … in his thoughts, in his memories."

Dean frowned. "Not convincing me here."

She looked toward the bedroom. "In his mind, there are only the memories of the actual events, nothing else."

"Like a movie?" Sam asked.

She looked back at him. "Exactly. No planning, no forethought, no motivation for choosing those people or those places. Just like a fragment of a movie."

Dean nodded. "Planted there."

"Yes."

"But his friend, the adept, says no witch can do that," Dean said.

"He said he'd never heard of it." Portia looked at him pleadingly. "Someone might have known of it, someone might have created such a spell."

Sam exhaled softly. "We need more info."

"Yeah." He looked over his shoulder toward the bedroom. "James up?"

She nodded and they followed her in.

"She told you?" the witch asked. He was still manacled to the bed, the chains clanking softly as he moved a little.

Dean nodded. "You said it would take a lot of juice to work a spell like that, James. So what's the ballpark?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm still an acolyte, really, Dean. You need to ask someone more knowledgeable."

"We asked your friend, Spencer." Dean glanced at Portia. "He said he'd never heard it."

James frowned. "That's … Spencer an Adept, he should know of a few ways to tap into greater power, greater strength."

"There's another side to this question, James," Sam said. "If someone had the power and the spell to control another witch, to make them a puppet or put thoughts into their heads, what would they gain by doing it to you?"

"I don't know that either," James said helplessly. "I've made a few enemies, a lot of the community thought that when I became enlightened, they had a cop in their pocket, someone on the inside of the regular world who could clean up after them. They were … disappointed … when they found out that wasn't going to happen."

"Disappointed enough to try and frame you for murders?"

He blinked. "I wouldn't have thought so, but it's possible, I guess."

Dean looked at his brother. "We need an update on what the cops are doing."

Sam nodded. "What are you going to do?"

"Try and find what gives a witch of any level that kind of juice, I guess," Dean said, looking back at James.

"You need to see Drexel," James said to Portia. "If there's anything in the community about this, he'll know it."

She nodded. "Yes, you're right. I'll arrange a meeting."

Dean looked at James. "Drexel?"

"He's a natural talent, a sport really," James said, his eyes half-closed. "Didn't want to train so he's never moved up in the ranks, although I suspect he'd be powerful if he did take the training." He forced his eyelids open. "But, he floats around the fringes of the community and no one really pays him much attention. He hears … everything."

Dean' mouth lifted on one side. "He's a snitch."

James smiled too, nodding. "Yeah, he's a snitch."

Sam walked down through the bullpen, his gaze shifting from side to side as he searched for Stoltz or Joshua. He came to the end and looked down the corridor, stopping as he saw both come out of a room at the end.

"Gentlemen," he called, walking down to them. Stoltz pulled the door closed behind him as he got closer.

"Still investigating this crappy little case?" Stoltz asked him, glancing at Joshua. "I'm awed the Bureau has so much time on its hands."

"Four grisly murders in less than three weeks," Sam pointed out cheerfully, looking down at the file tucked under Joshua's arm. The name on the file was James Frampton. "Not such a low-ranking case as all that, Detective."

"Cases like this frequently go cold, Agent," Stoltz said. "As I'm sure you're aware. Just not enough to keep them floating."

"Sure," Sam agreed readily. "So you haven't found anything new?"

"No, and it's drifting toward the back burners, Agent," Stoltz admitted. "We just don't have the manpower."

Sam nodded understandingly. "It must have been tough to lose a valuable resource like Lieutenant Frampton, detective." He saw Stoltz's face close up, the small eyes narrow further. The comment had definitely hit the right button, he thought. "See, he and I caught a case a while back. He's a hell of a cop."

Stoltz pulled in a deep breath, his hands disappearing into his pockets as he shifted his weight. "Well, he's not lost to me, he's on leave."

"I remember he said he was the youngest guy here to ever make lieutenant," Sam pressed a little harder, watching the detective stiffen slightly. "Must have made a few waves."

