Chapter 38 Psychopomp

Lebanon, Kansas

Dean walked restlessly down the hall, making a decision as he came into the library. Sam was leaning over the table, the usual stack of books beside him, the leather-bound journal at his elbow, his fingers holding a pen.

"Feel like going for a drink, getting out for a couple of hours?" Dean asked as he walked up to the table.

Sam looked up. It wouldn't be a couple of hours and it wasn't a drink his brother was thinking about, he knew. Dean had gone out last week, announcing the decision abruptly. On that occasion, he'd disappeared half an hour after they'd gotten to the small bar in the town and had reappeared the next morning, looking a lot more relaxed and offering to cook breakfast.

He shook his head. "I've got some things I want to follow through on here," he told him.

"Come on, Sam, loosen up, will ya?" Dean picked up his jacket from the armchair by the hearth and turned around.

It wasn't a very convincing attempt to get him to come along and Sam shook his head again.

"I'll see you in the morning." The corners of his mouth tucked in as he saw his brother's expression change.

"I won't be that long."

"Take your time," Sam said, shrugging.

"Right."

Looking back down at the book, Sam heard his footsteps go down into the war room and back up the stairs, the heavy door clunking shut a minute later and the locking rings turning. In 403 BC there'd been a prophet who'd read something about Heaven, Sam picked up the thread of his thoughts again in the silence. Something about the factions of Heaven.

There were three bars in Lebanon, but he always went back to the same one. It was small and had an interesting mix of customers, the beer he liked and a short-order cook that really knew his way around a grill.

Sitting at the polished timber counter, Dean ordered the special, a cheese and bacon burger that came with chilli fries, and looked around. Not too many in this early, he thought. He wasn't in a rush.

He finished his burger as the evening crowd started to fill the place, ordering another beer.

He had no idea of the name of the giggling brunette, having missed it when she'd introduced herself, the music in the bar hitting a loud patch. She was a little loaded, a lot stacked and didn't seem the type to be worried if he called her by name or not. Climbing the stairs to the two-room apartment, he'd wondered if it had been easier or harder to do this a few years ago. He couldn't remember.

No preliminary conversation was required and he breathed a sigh of relief. Talking to people was getting harder. He wasn't sure if that was a result of the year spent in Purgatory or just the events that had overtaken his life in the last few months. He followed her into the small bedroom, tasted the bourbon and Coke in her mouth, ignoring the bubbling laughter that spilled from her non-stop as he realised it wasn't that she was unusually ticklish, it was just her way of dealing with the situation, and lost himself in the smell and taste of her, in the feel of her skin and the way she yielded. The giggles died away eventually and he felt the last of his tensions dissolve when she arched up under him and the staccato ripple inside her pushed him over.

Warsaw, Missouri

Kevin turned restlessly on the single bed, his feet kicking the covers off, pushing them down to the end. The whispering in his mind grew louder, and softer, brushing against him like waves on a shore.

Kevin … have you been working very hard on my tablet?

Kevin clung to the shreds of sleep, not wanting to hear that voice, those whispers. Not again. Not ever again.

Kevin … I told you about them … how they use people and then let them go … dead end, Kevin

He knew who the voice was talking about. His eyes opened as he thought he heard a noise on the boat, the scrape of a hard-soled shoe against the metal floor. Getting to his feet he walked to the door of the bedroom, staring out into the moonlit interior of the main cabin.

Not here, Kevin … I'm inside of you, Kevin … you can't hide anymore … I can see you, feel you … I'm in your mind, Kevin … deep in your mind …

He searched the cabin frantically, hearing the demon's soft chuckling. There was no way Crowley could be here, could be anywhere near here, he told himself furiously. He was having a nightmare, or cracking up, but he was still safe, still protected.

Walking to the sink on the wall, he opened the cabinet above it, his eyes searching for any kind of pill to stop the voice, stop the whispering. There were none on the narrow shelves and he shut the mirrored door with a frustrated bang, staring at himself.

Last time you resisted me, you lost a finger … imagine what it will be this time …

The pain was sudden, horrifically reminiscent of the knife's blade chopping through his finger, the acid bite of the air in the raw meat, the shrieking of the nerve ends. He stared at the stump where his right hand had been, hearing his heart booming in his ears.

and next time …

Pain bit into his left arm, the sweetish-coppery tang of blood filling his nostrils as his blood jetted from the wounds and splashed over the painted metal walls, over the sink, spraying up and spotting the mirror in front of him.

and the time after that …

His legs disappeared at the knees and he screamed with the pain, toppling backwards into a spreading pool of red, every beat of his heart pumping his blood out onto the floor.

Lebanon, Kansas

Dean grabbed his phone as it rang, hitting the call button and glancing over his shoulder at the girl sleeping behind him. He'd been halfway through getting dressed and he dragged his shirt the rest of the way over his head, frowning as he heard the frantic voice on the other end of the line.

"Slow down," he muttered softly, picking up his jacket and boots, looking back to see the girl roll over and pull the covers over her shoulder. He walked quickly and silently from the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him.

"What's going on?"

"He's here, Dean, you have to come, he's here somehow and I can't stop it from happening, he's gonna find out," Kevin babbled over the background noise of some song playing at full blast.

"Who's there?" Dean asked, his voice still low. He shoved his feet into the boots, yanking on the laces one-handed. "What's happening? What's he gonna find out?"

"I can't tell you that over the phone – Dean, he's – please, please, come – now!"

Dean looked at the phone in his hand. The call had cut out. Pulling up the laces and tying them, he pulled on his jacket and went out of the apartment and down the stairs, taking them three and four at a time. The Impala was at the kerb and he slid over the hood.

There weren't many contenders for the 'he' part, he thought, starting the engine and pulling away without much of a squeal, heading for the road that led home. Just the one, really. But there was no way, no way in hell that Crowley could've found Kevin or could get through the traps and guards that covered Garth's boat.

He spun the car around when he entered the illusion field, knowing exactly where the stairs and door were, leaving the motor running and the lights on as he bolted to the utility hut and pushed the key into the lock.

