John hadn't exaggerated about the small size, both in mileage and population, of Clever, Missouri. Unfinished or poorly paved roads lead to red barns and square industrial buildings, infrequent traffic lights sag sadly on bowed cables waiting to signal absent cars, and between small clusters of humble homes, highways lay prostrate, offering themselves for use, means of escaping the small-town life. For Chalendra, the city might as well be paved with gold, neon signs above each shop flashing their welcomes. It's silly; she knows it is, to be this excited. She's seeing John Winchester again today and she feels like she's in a movie. She's seen Sixteen Candles and Clueless and A Walk to Remember. She's found the way the girls act when they're "crushing" fascinating, suspected that there was something about this behavior that could provide a key to understanding human emotions. As she'd watched their attempts to secure the boy they liked, she never once expected that she'd feel the buzz, the warm electric feeling under the skin, of having a crush all for herself, never thought that just hearing a voice could remind her of what it was like to fly. It is invigorating and scary and unequivocally human.

And Sam thinks John feels the same! She can't imagine John squealing like she had last night so she thinks that, like anger, the emotion affects each individual differently. He has called frequently, as Sam pointed out, even the day that he'd tortured a demon for information though he'd been too tired, too emotionally-drained to talk long. He wanted her to know that he and Dean were okay. Her reply, "Of course you are; you are capable hunters" had made him laugh and when he hung up after saying a quick goodnight, she'd been quite unable to stop smiling, the sound of his laugh lifting the corners of her lips.

"Chal," Sam says. She finds it much harder than usual to pull herself from her thoughts to focus on him. "The tapping, man, it's really annoying."

She stills her hand, presses the offending pointer fingers into the grey faux leather of the steering wheel. "Sorry."

"Maybe we should pull off and let you meditate a minute?"

"I don't want to be late."

"Chal, it's three. They won't even be here for another hour."

Chal can hear the humor in his voice, resents it. "He'll be early," she says confidently. She just wants to find Shorty's, get an idea of its position in relation to this tiny, wonderful town, be ready for when he arrives, prepare herself for the physical presence of the rough affectionate voice to which she's become habituated.

Sam doesn't press the issue, doesn't need to because they've stumbled upon the designated meeting place, Shorty's spelled out in large friendly orange letters on a white triangular sign. A squeak sneaks out of her, reminds her of the sound Sam's raccoon Bandito would make when it saw spinach.

She chooses one random spot in the empty parking lot and has a hand on the truck's door handle when Sam stops her, grabbing her elbow gently. She looks at him questioningly. "I mean it Chal, try and center first." He's earnest and his concern brings back memories of when he was young, eyes large with concern and mostly brown as they are now.

She nods, closes her eyes, forms her hands and fingers into the Namaskara mudra, the prayer mudra. Her thoughts rush like a waterfall, individual words and concepts occasionally separating from the stream, a spray of John, Sam, Azazel, and longer ideas like keep him safe and what if I fall in love. She visualizes it all, sees the green of the trees around the wild rapids, sees the thoughts in English and Enochian as they swim like salmon. She smells pine and algae, hears the crash of the water-thoughts on stones smoothed by the force.

She breathes, tries to visualize the river becoming a stream becoming a creek and finally a small still pond. She can't this time, is unable to push aside the butterflies flapping in her belly, unable to stop the excited river. But, it helps. When she opens her eyes, separates her palms, she feels more like herself, albeit a tightly wound version.

Sam smiles at her. She returns it half-heartedly. "I couldn't ground properly."

"Better a little than nothing," he suggests. "At least you aren't tapping anymore."

"Let's check the place out," she suggests.

The time is 3:20 and the Ackles' hunting unit secures the perimeter of the Shorty's diner, locates its entrances and exits, confirms the lack of EMF on the reader, and covertly etches a warding spell above the door frame before 3:30. Then, they sit in a booth and order coffee, a perfectly normal mother and son driving through town.

Dad had wanted them to split up. He'd suggested that Dean take the California demon while he met up with the Ackles' in Missouri. When Dean had refused and laughed in his dad's face, both very rare actions, John did not offer to take the California demon. Instead, sulky and resigned, he called Chal to let her know that they wanted assistance on a hunt. The demon in California would have to wait.