"Nah," Stoltz said flatly. "This place is run like a dog sled. No stars, just grunts, one mutt goes lame, another pops up, slides through the slush. Agent." He walked down the hall, not waiting for an answer and Sam looked after him thoughtfully.

He stepped to the door and tried it, but it was locked. C-110, he thought. Not the easiest of things to do, break into a locked room in the middle of a police station. He wondered if his brother would have a plan B for this one.

Dean got out of the car and looked around the parking lot. It was on the south-eastern side of the city, an area that was mostly industrialised. Far from the community but probably not out of reach of their enhanced vision, he thought sourly. Maybe it was warded, since Drexel had chosen the place, not them.

The small red car blatted as it came through the entrance, the noisy engine echoing from the walls. It pulled up in front of them and a young man got out, scruffy, unkempt, forgettable, Dean thought, looking at him.

"Drexel," Portia said as he walked up to them. "This is Dean."

"Wiccan. Detroit," Drexel said sourly, nodding to him. "I heard."

Dean repressed a smile as Drexel turned back to Portia. "Here's the deal. No word at all anywhere of any witch hexing another one."

"You sure there's not any kind of spell?" Dean asked him.

"There are spells to do whatever you want, so long as you're good enough to think of them, Detroit," Drexel snapped at him. "But that's the catch, not many truly creative witches out there; most of them use what they've always used, not used to thinking in five dimensions."

Dean tilted his head a little as he looked at him. "But you could come up with one, right?"

Drexel shrugged. "Sure, my problem is that I don't have the juice it would need."

"Could you get it?"

"A concert might be able to do it," Drexel said slowly, thinking about the possibilities. "You'd need everyone to be absolutely attuned because the blowback on a spell like that would be fatal if one of them failed at the crucial moment."

Dean glanced at Portia who shook her head. "No, don't think it's a group acting together. What else?"

"Well, of course, you could trap a demon, tap into its power," Drexel laughed, raising a mocking brow at Portia.

Dean felt as if he'd been asleep and had just woken up. Crap. Of course a demon would have the power. "You mean sell your soul to a demon for the power?"

The younger man snorted. "Jesus, no, what the hell would you do that for? Spend an eternity in Hell?"

Dean blinked. "Then how're you going to get the mojo from the demon?"

"Spell and trap," Drexel said, frowning at him. "You Wiccans don't know dick, do you?"

"Nope, not dick," Dean said, taking a step closer to him as his patience began to thin. "Educate me."

Drexel glanced at Portia. She nodded quickly. "Usual shit, man. You need the name of the demon, some hellspawn powerful enough to pull on the souls for what you want. Trap it and spell the trap to drag the power through the demon from Hell and into yourself."

"Huh," Dean said. "Just like that."

"Well, no one's used that kind of spell for about a hundred years, but I understand it went real well for the Russians when they took down the Romanovs," Drexel said dryly. "It's kind of risky. Demons don't take all that kindly to being held indefinitely in traps."

"Got that right," Dean muttered. He looked at Drexel. "How do I find the demon if someone's trapped it?"

"Try a pendulum," Drexel said, shrugging. "James knows how."

"Right."

Dean looked up as Sam came into James' living room.

"Think we've got ourselves a –" Sam started.

"You know you can trap a demon –" Dean said, stopping as he realised he was talking over the top of his brother.

Sam's brow creased up. "You go, yours sounds more interesting."

"Drexel, the sport snitch of the witching community, told me that a witch can trap a demon and use their power without having to sell their souls to do it."

Sam nodded slowly. "More than enough power for most spells."

"Yup." Dean picked up the glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. "Got the spell too, I think." He gestured at the piles of notes and papers and books in front of him. "Been going through some of Bobby's stuff, there's a spell to transfer images from mind to mind. Yours?"

"Our detective Stoltz has been building a case against James, I think," Sam said, looking at the papers on the desk. "He said that the case is going cold but he handed a thick file to the tech that's been running the backend – file was marked James Frampton."

"Personal gripe?"

"As it turns out, yeah," Sam said, pulling out his notebook. "Stoltz was the dick in charge of the case we helped James with, and he was passed over when James got the guy."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Alright, he's got enough motive to want to take whatever he can get on James, but what about the other side? The witch who's trapped a demon and wants to use it to put James out of the picture … I'm not seeing anyone outstanding for that part."