Sam looked up as Dean came in, glancing at his watch. Three a.m. Early for his brother.

"What's up?"

"Got an emergency with Kevin, grab your stuff."

US-24, Kansas

"So what did he say?" Sam said again, screwing the lid back on the thermos and sipping the hot, black coffee.

"He said 'he was here' and he couldn't stop something from happening," Dean said, chewing the edge of his lip as he stared at the road in front of them. "I think. Something like that. He had music playing in the background and it was hard to hear him."

Sam ran a hand through his hand, leaning his head back against the seat. "'He' being Crowley?"

"Who else?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed uneasily. "But Crowley isn't getting through the wards around that boat."

"That's what I thought, but we really don't know what Crowley can and can't do," Dean pointed out.

"You don't think he's just having a few bad dreams?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "He sounded … he sounded as if he was freaking out."

"We're pushing him too hard on this," Sam said diffidently.

"I know."

Warsaw, Missouri

Dean looked over the sigils and traps as he moved around the deck of the boat, Sam heading in the opposite direction, meeting him at the main companionway.

"Anything broken?"

Sam shook his head and opened the metal door, holding it aside as Dean turned and went down the narrow, ladder-like staircase below decks.

"Kevin?" Dean banged on the door to the main cabin. It was the first time that door had been locked since they'd moved the prophet on board. "Kevin, open up!"

From the other side of the door, there was a sharp, metallic squeal and the door opened, Kevin stepping out with a frying pan raised at head-height, looking at them and then past them.

"Hey, whoa, what's going on?" Dean flinched back from the pan, brows drawing together as he took in Kevin's face, drawn and shadowed and filled with anxiety. "What's with the SOS?"

Kevin backed into the cabin and the brothers followed him in, walking past as he shut the door behind them and pushed the levers back into place.

"It's him," Kevin said.

"It's who?" Sam asked, looking around the cabin. It looked about the same as the last time he'd seen it – chaotic.

"Crowley," Kevin said from behind them.

They turned and Dean looked at him sharply. "What about him?"

"He's in my head."

"He's … in your head?" Sam repeated, glancing at Dean. "You mean, in your dreams?"

"NO!" Kevin shouted at him. "In my HEAD! You know what that means?!"

"Yeah," Dean frowned at him. "Means we have up your anxiety meds."

Kevin's gaze cut to him.

"Kevin, you're dreaming," Dean said, more gently. "If Crowley knew where you were, he'd do a helluva lot more than mess with your head."

Kevin stared at him. He knew that was true. Knew it. Didn't change anything. Didn't change the whispers in the night. Didn't change the crawling sensation in his mind, the feeling that Crowley was controlling him.

"Where's Garth?" Sam asked.

"On a case," Kevin said, gesturing vaguely. "I don't know. I haven't heard from him."

"Okay," Dean said. "Well, what'd you want to tell us that you couldn't say on the phone?" He looked at the pan waving beside Kevin's head in exasperation. "Would you put the frying pan down, please?"

Kevin dropped it onto the drainer next to the sink, his head tipping back as he swayed on his feet. "I translated the second trial from the tablet," he said wearily, walking between them to the table.

Dean and Sam looked at each other and Dean turned back to Kevin. "Kevin, that's –"

Kevin spun around, cutting him off. "If Crowley's in my head, then he knows!"

"Okay, uh, he's definitely not –" Sam started to say.

"No, he's not in your –" Dean said over the top of him.

"– in your head," Sam continued, shaking his head. "Okay? Just –"

"– in your head," Dean finished, gesturing decisively.

"Stay with us," Sam finished, looking at Kevin. "What's the second trial?"

Kevin looked from one to the other. "An innocent soul has to be rescued from Hell and delivered unto Heaven."

"What?"

"Unto – that's the way God talks," Kevin mumbled, holding his notebook. Dean closed his eyes briefly.

"Rescue a soul from Hell?" Sam repeated uncertainly. "You mean, like actually go to … Hell?" He looked at Kevin, his voice rising slightly. "How do you get "unto Heaven" … I mean, how do you even get a soul out of Hell?"

Dean looked between them, hearing the edge in Sam's voice. All good questions, he thought. "We're going to need an expert."

Sam looked at him. "An expert?"

"Yeah," Dean said, turning back to Kevin. "Okay, look, we've got to get started on this … you're safe here, Kevin. We checked all the protection coming in, it's all there and it's all intact. You got something you can take when you're trying to sleep?"

"I – I – no," Kevin said, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I'm out of everything."

"Okay," Dean nodded, pulling out a bottle of over-the-counter tablets from his pocket and tossing the bottle to him. He could feel Sam's questioning look and ignored it. "They're effective, but you wake up feeling like a zombie, so go easy on them?"

Kevin looked at the label and nodded slowly. "Thanks."

"Crowley's not here, Kevin," Sam added, shunting the thought of going to Hell to one side. "He can't get in here, he can't mess with your head. It's just … too much work, maybe. See if you can get some rest for a while."

"I'll try," Kevin said, still staring at the pills. "How long will you be?"

"As long as it takes," Dean said, shrugging. "You need something?"

"No, not straight away." Kevin turned away. "I'll try these, try and get some sleep."

"Good idea," Sam said, turning and following Dean up the narrow corridor. "As much as you can."

Wildcat Drive, Warsaw

"Find me a nice crossroads, somewhere close but remote," Dean said, tossing the map to his brother as he started the engine.

"You want to find a demon?"

"Quickest way," Dean said, pulling out and turning onto the road that crossed the river. "We need someone who knows Hell. And the crossroads demons know things that the regular grunts don't."

"How do you want to handle it?"

"We'll grab the demon, take it somewhere where the screams won't be noticed and do what we've always done to get information, Sam," Dean said, brows drawn together as he headed out of town.

"Dean, this isn't that simple," Sam said, staring down at the map. "Hell isn't a place on this plane –"

"Sam, even if it isn't – it has to be possible because you went down there in your body. So did Adam. And Cas pulled your body out," Dean said, glancing at him. "So there has to be a way to get in there in our bodies, not just as souls, some junction between the two realities – I don't know."