Dean spots Sam first. "Sammy!" he calls and reaches out to hug the skinny hunter before he's even standing, his long legs untangling from under the diner's table. This automatic friendliness is so rare for Dean that he just enjoys it for a second, hugging someone he knows, someone that cares enough about him to allow it. He pulls away from Sam, turns to Chal who is still hugging his dad. "Stop hogging the Chal, Dad."

John glares at him. It's obvious from his hold on the woman that he has no intention of listening to his son, but Chal wriggles away, happy to embrace Dean instead. He could practically purr from the warmth that the completely chaste comfortable hug generates in his chest.

To their side, John reaches out to shake Sam's hand. Dean can hear them exchange names as they shake, like businessmen instead of friends. He whispers in Chal's ear, taking advantage of the distraction, "He's been talking about you constantly." When they part, her cheeks are red from his words but her eyes look grateful. "So, did you and Sam miss me?"

Chalendra laughs. "Of course!"

The pockets of her khaki cargo pants are full, hunting gear, Dean figures. She looks like a really obvious shoplifter. When she sits, she nudges the pockets, adjusting their content. John sits in the booth next to her like he's got an invisible leash wrapped around his neck. In a way, Dean supposes, he does. Sam sits opposite the new couple and shimmies his narrow butt down so Dean will have room. Dean fucks up his politeness by launching himself into the booth, sitting as painfully close as he can and crushing Sam into the diner wall. Then, with a sweeping arm gesture as he says, "So, where are we heading after lunch?" his forearm smashes against Sam's nose.

The two scuffle, Sam pretending to mind Dean's antics, gripping Dean's arms and trying to pin them to the table. "Cut it out!" says Sam childishly.

"You started it!" says Dean, a clear lie. "I was just trying to have a conversation."

His hands move quickly, escaping Sam's clutches, but then Sam's hands are back on his wrists again, never letting him free for more than a second or two. "You'll have a conversation with the floor if you don't cut it out!" threatens Sam.

Surprisingly, it's Chalendra that puts an end to the mock-fight. "Not at a place for dining!" she snaps in an angry tone that Dean hasn't before heard.

They stop immediately and John shakes his head, muttering, "Children…"

"Sorry," says Sam. From the sound of his voice and the glint of mischief still in his eyes, Dean knows he doesn't mean it. Dean isn't even going to try to apologize since he plans to annoy the kid again as soon as he can get away with it.

The two may have stopped playing but their hips are still wedged together, miles of empty booth to Dean's side.

The waitress comes by then, unfazed by the immature behavior, looking pleased just to have customers, and takes the group's orders.

After she leaves, John speaks, volume low. "We're going to head to The Church of the Immaculate Conception. That's where our priest is."

"Priest?" asks Sam. He sounds surprised.

"Father Thomas. What was told to me was that he's been there thirty years and is quite content making trouble among his flock, sex scandals, missing devotees, those kinds of things." His father isn't whispering, that draws more attention not less, but he is quiet, his voice the same rumble as when he's had one whiskey too many.

"This information, of course, comes from an unreliable source," says Chalendra. "How likely do you find it that your source was providing accurate information this time?"

Dean doesn't feel like Chal is second-guessing his father. It's more like she's trying to get an estimate about how on guard they need to be for an ambush. He hopes that his dad sees it that way, doesn't really want to be there for their first lovers' spat.

"Very likely, I'd say. He was already quite…" John chooses his words carefully. "He'd had a rough time already and was quite happy when Father Thomas's name was all he had to come up with." Chal nods. Dean likes the way that she trusts his dad.

Dean already knows this, had been there while they interrogated the whiny son of a bitch. Dad always tortures demon possession cases trying to find the yellow-eyed demon. The first time that he'd tried to help his dad with an interrogation, he couldn't cut it, had run out of the barn and puked his guts out all over a patch of yellow dandelions. Dean hopes that Sammy never hears that story. It got better fast though, soon he could pour the acid-like holy water on a demon's face, watch the steam come off, hear the cries of pain, and feel, not nothing, but less. When they are able to save the host body, that's the best, almost feels like instant atonement.