"Me either," Sam admitted. "It has to be someone knowledgeable, someone with a lot of power themselves."

"Too many contenders in this town, and none of them seem to have a really personal grudge against James, just a general feeling of pissyness that he's a cop and not covering for them."

"Can we find the demon?" Sam looked at him.

"Drexel suggested a pendulum, said James would know how to key it," Dean said, putting the empty glass back on the table. "I haven't asked him yet."

"We need to find out about that case as well." Sam rubbed his forehead. "Witchcraft or not, if they get enough leads, they'll arrest him and throw away the key."

"Right." Dean looked at him. "But breaking into a police station in this town … really not something I want to do any time soon."

"Talk to James?" Sam suggested.

"Why the hell not," Dean agreed acerbically, getting up and walking into the bedroom.

"Heard a little of that," James said quietly from the bed. "I didn't consider the demon side of things. Not many of us would turn to that kind of power."

Dean made a face. "Nearly all the witches we've met go for the demons first. I should've thought it straight away."

"It's a risky proposition, even with a trap," James said, looking at them. "No matter how you come by it, all power must be paid for. The witches who use demons pay with their souls. We – my kind – pay for it with our own energy, putting back what we use. Even the Left Hand path demands payment. You can't get away with it."

"Someone is," Dean said.

James shook his head. "It might be deferred but the price still has to be paid, one way or the other." He looked at Sam. "You need to go looking for something?"

"We've done it before, with help," Dean said. "But yeah, locked room in a building full of cops, twenty-four seven, seems like ghosting in and out might be the answer."

"You're going to have to take off the jewellery," James said, lifting his hands. "None of us can travel with it on."

Sam nodded, going to the side of the bed as Dean walked around it. They slipped the pins free from the manacles and pushed the chains under the bed.

"What do we do?"

"Sit down here, to either side of me. Close your eyes. Be quiet," James said, tipping his head back and putting a hand on each of their shoulders as they sat beside him. He murmured the simple incantation that lifted his mind and soul free of the flesh, his fingers tightening on the men to both sides, dragging their minds along with him.

Astral projection, out of body experience, bilocation, fetch, far viewer, far seer; the technique had a lot of names and had been in practice for more than five thousand years, at least according to some, Dean knew. He'd done it on his own when he'd been dying in a hospital, dodging a beautiful and well-meaning reaper. Pamela had helped them the second time, sending them out and guarding their bodies, bringing them back to find her dying. The third time he'd gone to a doc, near-death being the quickest way to get out, go and talk to the entity he'd needed to see.

It wasn't like any of those times, Dean thought incoherently as images flashed through his mind, a Flash-speed journey across town, into the precinct building, through the bullpen and down a white corridor. It was disorienting and he struggled to remember the stop-start images that flooded into him, seeing the detective working on the computer, the technician with the file open beside him, loading security camera footage onto the screen in front of him, the long pinboard with the victims' details laid out in a linear fashion. He couldn't feel James, couldn't feel Sam, couldn't feel himself, just the images, blinking past almost too quickly to register and then a feeling of falling and a slam against his abdomen when he landed, inside his body, breath exploding from his lungs.

"Shit!"

"Crap!" Sam's voice came from the other side of James.

James lurched forward, doubled over as he tried to absorb everything he'd just seen.

"Stoltz, he's building a case against me," James said, shaking his head. "Phillipe – there was a sketch and a statement … security footage …"

"What?!" Portia stared at him. "Goddamn him, I'll rip his guts out."

"Okay, wait a minute, take it easy," Dean got up. "James, where do you think you're –"

The witch pulled in a deep breath, the spell automatic, drawing power from everything around him. He swung the energy toward the hunters, imagining it as a solid force and Dean and Sam were lifted and flung back against the wall behind the bed, the plaster dented where they hit, nightstand and lamps crashing down as they fell onto them.

"James, don't," Portia said, stepping in front of him as he looked past her. "We'll do this together."