Sam thought about it. He was right, of course. He'd jumped in the hole in his flesh and blood and bone. Thinking about it, it had to be a transdimensional doorway, but that certainly didn't preclude the fact that they could, theoretically, find another doorway and get in. He focussed on the map, tapping the closest crossroad. He wondered vaguely if there was anything about it in the library. Gates he'd read plenty about it, closing them not so much. The demons were getting out of Hell, had been for years – probably centuries or millennia – before the Wyoming gate had been breached. He looked at his brother. Dean had thought of a way to find out, he wasn't going to be easy to talk into going back to the library and searching book by book for the answer. He'd raise it if the demon didn't know, he thought.

"I didn't think there were any innocent souls in Hell?" he said, the other part of the trial returning to him.

Dean shrugged. "We've met a few people who made deals for someone else's benefit, not their own. They didn't commit a mortal sin. Maybe that's who we're looking for?"

"Maybe," Sam agreed. He wasn't sure that the act of making the deal wasn't a qualifier. Another thing he should've known, should've researched before this. He sighed. There was so damned information in the library. But it would take time to sift through it, time to study it, even a fraction of it.

Intersection Poorboy and Kindle Roads, Missouri

Dean finished the circle as Sam closed the lid, putting the box into the hole. He scraped the dirt and gravel back over the top, and straightened up, looking around.

"Winchesters," the demon said, his voice sour with disappointment.

Dean and Sam turned to see a stocky man standing a few feet from them, his eyes briefly turning red and returning to the deep brown of his vessel.

"What happened to the hot chicks?" Dean asked, his gaze flicking up and down the man.

"I'm out of here," the demon sniffed, turning. He stopped and looked down.

The devil's trap encompassed the entire intersection and he stood within it. Sam gave him a rueful shrug.

"Maybe not."

Dean turned away, getting into the car and backing it into the trap. He got out and opened the trunk as Sam pulled out the serrated, bone-handled knife and gestured sharply to the car.

"We need to ask you a few things," he said casually. "Won't take long."

The demon skirted the edge of the trap, watching the knife as Sam drove him closer to the car.

"Want to kill me, you mean?"

"Nah," Dean said, coming up behind him and grabbing both arms. "Not unless you ask us to."

He pushed the demon to the trunk, and Sam pressed the point of the knife against its cheek, the tip slipping a little across the skin, the fine cut throbbing with a red-gold light.

Warsaw, Missouri

The building was two miles out of town, by the river, empty and abandoned. A part of what had once been a freight yard, storing food and merchandise for the boats to take up or down river, it was too small for modern machinery, for the ships that now plied the river's path and it had been forgotten and left to rot.

Glancing up at the low ceiling, Dean dragged a crate over to the concrete strip between the two railway channels and climbed onto it, painting a devil's trap above him with the last of the red spray paint. Sam looked at the steel chair in what was left of the office down at one end and picked up, carrying it to the trap and setting it underneath as Dean moved the crate aside.

The demon moved along readily with the knife in its back and Dean pushed it into the chair, shackling its wrists to the armrests. Almost immediately the demon began to twitch with the steel under it and around its wrists.

"What do you want?" It looked up at them. "When Crowley finds out about this –"

Dean lifted a brow. "He'll kill you. A lot less quickly than we will."

The demon looked away. Dean pulled out the silver flask from his jacket pocket. It once again held holy water, not fire water. He tipped a little over the demon, watching expressionlessly as it threw back its head and howled, steam and blisters rising from the smooth, dark skin.

"We need a way into Hell," Sam said when the noise had died down. "A way to get in our bodies."

"I ain't got nothin'," the demon said through clenched teeth. "You can bite me."

Dean glanced at Sam, mouth curving on one side. "Yeah? Sam, there's an IV bag in the trunk. Filled with a blessed saline solution," he added to the demon. "Grab it."

The demon's head snapped up and he turned in the chair as Sam walked over to the door, disappearing for a moment and reappearing with the bag, a tube and a needle.

"Hang onto the bag," Dean said to his brother, pushing the needle into the vein in the demon's arm and connecting the tube. "Surface damage is pretty minimal really …" he said, going to the bag and turning the small plastic valve. "Internal … that's another thing altogether."

Sam nodded, looking down at the demon's upturned face. "This is going to hurt like … like hell," he said conversationally. "Wouldn't it be a lot easier just to tell us how to get into Hell … uninvited?"

The demon looked at the bag he held, breathing fast. Dean turned the valve a little more and several droplets slid down the tube, gathering speed as more emerged through the connection.

"I don't know!"

Dean glanced at Sam. "I think he probably does know."

Sam nodded, the movement jiggling the bag a little. More drops raced down the tube, now inches from the needle.

"Yeah, I think he knows."

The demon stared fixedly at the tube as the first of the drops slipped through the join to the needle and disappeared. A second later, it threw back its head, the high-pitched shriek filling the big room, bouncing from the hard floor and ceiling, drilling into their ears.

"STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!" It screamed, the meatsuit convulsing in the chair, the handcuffs jerking hard as it shook with the spasms induced by the agony of the liquid slipping through its veins.

Sam nodded to Dean and he turned the valve off, tapping the line to let the last remaining drops through. The demon's eyes rolled back in their sockets as the liquid ran through its body, pumped efficiently by the heart.

"You remember the question?" Dean asked, lifting his hand to the valve again.

The demon stared at him, its expression a mix of rage and submission. "There's a way – a back way," it ground out, teeth snapping together as another set of tremors shook it. "For a price."

"Keep going," Dean said encouragingly, his fingertips resting lightly against the valve.

"The psychopomps – some of them – will guide a human through."

"Pyscho-whats?" Dean frowned at him.

"Psychopomps," Sam said. "The soul guides."

"Reapers?" Dean looked at the demon.

"Reapers are only some of them, highest ranked," the demon stuttered, unable to take his eyes off Dean's grip on the valve. "There're others … the valkyries, the sparrows, the crows of Morrigu –"

Dean glanced at Sam who nodded. "Sparrows usually take them to Heaven, but the others, they guide the souls of the dead to all places."