"And do you plan to see if these two can give you more names," says Sam.

Dean hasn't known Sam long, hasn't been able to watch his body language. The brevity and restrictions of communication don't seem to matter because Dean can tell that Sam is none too happy with participating in torture, even demon torture.

"That's the plan," says John, oblivious to or ignoring Sam's reservations.

"The person doesn't…" Sam stops when the waitress returns bearing a large damp brown tray with heaps of nice smelling food. The conversation ceases as she distributes plates, pancakes for everyone, fruit for Sam and Chal, bacon for Dean and John. Before they eat, Sam and Chal put their hands together and bow their heads. Dean's not a primitive; he knows what saying grace is, he just doesn't know anyone that does it. It's something that white picket fence people do, not guys that can bring down bear hybrids. Sam continues what he'd been saying before the waitress returned and before his display of religious piety. "The real person won't get hurt."

The pancakes are hot though dry and the bacon is thin like paper but it's a meal and Dean's never been one to get uptight about food quality, so he's been eating with Winchester gusto. After Sam's words, an ultimatum, he thinks, they taste drier.

"From what Chal says, that'll be in your hands."

It's like they're fighting without words, with eyes alone, pupils narrowing like guns taking aim. Dean intercedes. "Well, it'll be good to have some extra help. We don't get to meet up with other hunters much." This appears to work because after a few seconds, John lets the macho eye war drop.

Chal makes small talk in between bites. She and Sam eat like they did at dinner, slowly and thoughtfully. When the check comes, Dad grabs it and pays at the small glass counter displaying mints and gum and candies for sale. Chalendra follows him, the leash of their adorable puppy love apparently working both ways.

It's with reluctance that he pulls himself from Sam's side. The kid's too young for half the shit that Dean's been saying to him and all the way too young for the shit Dean's been thinking. A little body to body contact like they've had in the booth isn't pedo-creepy, just enjoyable. Besides, when Dean was Sam's age, he'd already screwed his way through at least three towns. He stands, shifts from leg to leg, trying to get the blood flowing back into them again, the worst part of all the driving he does. Sam is climbing to his feet behind him, though Dean hasn't given him much room. Sam elbows him in the side forcing the issue.

"You're a mean little guy, you know that?" he cries out, ruffles the shaggy man-mane that Sam wears.

Sam slaps the hand away. "Maybe you just bring out the worst in people!"

"Damn right I do," he replies, intention lacing his words, and, he hopes, his eyes. Sam catches it, looks away, embarrassed. Dean finds it girlish, adorable.

"Coming?" Dad asks.

Dean doesn't even act busted as he joins their parents.

Unspoken, Sam follows him to the Impala where Dean puts on some Rolling Stones. Baby follows the black Sierra Grande and his lips follow the lyrics. "I stuck around St. Petersburg…. When I saw it was a time for a change…So, Sammy, how do you do this demon killing thing?"

Sam's got his shoes off, kid has some crazy large feet, one leg under him and the other pressed to his chest with one arm. Though it looks like an uncomfortable position, Sam looks relaxed and happy. This goes out the window at Dean's words. He swallows down some emotion that Dean can't identify, probably could if he knew the context, but he doesn't. "It's a mind thing. Like spoon-bending, but with demons, not spoons."

"You can bend demons?"

"Yeah."

"Sending them back to hell?" asks Dean.

"No, sending them out of existence."

Dean's eyes focus on the bright red of the Sierra Grande's brake lights as they wait at an incredible useless traffic light. When he blinks, he can see the red behind his eyes. "And the human?" he asks.

"Usually fine, unless the demon screwed up his body too much first."

"Shit," says Dean, four letters encompassing a whole universe of emotion, excitement and surprise and awe and fear, all flitting through him. "That's some powerful mojo, Sam."

Sam plays with the cuff of his sock, stretching it out and letting it snap slowly back. Dean watches the movement, can't help it because even though he's a driver and focused on following Dad, things that Sam does just interest him. "I know," Sam says quietly.

The ride is over too soon, not even two songs lengths, and they pull up in front of the church, next to the Sierra Grande.