"No. We won't," James said looking down at her. "It's not safe for you, not any more. Portia, our time is over."

"Standing beside you is my duty, my choice –"

"No." He looked at her, his eyes hard. "The ceiling is coming down on me, but you can still get out."

"James, no."

"Go," he said, staring at her. "I command you, Portia – GO!"

She staggered back as if he'd hit her, backing out of the room, unable to stop the compulsion that the order had raised inside of her. Stuttering down the stairs, she fought against it, grabbing the walls, the doorframes, the banisters as she moved by them, her vision blurring but her feet taking inexorably out of the apartment, out of the building.

Silence. Pain. The appalling reek of spilled aftershave, somewhere nearby.

Dean opened his eyes and lifted his head, wincing as the movement brought another deep throb to the lump at the side of his skull.

"Sam?"

There was a thump from the other side of the bed, and he levered himself into a sitting position, grabbing the bed post and pulling himself up.

"Sam?" He could see his brother's long frame, scrunched into the corner, relief slipping in as he saw Sam's legs straighten, his arm lift and heard the low groan.

"Yeah."

"C'mon, get up, James has gone, Portia too."

"Crap."

Dean snorted. "You remember how to do a pendulum spell?"

"Just the one that Bobby used to find Lilith," Sam said, rolling onto his side and getting to his feet, pressing gingerly at the tenderness along his ribs.

"That'll do, I guess," Dean said. "Pretty sure the demon we're looking for is Nybbas."

"How do you know that?" Sam looked at him.

"When I met Spencer, something whispered to me, I didn't realise what it was at the time, didn't realise it was him at the time," Dean said distractedly, sweeping the dining room clear and grabbing the map of the city from the coffee table, spreading it over the table. "It was Latin, Nybbas touch him."

"I thought Spencer was James' friend?"

"So did James," Dean said, looking around the apartment. "Where would a witch keep their gear?"

"Password?"

"In Hell's foul light," James snapped, pushing the door open and striding down the hall to the stairs. He stopped as he reached the bottom, his gaze shifting fast around the room. There. The familiar was at the bar, hunched over a glass.

James crossed the space and grabbed the man by the collar and waistband, lifting him high over his head and slamming him down onto the bar's underlit surface, uncaring of the cracks that crazed the fine white crystal where Phillipe's head and shoulders and heels landed.

"James, what are you doing?" Phillipe looked up at him, feeling the witch's hand close tighter around his throat.

"Why are you telling lies about me?"

"I'm not!" Phillipe protested quickly. "I wouldn't."

"I saw the evidence room," James snarled at him. "I saw the police sketch, based on an eye-witness account!"

"Please … don't," Phillipe said to him.

"Tell me why," James said to him, rage pounding in his head. That's all he wanted to know … why. Why?

"I had no choice," Phillipe said.

"What does that mean?"

"My master made me," the familiar said slowly, dragging in small sips of air as James' fingers flexed around his windpipe.

"Liar! You're a coward and a liar!" James said. "Spencer's my friend."

"A direct command," Phillipe said, his eyes pleading. "Please … don't hurt my face."

James looked down at him, his hand uncurling from the man's throat as he pulled back a little. "I'm not interested in –"

Phillipe's neck snapped in front of him, his head almost at a right angle to his shoulders. James stared down at the reddened skin where the bone pressed outward in disbelief.

"He was always spineless," Spencer said from the other side of the room. James turned to look at him. "Now, literally."

The adept looked at James emotionlessly, as he stepped back from the bar and turned to face him.

"It was you?" James asked unwillingly. "You were behind all this?"

Spencer's shoulder lifted in the barest of shrugs. "I humbly accept credit."

"You made me think I was a killer," James said, pacing the witch as he walked away. He couldn't believe, didn't want to believe that Spencer had contrived the plan to destroy him. The witch had been his mentor, his guide, the one person in the community he'd truly trusted. "Ed Stoltz put you up to this – he found out what you are, blackmailed you …"

Spencer smiled derisively as he walked slowly toward the stairs. "You're not using your thinking cap, Jimmy." He stopped and turned around, looking at James. "It was actually crucial that he didn't believe in the occult. I'd say he's built quite a solid case, don't you agree?"