"Right," the demon said. "You want the crows. They aren't under the strict control of Death. They know every way in and out."

"How do we find them?"

"You find someone who's dying, and you make an offering." The demon dragged his gaze from Dean's hand to look at Sam. "Crows will come to heart. Fresh heart."

Dean grimaced. "Human?"

The demon shook its head. "No, anything bigger than a cat's will do."

"Then what?" Sam asked.

"Then you ask for a guide."

"Just like that?" Dean looked at him. "And they'll show us?"

"For a price, like I said," the demon said. "They take you in and they bring you out."

"What price?"

"How the fuck should I know?" The demon blurted out. "I ain't made no deal with crows! They want something that only you give them, something that only you can do."

Dean's eyes narrowed. That didn't sound like a deal he wanted to make.

"Alright, how do we find a soul in Hell?"

The demon looked at the bag. "What kind of soul?"

"An innocent soul," Dean said.

"A soul that's not supposed to be there," Sam added.

"There are no innocent souls in Hell," the demon said slowly. "What d'you mean, not supposed to be there?"

"That's what we're asking you," Dean growled, tapping at the valve. The demon swallowed hastily.

"Sometimes, deals get made," it said, glancing away from them.

"Deals?" Sam asked, looking at his brother.

"I've never seen it, but I've heard," the demon said in a rush. "Exchanges happen. Sometimes."

"Exchanges … as in prisoner-of-war exchanges?" Dean stared at him.

"Yeah, something like that," the demon agreed. "A soul like that, not in Hell for its sins, that soul is supposed to look different. Supposed to glow a little. Doesn't stop it from being tortured, you understand."

"No," Sam said sourly. "Why would innocence be a guard against torture?"

The demon shrugged. "You go into Hell in your flesh, you won't really see the souls – or the demons, unless they're only passing through on their way someplace else."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

"Different dimension, man, different plane," the demon said. "You can't see them really. They can't see you, really. But the demons who are passing through, they can see you. They're in their meatsuits. You can see them. And you can see the soul that shouldn't be there."

"What about weapons?" Sam looked at Dean.

"Knife's okay," the demon answered. "Guns not. Too much heat. Bullets overheat and there goes your hand or whatever's closest to where you're carrying it."

"Perfect," Dean said, shaking his head. "How big is it?"

The demon barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You've been there."

Dean's face hardened and his fingers tightened on the valve. The demon's gaze flicked to the bag and it shook his head.

"Huge, as big as this world," it said quickly. "But it operates on different rules. Think about what you need to find. You'll get there. Different for souls. Different for mind. Different for flesh. You can't follow a single path, in and out. You got to keep in mind what you're looking for, coming and going."

It looked up at them. "Kill me. Crowley won't. He'll make sure I end up in the abyss and never die. I told you everything. Kill me."

"No." Dean looked at him thoughtfully. "Not yet. We'll leave you here, tucked away, nice and hidden, but if you aren't telling us the truth, you'll wish you had Crowley to deal with."

The demon's face twisted. "You can't hide me from Crowley! I told you the truth. I told you everything!"

"We'll see," Dean said, turning away. He picked up a long length of pipe from the wall and brought it back, propping it up behind the chair and taking the IV bag from his brother, hanging it from the top. "We'll be back when we're done. If it's all good, you can die then."

"NO!" The demon shrieked at him. "Crowley will FIND me!"

"No, he won't," Sam contradicted firmly. "No one will find you."

US-65 N, Missouri

"Where are we going to find someplace people are dying?" Sam looked out at the scenery flashing by. "Where are you going?"

"Sedalia," Dean said shortly. "Hospital. People die in hospitals all the time."

"What about the heart?"

"I'll find one."

Sam glanced at him uneasily. Dean was wound up tight. He didn't think it was solely due to the trial. It'd been four years for his brother. Three for him. Neither of them wanted to revisit the memories that the pit had left in them.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," Sam said lightly. "Just … never mind."

Dean's gaze didn't waver from the road ahead of them. He flicked on the headlights as the sun set, turning into the downtown area and following the signs to the nearest hospital.

"Where do you want to meet?" Sam asked as the black car stopped in the slot in the parking lot.

"ER entrance." Dean got out and locked the car, looking over the roof as Sam got out the other side. "Got everything?"

Sam nodded.

Sedalia, Missouri

Sam stood close by the alley mouth, next to the building's Emergency Room entrance, waiting. After five minutes had passed he saw his brother walking toward him, a dark plastic bag in one hand.

"That was quick," he commented, looking down at the bag. "Where'd you –"

Dean shook his head. "You don't want to know."

He looked around the dark street. "Are we supposed to put this somewhere? Burn it?"

"No, you're not supposed to burn it," a voice came from the mouth of the alley and they turned to see a man leaning against the front of a taxi, parked there. "You're supposed to give it to me."

He was perhaps five foot ten or eleven inches, with a long, lean face, short, tightly curled black hair, beard and moustache, black eyes looking at them warily as he reached for the bag. Dean looked at Sam and handed it over.

"You're the crow? Arjay?" Sam looked at him quizzically.

"You know my name?"

"We know what you do," Sam said cautiously. "We need a guide, into Hell."

"Visitor's pass," Dean clarified.

The man's mouth curved slightly at the corner. "No one wants to get into Hell."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "But you can do it."

"You're mortals. It will be pricey."

"How pricey?" Dean asked, feeling his stomach drop.

"You two are resourceful," Arjay said thoughtfully, looking from one to the other. "One day … you will owe me a favour."

"You say that like you know us," Sam said. Dean felt the back of his neck prickle.

"Of course," Arjay said disparagingly. "You're the Winchesters."

Dean shook his head. "Sorry … have we met?"

Arjay tilted his head to one side. "No. I had the occasion to guide a friend of yours to Hell."

"A friend?" Sam snapped, feeling an icy shiver zip up his spine. "What friend?"

"Bobby Singer," Arjay said, shrugging.