"I don't understand," James said, staring at him.

Spencer smiled. "James, you stand on the cusp of a great destiny and you don't even see it, do you? You have power, you have that … that spark of creativity that means that you will be able to further our studies, not merely work spells but imagine them, move the worlds and change the histories … and you haven't yet discovered that about yourself."

He looked down for a moment. "I've seen it. Seen what you will do. If you live."

"Spencer, I'm – you're much more powerful –"

"Now, yes," the witch said, nodding. "In the future, no. You have the power, you have the future, and you have Portia by your side."

"What's she got to do with this?"

"She was supposed to come to me!" Spencer spat suddenly at him. "You weren't supposed to get everything!"

"I had no choice in that – she had no choice in that! That bonding isn't chosen –"

"But I do have a choice, James. Life and death, over you, and anyone else who gets in the way." The witch looked up at him, his skin paling further as he pulled power through his flesh and nerves and soul. "And it's time to die."

The pendulum stopped over a warehouse, not far from the airport. Dean looked at Sam.

"You cut that demon loose, and stay the hell out of its way," Dean said, picking up the knife and sliding it into the sheath in his jacket. "I'll head over to Midnight's and see if anyone's seen James."

"Dean, we're counting on this thing leading us to Spencer," Sam said doubtfully.

"It will," Dean said, smiling humourlessly at his brother. "If it hadn't been for you, Ruby'd've come straight after me when I left her in that trap, and I wasn't even using her for power."

"Don't get killed," Sam said, turning to go.

"You either," Dean agreed, heading for the fire escape and the car.

Sam turned the rental into the parking lot of the warehouse, feeling a sudden drop in temperature as he parked and got out. Wind spiralled around the empty lot, picking up dust and litter, swirling it around and dropping it. He walked to the postern door and picked the lock, slipping inside and putting his back against the wall while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. A moaning noise filled the space and he looked around, seeing a brighter patch against the darkness to one side.

He walked slowly toward it. On the floor a big circle had been drawn, in blood, he thought, looking at the dark brownish-red lines. It was empty, but the air moved inside of it, shifting this way and that. He turned his head slightly, looking at the circle from the corner of his eye, and saw black eyes gleaming at him, the glint of a long translucent tooth blinking once and vanishing.

Dean'd been right, he thought, keeping his eyes on the floor, as he tried to work out the best place to cut the circle and be able to take cover. The demon in the trap was powerful and old and he had to hope that it would want vengeance against the witch that had trapped it there rather than a crunchy snack on the way out. He could feel its attention on him, an insidious hunger scratching inside his organs, alien images not quite visible but pressing against his mind. And anger, like a furnace, snaking along his nerves, not quite touching him, not quite able to get to him but skittering against his consciousness nonetheless.

He knelt on the other side of the circle, and looked down at the line in front of him, pulling in a deep breath. Then he scratched the blood from the concrete floor.

Dean pushed at the door, looking at the metal door jamb, ripped apart where the locks had been forced out. Not good, he thought, slipping inside and pulling out the bottle that contained the kill-witch liquid.

Inside he could hear a voice, rising up the stairs, too low to make out the words. He couldn't hear anything else. Also not good.

He moved down the stairs silently, keeping to the side that was hidden from the room, listening as the conversation below got clearer. He could hear the bewilderment in James' voice, the cold condescension in Spencer's and he crossed the floor behind the columns, his fingers wrapping around the lighter and pulling it out of his jacket.

James saw him and threw back his head, dragging power through himself and lashing it at Spencer. The adept held up his hand and Dean watched the blue lightning crawl and spark mid-air just in front of the more powerful witch for a moment before it dissipated.

"The Wiccan from Detroit," Spencer said, smiling slightly, not turning around. He flung a hand back and Dean felt himself lifted and thrown across the room, one hand gripping the spell bottle hard, the other closing tight around the lighter as he twisted in the air to hit the wall with his back.

"You want a shot at the title, James?" Spencer looked back at him. "You would've had it one day, but not yet and now not ever."

The adept lifted his hands, his eyes rolling back as he called on the demon's power, feeling it fill him up with rage and hatred and pain and the molten raw energy of the souls of the damned. The power flowed from his fingers, wrapping around James and lifting him into the air as tendrils broke free and slid into the younger man's body, his back bowing as he arched away in agony.

Getting to his feet, Dean flicked the lighter, the flame wavering as he strode forward. Spencer looked over his shoulder as Dean raised the bottle, the witch's hand snapping back and locking the hunter in a spell of immobility.

Dean stared at him, unable to move, every part of him paralysed and held with a strength that couldn't have come from any human. He could see and hear and feel. He just couldn't do anything else.

"It's not only James' head I can get inside," Spencer said with a smile.

And the images came.

Heat. Wind. Screams. Excruciating torment. Unending pain. The demon passed out of the circle and stopped in front of him, a flickering not-quite-visible entity of shadow and light that defied his eyes and hurt his mind.

Sam flung up his right arm in front of him as the demon reached out for him, and he heard the low hiss, fury and heat and frustration in the sound as it drew away, the wind gathering into a twisting spiral and bursting out through the big freight door at the side of the warehouse, the high-pitched squeal of metal rent through filling the warehouse.

Lowering his arm, Sam looked at it for a long moment. It'd wanted him, he knew without a doubt. But it hadn't been able to touch him. He got to his feet, not knowing what that meant. He pushed the thought aside. The demon was on its way, possibly to his brother, and he started to hurry for the car, jumping the ripped up metal edges of the big door, seeing the spiralling, dust-filled wind twisting away to the north.

His mother and the house in Kansas. Fire spilling over the ceiling. Screaming soundlessly above him. Sam and endless clicking of the empty gun, his brother's face so hard and cold. His father, smiling at him, the knowledge of what he'd done. What he'd done to save him, ripping at his heart. The hellhound's claws, digging through him, through his guts and slicing through his hands as he tried to protect himself. Hell. The wink of a razor. The pull of the rack. Silver eyes staring into his. Voices that hurt to listen to. The wet slop of falling flesh and the mind-numbing shrieks of the souls on the table. Laughter that emerged from no throat. Pain flowing through him like a river. Despair that dragged him down, pulling him deeper into the darkness. Sam, his face hard and bitter, standing above him, choosing someone else. Sam, eyes glittering as the blood dripped from the vampire's wrist against his mouth.

The wind roared into the room, lifting the tables and sofas and chairs and pitching them in every direction, flinging the furniture hard against the walls, fabric shredded and frames splintering into matchwood with the force. Spencer dropped to his knees, his eyes rolled up in his head as he shouted the incantation against the blinding power of it, his throat working as he tried to override the vibrating shriek in his ears. A slit appeared along one cheek, the flesh opened to the bone, his blood sucked from the wound to spatter across the ceiling. He shuddered.

James fell, the pain gone from his body, landing crumpled on the floor. Against the bar, Dean stumbled forward, the images disappearing from his mind as he was released from the spell that held him. He looked at the witch in the centre of the whirlwind, seeing more and more thin cuts appear over his face and through his clothing.

One shot at this, he thought, dropping the bottle and dragging the knife from his jacket. One shot while the demon was preoccupied with torturing its ex-captor. He rose to his feet, and ran, feeling the wind pluck at him, lifting him off his feet mid-stride as he got closer.

Jump.

Now.

He jumped, twisting high in the air as below the witch exploded, blood and tissue and bone and fabric spreading out, caught by the wind and splattered against the hard surfaces of the room. He closed his eyes as the spray hit his face, and swung down with the knife, slicing through the yielding force of the wind, feeling the blade bite into something solid somewhere deep in the centre as he fell into it toward the floor.

For an instant, the volume and speed of the twisting air rose to unbearable levels, then it was gone, imploding into itself, the crack of the air coming together where it had been simultaneous with the thud as Dean landed on his side in the middle of the floor.