The prickle became a searing flash and Dean shook his head. "No, no, no. See Bobby, he was on the good side of things, and good guys … go to the penthouse."

The crow shrugged, black eyes shining. "Usually, you are correct. On this occasion, I believe Heaven arranged a swap."

"A swap?" Dean growled, his fingers moving automatically to the back of his belt.

Arjay saw the movement and smiled. "Heaven wanted a soul from the Pit. Crowley wanted your friend. They made an exchange."

Sonofabitch dick angels, Dean thought furiously. "Bobby didn't do anything wrong!"

"No," Arjay agreed. "But the matters of Heaven and Hell, they are not strictly about right and wrong, are they?"

Sam looked at Dean, his mouth compressed. They both knew, in excruciating detail, the truth of that.

Dean shook his head. "Okay, let's do this. How much for two tickets down and three back?"

"Dean," Sam said warningly.

"What?" he snapped, glancing at him.

"Come here," Sam muttered, turning from the crow and walking a few feet away. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"You heard him, Sam, Bobby's in Hell," Dean said, staring at him. "We're gonna spring him."

"We've gone over this, Dean," Sam said, his eyes narrowing. "I have to do the trials. Solo."

"This is Bobby we're talking about Sam," Dean said sharply. "Now, let's face it, you have not been up to full speed lately, okay? We got one shot at this, we can't miss!"

Sam's face tightened. "I'm not gonna miss. I'll bring him back."

He walked back to the crow. "I'm in. Just me."

Arjay nodded. "Follow me."

"Wait, wait, wait. How does this …" Dean started, stopping as he realised he didn't have a word for what they were doing. "… work?"

"Not to fret," Arjay said soothingly. "We'll be back in exactly twenty four hours time. Return for him then."

He walked between them, toward the alley, not looking back to see if Sam was following. Sam looked at Dean and turned away, following the crow into the darkness.

Dean watched him go. It was a bad idea. He knew it. But there was absolutely nothing he could do except let it happen. Looking at his watch, he noted the time and walked resolutely away from the alley, back to the car.

Sam followed Arjay as the alley continued along the back of the hospital building, dog-legging around a corner. The crow opened a mesh gate in a chainlink fence and walked through. The entire dead end in front of them had been covered in street art and the psychopomp stopped in the centre, looking at the flat painting of a door opposite them. Sam looked around. The art wasn't the usual mish-mash of street artist work … on each of the three walls surrounding them creatures had been painted, some of which he recognised. It was, he realised, a surreal rendering of the worlds the crow had access to.

"Take my hand," Arjay said, his gaze fixed on the door and Sam looked down, gingerly putting his hand into the man's.

The alley began to shake and Sam's head snapped up. The paint on the walls was moving, bleeding toward the flat two-dimensional door, the colours blending and twisting, moving faster and faster. He wasn't sure if they were moving as well, his stomach roiling with a nauseating disorientation as the doorway began to glow, a light that wasn't light, white that wasn't white, precisely, but every colour, flickering and coruscating around the edges. They weren't moving, he suddenly realised, mouth clamped tightly shut as his stomach flipped over, the wall was moving toward them. The door was moving toward them.

It reached them and the light licked around and over and through them and they dissolved.

For an endless moment, Sam was in complete blackness, hanging alone. He couldn't feel the psychopomp's hand. Couldn't feel himself. Blackness that no more black than the white light had been white surrounded him. He couldn't breathe. Wasn't sure his heart beat in his chest. Couldn't hear. Couldn't –

The landing was jarring and he staggered as he felt his feet hit the ground, knees locking, his grip on the crow shaken loose as he took a half-step to one side. Surrounding them was a forest, the ground covered in thick leaf-fall, the light flat and pewter-coloured, without direction.

"So, this is Hell?" he asked.

"Not at all," Arjay said, with a slight smile. "This is Purgatory."

Sam swallowed, staring at him. "What do you mean, this is Purgatory. This isn't what I paid for – I booked the Hell tour!"

"Whoa, whoa, Winchester – detach," Arjay chided. "This is … hell-adjacent. It's a more discreet entrance to the pit."

He turned and gestured down the slope. "Follow the stream, to where three trees meet as one. Where they meet, there are rocks and between the rocks … there is a gateway. A portal."

"A portal?" Sam said, brow creased as he forced himself to memorise the instructions.

"On of Hell's … back doors," the crow said with a shrug. "You can get in there."

"So, what, you're not coming with me?"

Arjay snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Smuggling a mortal across the borders is risky enough, but gate-crashing a Winchester into Hell?"

Sam didn't miss the fleeting expression that crossed the crow's face. Fear, he thought.

"No," the psychopomp said, glancing at his watch. "I'll be back in twenty four hours – precisely. Be here."

Sam's jaw tightened as he realised that he would be doing this trial alone. Completely alone. He pulled the serrated blade from his jacket pocket and looked down the slope.

"It's a good thing you brought that," the psychopomp remarked, looking at the knife. "This is not an easy place."

There was a flicker of light and he disappeared, and Sam turned in a circle, fingers closing hard around the bone handle. He tried to memorise the clearing, the shapes of the trees and how they were placed around him. Then he looked down the slope and started to walk toward the sound of the stream in the valley below.

US-65 S, Missouri

Dean looked down at his hands, feeling the ache in them and loosening his grip on the wheel.

He'd been struggling to keep his thoughts away from what his brother was doing, where he was going, for the last fifteen miles, struggling to think of what he could do that would be useful. So far, all he'd come up with was getting back to Kevin, making sure the kid was taking his pills and getting some rest and not freaking out.

His memories of Hell wouldn't have been useful down there anyway, he told himself again. He hadn't been there in his body. And Cas had told him that he'd been down deep in the levels, not where Sam would find Bobby. It wouldn't have helped.

His brother's memories wouldn't help either. The Cage was the deepest level. And Sam had been trapped in it. He dragged in a deep breath. Sam had found a way to put the pieces back together. Had found a way to keep going. He wasn't sure it'd been completely successful, but he'd been mostly functional.

Could he say the same thing about himself, he wondered? Mostly functional? Nightmares and a deep well of anger, despair and the crushing weight of everything he'd done.

I didn't do anything wrong!

No, you didn't, the demon had said soothingly, the razor sliding around the muscles of his face, lifting it free from the anchoring points. You just wanted to save little Sammy. It's not fair, is it? And you know, any other time, any other circumstances, you wouldn't have been here. God loves self-sacrifice. It's usually a gold-plated pass upstairs. Sometimes I think the angels are more evil than we are.

He shunted the memory aside and felt the ache in his fingers again, saw the bones of his hand white through the taut skin stretched over them, felt the trickle of sweat threading its way down his neck.

It's not blame that falls on you, the angel had said. Not for breaking the seal. Not for being too weak to withstand the pain.

It didn't matter. Didn't matter if he'd been played. Didn't matter if none of it had been within his control. One thing had. And he'd failed himself.

He saw the turn for Warsaw and changed lanes, looking for someplace that would have food.

Warsaw, Missouri

The door was no longer locked from the inside, Dean realised as he pushed on the metal handle, opening it and walking through. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

"Yo, Kev, it's me."

His stomach was growling as the smells of the burgers and fries ticked his nose and he walked down to the main cabin.

"Kevin!"

The squeal of the hinges was behind him and he turned to see the young man standing in the small storage room under the companionway stairs.

"I believed the closet would be safest," Kevin said, by way of explanation.

"Safe from … what?" Dean asked slowly.

"Crowley."

Looking away and setting the food on the table, Dean wondered how he was going to break through this particular delusion. Kevin really needed someone around, a lot more often than he and Sam could make it, and more often than Garth was apparently providing.

"He's in my head, Dean," Kevin continued agitatedly. "And if he's in my head then he knows where I am! You know, we should move out and find another place –"

"Geez, Kev," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "Would you chill out? Huh?"

Kevin looked at him, eyes wide and staring.

"Have a burger." Dean pulled one from the sack on the tray and held it out, repressing the urge to roll his eyes at Kevin's suspicious expression. Kid was definitely doing it without a net. "Come on, don't lose it on me now, dude."

Kevin stepped reluctantly out of the store room as Dean put the burger on the table, pulling his from the sack.

"Just … tell me when this all ends," Kevin said as he walked to the table. He looked at the burger for a moment. "That's all I want to hear."

"Well, like I told you before, this … isn't going to end," Dean said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact as he propped himself on the edge of the table and looked at the kid. Kevin lifted his head and stared morosely back at him.

There wasn't any easy way to let Kevin down gently.

"Look, man," he said, unwrapping the burger in his hand. "Other guys, they got it easy, you know? It's all backyard barbecues and … bowling teams, but you and me? We gotta carry a little extra weight."

He looked down, his stomach flipping over at the euphemism. A little extra weight. Like it was … an extra piece of luggage or something. Not the responsibility for six billion people. Not fighting evil and risking their necks every single day. Not the prospect of no one to be close to, no home, no safe place to rest. No, just … an extra bag … or two … to lug around.

"I can't take it," Kevin said, shaking his head as he picked a piece of lettuce from the inside of his burger and nibbled on it.

Dean watched him, noting the tremble in the boy's fingers, the way his gaze shifted from side to side. He was their only hope. Their only means of shutting down one of the worst evils in the world they lived in. One more trial and Sam would be able to lock the demonspawn inside their domain, for good. No more possessions. No more deals. He knew the demons would still be able to whisper and tempt and lie. But that would be all. People would have a chance to choose the right thing, instead of being forced into doing the wrong thing.

"Yes, you can," he said, his voice hardening. "Hey, look at me. You didn't choose this, I know that. But you're in it now. So you need to find a way to suck it up, because that's what we do. None of us chose this. We all got played. But let me tell you, if you get on board with getting on with it, the ride is a lot smoother." He looked down at the food and pushed the tray toward the boy. "French fry?"

Kevin looked down at the tray and picked it up. "I'm going to be in my room," he said, turning away from the table and heading back to the store room. "Let me know when there's a good day."

Dean watched him walking away, carrying the tray. The tray that still held the last, long-awaited bit of his meal. "That's my pie."

Kevin glanced back at him as he slammed the door shut behind him and he almost saw the words in the boy's eyes. Suck it up.

Purgatory

The forest was silent, in a way that real woods never were. Sam felt himself straining to hear anything as he moved down the slope, his own sounds, the rustling of the leaves underfoot, the pounding of his blood in his ears, seemed far too loud in that dead quiet.

He remembered how Dean had been, when he'd gotten out. On edge, every sense on full alert all the time, unable to sleep, to rest, his reactions hair trigger. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to loosen the tension he could feel knotting his shoulders and back and neck. He'd barely been here an hour and he could feel exhaustion creeping into his muscles from the awareness of what was in here with him.

The crackle of a twig, breaking under weight, brought his head up immediately. He stopped, and turned slowly, scanning the dull-coloured woods, listening for another sound, nostrils flaring as he searched for any scent on the barely moving air. The vampire dropped to the path behind him, its guttural snarl laden with a malodorous blast of decomposition as it hit him from the front, teeth descended fully. The arm that hit his chest was like iron, and its weight took him down to the ground as he squirmed to one side, getting his forearm up and across its throat, feeling for his knife that lay somewhere next to him, knocked loose with the impact. His fingers closed around it and he stabbed at the creature, seeing its primitive weapon drop beside him when it rolled off him and away.

He swept up the stone axe with one hand, crouching as he faced the vampire. The weight of the weapon was reassuring, the length of the chipped blade long enough to make decapitation possible.

"Human," the vampire crooned at him, eyes deeply recessed and blood red. "Delicious."

Sam stared at it, swinging the axe slightly. It was faster, he thought, feeling a trickle of blood down his arm. Gotten in a bite in that brief flurry. But he had a longer reach, longer still with the axe. He just had to keep it off him.