Sam skidded down the stairs, staring around at the complete devastation of the room, Portia running down behind him and pushing past as she ran to James.

Dean wiped his hand over his face, and looked at the liquid covering it in disgust. James got unsteadily to his feet and walked over to him, his arm around Portia, holding out his free hand and taking the hunter's and hauling him to his feet.

"What the hell was that?" The witch looked at the knife.

Dean looked down at Ruby's knife, lifting it, his mouth curving up. "Demon-Be-Gone."

"Handy."

"You have no idea."

"You sure you don't want to stay and fight this?" Dean asked James, standing in the parking lot of the motel.

"We can help you," Sam added, looking from James to Portia.

"Nah, Spencer was right. Ed Stoltz has built enough of a case against me to make life hell for a long time," James said, looking down at the woman beside him. "And the community here wants no part of us."

"We'll start over," Portia said, looking at Sam. "We're used to it. It's the way it's always been. For all of us."

She smiled at Sam. "I'll miss you," she told him, turning to get in the car and looking back over her shoulder at Dean. "Maybe even you."

"I like dogs," Dean said defensively.

"No, you really don't," Portia said gently, getting into the car. She changed into her dog form as James walked around the car, sitting very upright in the front seat.

They watched the car pull away into the night and Sam sighed. "You wanna head home?"

Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "Yeah, I think so."

I-70 W, Missouri

The windshield showed a field of diamonds with the headlights of every oncoming car, in between the regular sweeps of the wipers. Dean's gaze was focussed on the road, his hands keeping the black car between the lines without thought, his senses submerged in the sounds and feel of the join between vehicle and the concrete road they flew along.

Trust was a strangely fragile thing. At one time, his trust in his brother, his father, had been so strong he couldn't have conceived of ever losing it, brushing the slight bends and cracks it'd taken aside, secure in the knowledge that they'd heal, reform, become stronger. Then, one day, it'd been shattered. Still he'd picked up the pieces and patched it together again. Until the next time, and then the next. There was nothing left to put back now. A million pieces, most of which were missing for good, and no framework left to say, yes, I can still feel this.

But trust wasn't essential. At least, not to what had to be done, he thought, staring at the road and hearing his brother's breathing next to him. Only will was essential. Their lives had been pulled apart and shredded so many times it was a kind of miracle that either of them could get back up, start all over. But they'd done it. Sometimes apart. But mostly together.

Was it habit now, he wondered, that held them? Did it matter? Whatever the bond was it was still there. It just wasn't what it had been.

Sam leaned against the cold glass, his eyes absenting tracking the raindrops as they flew past, smeared in elongated lines over the window. The job had been … too evocative, he thought. Brought up too many things that neither of them could talk or think about too much.

Trust. Loyalty. Family. Those were Dean's foundation stones. He'd fucked over all of them at one point or another, he thought wearily, thinking he was doing the right thing, wanting to be doing the right thing, drifting from the path. He'd sworn to save Dean and he'd failed and the pain of that loss had unleashed something that he still didn't know how to deal with, not really. He'd thought he wanted normality, a good life with a partner and a routine and the gratifyingly boring problems that everyone faced, but he'd been wrong about that as well. When she'd offered it to him, he'd been afraid. Afraid that he would disappear in that life, not knowing himself, or anyone else, not trying … even if it meant failing … trying and getting up and trying again.

Starting all over.

He didn't know if he was a good man or not. But he couldn't sit by and do nothing. Not anymore. Couldn't exchange safety for freedom. Couldn't believe in himself, knowing what he knew, and running and hiding from it.

He didn't think Dean would ever trust him again. But worse than that, he thought that perhaps his brother would never trust anyone else again, that deep, well-hidden seam of caring gradually eroded away until he proved himself right. No light at the end of tunnel because he'd never allow himself to feel, to be close to others again.

Time was the only thing that could heal wounds like that. And they had no time. From the moment Jessica had been murdered, they'd had no time to stop and think and heal at all. He could blame his choices on that factor, he supposed. It wouldn't change anything. If anything, it made it worse, that he'd been running head-long into choices that had almost erased him, had broken his brother, had set the world on a path to annihilation.