The vampire broke left and Sam half-turned, swearing at himself when he was forced to reverse the turn, the vamp shifting right in a blur and launching itself at him. Its full weight hit him and he staggered backwards a couple of steps, staying on his feet more by will than balance, his fingers locking in the front of the monster's shirt. The axe rose fast and smooth, its weight suddenly manageable, the blade whistling low as it swept against the vamp's neck and took off its head.

Releasing the body, Sam stumbled forward, his breath rasping in his throat, fingers still tightly gripping the weapon. Now he knew why Dean's axe from this place had become such a talisman to him. It was clumsy and heavy and awkward to carry and it needed a lot of muscle to manoeuvre it around, but it got the job done. He bent, picking up Ruby's knife and wiping it clean on his jeans and turned back to the sloping trail, following the sound of the stream.

The watercourse lay along the bottom of the small valley, twisting and turning with the land, dropping here and there in a series of small waterfalls. He couldn't see any signs of creatures down near the running water and wondered vaguely if that was significant.

Three trees growing as one, he told himself, dragging his thoughts back to what the crow had told him. He followed the bank, ducking under branches, stepping over logs, checking his footing on the slick coating of mildew and moss-covered leaves that clogged the edge. The trees were tall and slender, but the undergrowth was rampant, bracken and vines and shrubs tangled together, catching at his feet and legs.

He didn't hear it. He thought later that he should've smelled it, that rank smell of a predator, the unmistakably canine scent of wet dog. It rose in front of him without a sound and he threw himself backwards, feeling the edge of his jacket flutter as the long, curved claws passed through it, snagging at the reinforced zipper and yanking him forward.

No silver. The thought stampeded through his mind. Lifting his foot, he slammed his boot against the werewolf's chest, sending it crashing back into the low undergrowth.

No fucking silver!

Sam scrambled to his feet, Ruby's knife in one hand, the stone blade in the other, as the monster appeared to spring to its feet, a deep, rumbling growl emerging from the chest. They were a lot more wolf here, a lot less human. A lot bigger. Stronger. Faster.

He spun aside as it charged him again, sweeping the stone blade and feeling it bite through the long thigh muscles and leg bone, the wolf's rumble rising suddenly to a high-pitched yelp as it fell to the trail floor. Sam's head snapped around, wondering how many others that yelp would bring to him.

Dropping to his knees on the creature's back, he drove the knife through the base of the skull and lifted the axe in both hands. The monster arched under him, toppling him to one side and he felt the claws punch through his shoulder, agonising pain wiping out the strength in that arm, the blade dropping a little as his fingers sprang free of it involuntarily.

One bite, he thought, turning his head away from its open jaws, dripping with ropey strands of yellowish saliva, thick, foul breath that gusted over his face. His scrabbling fingers found the haft of the axe and he lifted it, pain sheeting from his hand to his chest at the effort. No second chances here, he reminded himself, teeth grinding as he lifted the point of the slightly curved stone up fast. It slid in behind the jaw, and he felt a moment's resistance before it went deeper, the wolf's howl cut off as the length of the axe penetrated its brain.

Pushing it off him, Sam spat out the acid-tasting bile that had filled his throat and pulled the stone blade free, grabbing the monster's shoulder and rolling it toward him to get Ruby's knife from the back of the skull. Stepping backward, he watched its skin ripple suddenly, shuddering against the ground.

Recovering or dying, he wondered? Didn't matter. He had to get out of here before the noise brought anything else. His shoulder was throbbing and he eased the jacket away for a moment, looking at the mess of blood and torn flesh that he could see through his shirt. Dean had told him that he'd healed up, every twelve hours here. He wasn't sure he'd have twelve hours to manage that. He hoped it wouldn't kill him when he got back to his world.

Around the next bend of the narrow watercourse, he saw them. Three trees, growing from the same root system, curving up and outwards against the flat grey sky. At the base, boulders lay in an untidy heap and he walked toward them quickly, looking for a hollow, or a gap, someplace he could squeeze through.

Sheathing the knife and laying the axe on the ground, he gripped the closest rock, pulling back against it, face screwing up as the effort sent fresh bolts of pain from his shoulder into his chest. The rock teetered on edge for a moment then fell forward and the air around him started moving, faster and faster, rushing into the darkness of the gap the rock had left.

"It's a rabbit hole," he muttered to himself, staring at it. "This is nuts."

He picked up the axe and took a step closer, feeling the same sensation of pulling as he'd felt in the alley when Arjay had opened the door. He took another hesitant step and he was back in the blackness, unmoving.

Sedalia, Missouri

Crowley sat in the back of the taxi, watching the crow as he materialised at the mouth of the alley. It wasn't under his control. None of Death's minions were. But he had uses for them, from time to time, and there were ways and means of ensuring obedience when those occasions arose. He was lucky that the two men he hated most in the world had gone to a crow, he thought sourly, rather than a reaper. It took a very special instrument to kill a reaper and there was no way of getting hold of that little instrument.

The cab door opened and the psychopomp slid inside.

"Arjay," Crowley drawled softly, smiling a little as he saw the figure stiffen and freeze. "Been a long time."

"What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me about your recent transactions," Crowley said, leaning forward in the seat.

"Recent transactions?"

"With the Winchesters."

He saw the crow swallow uncomfortably, his eyes closing.

"Oh … uh, yes," Arjay admitted uneasily. Lucifer had been easier. The thought flashed across his consciousness. Crowley believed in information. A lot of information. His demons were everywhere. There was no point to pretending he didn't know what he what he was talking about. His palms were slick with sweat but wiping them off would have been too obvious.

"What did Sam want?"

"He wanted to get into Hell," the crow said, watching the demon through the cab's rearview mirror.

Crowley frowned. "My Hell? Why would he want to do that?"

"I don't know," Arjay said. "I swear it. I don't ask questions."

Crowley looked at him thoughtfully. That was true enough, he knew. "And what time is Mr Winchester due back from this sojourn in Hell?"

The psychopomp looked down at his watch. "I'm picking him up in seventeen hours."

"I see." Crowley leaned forward, arm resting along the back of the front seat. "Anything else?"

"No. That was all."

"Hmmm," Crowley said. He could smell the sweat coming off the man sitting in front of him. He was telling the truth. The angel sword in his hand thrust through the width of the seat, extending as was its nature to pass into the psychopomp's body as well. Arjay croaked once as a brilliant white light poured from inside him. Crowley pulled out the sword, and there was a soft thump on the front seat as the body of the crow fell to the worn vinyl upholstery, the beady black eyes of the bird open and staring.

"Did I ever tell you that my mother would make crow pie for dinner?" Crowley said conversationally to the dead crow. "Horrible, it was."

He vanished.

Warsaw, Missouri

Dean sat in the chair at the table, his hand curled around a glass of whiskey, staring at the notes that were pinned across the board on the wall in front of him. None of them made any sense, at least, not that he'd been able to decipher, anyway. He glanced at the closed door of the store room and exhaled softly. They'd let the kid rot here, left him alone to figure this crap out on his own. He'd let him rot here, he amended to himself uncomfortably. There wasn't anything they could've done to help Kevin unscramble the chicken scratches on the stone tablet, but he could've dropped in more often. Could've told the kid that he was a doing a good job, given him a bit more support.

Could've. Would've. Should've. Stupid fucking words that didn't do a bit of good whenever they came up.

There were a lot of good excuses as to why he hadn't been here. A lot going on in the outside world. It didn't make a bit of difference. He remembered how he'd felt when his father had vanished and Sam had lost Jess and he'd been leading them in what'd felt like circles, not sure of what he was doing, not sure that he'd been doing the right thing, for either of them. And he'd had a few years on what Kevin did now, back then.

He shook his head tiredly. Easy to be smart with hindsight, he thought. Easy to figure it out when you could look back and see all those mistakes.

The good of the many outweighs the good of the one.

He remembered that little town, reliant on its orchards for its prosperity. Remembered being bound tightly to that tree and how fucking relieved he'd been to see his brother as dusk had fallen. Sacrifice was only meaningful if it was freely given because the good of the many couldn't outweigh the good of the one if it wasn't.

He'd made his choices. All of them had been his own decisions. They'd been pushed and pulled across the board but they'd still been the things he'd thought were best. And he still couldn't honestly say he'd change any of them, even knowing what they'd brought down. Well, one he would. He would never have gotten off the rack if he'd known that he was breaking the first seal.

Kevin was just getting started in this gig. How many regrets would have he have? Losing his girl. His mother almost losing her soul. Torture. There was no end in sight. He hadn't told the prophet about the angel tablet, given the kid's current state of mind, but he didn't think he could just cut him loose when Hell was shut down with a slap on the back and an injunction to go live the good life. Not with more tablets out there. The prophet was the prophet. No one else could read them. And Kevin couldn't get out of that job, not without dying.

He lifted the glass and threw back the contents, reaching for the bottle and refilling it. They'd have to keep a closer eye on him, that's all. They could ease some of the tension if they were around more, he thought. Protect him from what he feared as well as what was actually out there, hunting him. Just a bit more human interaction and Kevin would be okay.

Garth had a cabin further forward. He looked at the door next to the stairs, its surface covered in sigils and Enochian wards. He'd stay here. Pulling another one of the chairs around the table, he propped his feet on it, slouching down a little in the chair he was in, his hand lightly curved around his glass.

Hell.

The smell hit him first as he came through and dropped, the level of the plane he'd crossed to several feet lower than the one he'd come from. Brimstone. And blood, he thought, his face screwing up. He didn't know how that was possible. Dean had told him about the torture and he'd thought then that the souls that were here, that had no bodies, somehow brought their memories of their bodies with them nevertheless. Nerve and tendon. Meat and bone and blood. The soul was powerful and its driver was the mind. And the mind can bend reality. Especially when reality has already been bent.

The heat was the second to register. It was a furnace and he could feel himself starting to sweat, running a hand up over his face and back through his hair. He was standing in a crevice in between two gargantuan rocks, a wall in front of him. Beyond the wall a light pulsed. Not a light, he thought, squinting at it where it lit the stone blocks. Not exactly. The pulsing reminded him of something and after a moment it came to him. The light was beating. Like a heart.

He shook off the thoughts, deciding they were unhelpful and stepped to the edge of the wall in front of him, peering around the corner. To either side the hall stretched out, lined with stone, the details bleeding into the non-light that beat against his mind. It looked empty. There were sounds, echoing from the hard surfaces, soft like a distant sea lapping against a shore, but punctuated occasionally by something sharper, something more shrill.

How was he going to find Bobby here? He remembered the demon's words belatedly and pulled off his watch, tucking it against the side of the curving stone column. Keep in mind what you want. He would need a focus to bring him back here.

And he thought, he'd find Bobby the same way. He concentrated his thoughts on the old hunter, visualising him clearly, calling out to him mentally. The corridor in front of him shifted suddenly, the muttering, moaning noises becoming more distinct.

Sam stepped out into the hall and turned left, walking along in the centre, trying to keep Bobby's face sharp and clear in his head. He'd barely gone a few paces when he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye, turning to look at the wall beside him. At first, it looked like a stone wall. Then he noticed that it wasn't matt and rough, but smooth and polished. Turning his head to the front again he saw the movement beneath the surface, a woman's face, drawn in agony, her mouth open in a scream, her hands pressing against the stone from the inside. He turned away hurriedly and kept walking.

They were here, just as the demon had said, he realised. Not visible to him, not really. He tried not to see the images that flashed past in his peripheral vision, reflected in the polished stone blocks, or embedded in them, he couldn't be sure. The instruments of torture that gleamed and winked in the pulsing red light, the ripped apart and shredded bodies he caught glimpses of as he passed them by. The smell of blood was stronger here, deeper, filling his nose and turning his stomach.

Bobby, he told himself firmly. Think of Bobby. He increased his speed and had passed the gleaming block when he caught sight of the old man in the stone, his head thrown back, the tendons of his neck standing out like wire, the demon working on him laughing soundlessly, oily black skin shining with the hunter's blood.