He'd told Dean that he could show him the light, he thought, closing his eyes. He didn't know if that was true. Didn't know if Dean would let him, even if he could find a way. Didn't know if it was too late. He wished he'd never said it. He couldn't fail his brother again. Couldn't.

You can't keep looking back, Dean told himself. Can't keep looking and hoping that something changed, that it happened different from the way it had. Even with what they were facing, they were still alive, there was still a future, maybe not much of one, but still there as long as they were drawing breath. The past, all the milestones that he could see, back and back and back, that was just pain and mistakes and failures and he'd never find a way forward if he kept trying to go back.

He had good memories, he knew. Some damned fantastic memories, of friends and family, of feeling at peace with himself and his life, of being high as a kite on the knowledge that he was good at what he did. None in the last few years, he acknowledged, a little wryly. But they were there. He'd looked back, trying to see what he could've done differently, how he could have changed what had happened, how it all turned out. There wasn't much he could change. Wasn't much he'd do differently, if the chance came to do it all again. The riddle remained, unanswerable and incomplete.

What he could do was to make sure that Sam had the best possible chance of succeeding at this. Maybe this was why he'd been raised, maybe this was his work, to make sure that the gates were closed and the hellspawn were locked down there forever. He wouldn't be out of a job even if they succeeded, he thought. Eve's children and the dead who couldn't or wouldn't move on would always be there, darkness would still come every night. The hunt would never be over, but saving people … going back to that … feeling that again … that would make it worth getting up in the mornings, wouldn't it?

He thought of Caleb and Rufus, of Bobby and his father and Pastor Jim, and those memories were good, warming him and reminding him that a long, long time ago, he'd loved this life. He didn't know exactly when that had stopped, when he'd gotten tired and had begun to want it to end so he could rest, but he thought it was sometime around the time that he'd lost nearly all of them. And every loss since then had felt like another hammer blow. The realisation that he couldn't do normal, even when nothing was after him or anyone he might with. Civilian life wasn't something he could fit into and that had hurt every bit as much as every other loss, the abandonment of that dream.

Didn't mean that there was no future, he reminded himself. Just meant that it didn't look like apple pie.

"I'm what you've got to look forward to, if you survive, kid. But you won't."

I will, old man, he thought. I haven't finished yet.

"Sam, I've been thinking," Dean said quietly as they crossed into Kansas. "I was wrong."

Sam turned his head, his brow creasing up a little as he tried to think of what Dean was referring to. "What, about James? Dude, we were both ready to gank the guy."

"No, that's not what I meant," Dean said, glancing at him and back to the road. "Back there, when Spencer had me, he screwed with my head. I saw … Mom, and when she died, and … when I look back at what our family's been through, what happened to our friends, seeing all that … pain … I realised that the only way we made through it all was by hanging together."

Sam heard something beneath Dean's words, something in his voice, something crying out from the inside of him. He looked at his brother's profile, sharp and tight against the rain-spattered window behind him.

"We fuck it up, from time to time," Dean continued. "I've fucked it up more times than I can count, thinking that –" He glanced at his brother and stopped. "I know that. But this deal … locking up those sons of bitches in the furnace, it's too important to keep thinking that way, man."

He pulled in a deep breath. "So, if you say you're good, then that's it, I'm with you, a hundred percent."

Sam stared at him for a moment. He wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure what to feel about that. He drew in a breath, feeling an odd pressure down in his lungs, forcing the words past it. "I'm good."

The pressure increased slightly, forcing a cough as his body tried to eject the material in his air passages. The cough sounded deep, phlegmy, and he looked down at his hand, seeing the glint of red on one knuckle. The sight shocked him and he wiped his mouth, glimpsing the red on his fingertips where they'd touched his lips.

It's nothing, he told himself. Just … just nothing. It was a lie and he knew it but the alternative was … he couldn't fail again. Lying to your brother, now, not a good way to start, an astringent voice remarked in his mind.

I'll tell him, Sam promised himself. If it gets worse. I'll tell him.