"Dean," whispers Sam.

Dean looks over at Sam who looks about three years younger than his age curled up on the seat the way he is and looking at him with those big hazel puppy dog eyes. It might just be Dean's hero complex, but he wants to just wrap the kid up, put him somewhere safe where he won't have to feel whatever negative emotion he's feeling. "Yeah?"

"I'm not a monster."

Shit, thinks Dean. "We've been over this. You already said you can't kill people, right? Just Demons?" He needs the confirmation as badly as Sam needs consolation.

"Just demons," repeats Sam.

"Then that not only makes you not a monster, that makes you the hero of the hour, Sammy." He puts a hand on Sam's foot, squeezes the socked toes. "So, get your damn shoes on and let's go gank us a demon."

Chal has prepared John, explained what Sam can do, but it still chills his blood to see the smoke obey Sam's outstretched hand, to see a human, worse yet, a child, with the ability to do something so sinister and other-worldly. John knows on a level below even basic human intuition that it's wrong, is repulsed by the display of this wicked power, the ability to control life and death without physical contact. The hunter instinct in him perceives it, and probably rightly so, as a threat, but it's also Sam that's doing this, idly taunting the cloud of demon smoke with the threat of non-existence, and he can no more harm Sam than he can his own son. He can't comprehend how Chal can watch this, encourage it even. Her son's "talent" is just as evil as the thing on which he's using it.

The smoke returns fully to the body and Demon Thomas roars.

"I can kill you, not your host, but you. I can end you, not just send you back to Hell. Do you understand? Could you feel it?"

Demon Thomas is angry but shaken, his brow bursting with sweat and his lips trembling. "Yes…" he growls, high voice pitched low.

"So when my colleague asks you a question, I want you to make sure that the answer is the truth, not a lie and not a half-truth. Because, after you've answered, I'm going to be the one that decides whether I let him kick you out of the human you've been violating or…" Sam pauses for effect. "Stop your days of possession for good."

Demon Thomas asks, "So, a bit of information and you send me back to hell, but a bit of bad information and you kill me?" The question is congruent with everything that John has learned about demons. Demons like deals and they like fine print, probably created the concept, and Demon Thomas doesn't want to get killed on a technicality.

"You answer his questions, honestly and completely, and I will not kill you."

"How many does your colleague have?" asks Demon Thomas mockingly. Everything demons do they do mockingly like the universe is just some big joke, death just a punch line.

Sam doesn't look at John when he asks in that dark angry voice, "How many?" but John knows the question is for him. He feels Sam's demand for honesty affect him, even if it was directed at the demon. John tightens his jaw, feels the click of the bones in the joint. He hates the fear inside of him, the fear that he feels of this slip of a lad. "Just one," says John.

"I think I can handle answering one question honestly," says Demon Thomas. He looks relieved.

"I'm going to be right here to listen and I make the final call on whether or not I think you're telling the truth." Sam steps back then, turns his body to allow John to step nearer to the devil's trap. His thin teenage body is rigid, a new recruit at boot camp, and his eyes never leave the demon, not even to look at John as he steps up to do the job, to ask the question. John's eyes do waver, however, stealing glances at Dean and Chalendra hoping to see horror in their eyes too, something that asks 'when did Sam turn evil?' Chal is focused, her eyes blank with duty. Dean's face is covered with surprise and he offers John a shrug of his shoulders. The normality of the gesture and the familiarity of his son ground John, relieve him of the worry that he's the only one freaking out about this.

"I want to know where the yellow-eyed demon is."

Recognition of the name dashes across Demon Thomas's black eyes. "Ah, the devotee!" he says.

"Devotee?" John can't help but ask.

"Yes, that one is much more pious than I." The demon laughs, heading tilting back to reveal his white collar.

"Tell me where he is."

"I have no idea," says Demon Thomas. John feels the disappointment, another layer of sand in his gut, because he can tell that the demon means it.

Sam takes a step forward. Demon Thomas raises his palms. "I'm telling the truth! Look, I don't exactly get out much. I've been in this body since the 70s!"

"When is the last time you saw him?" John asks.

"15th century, place called Orleans. He was hosting a, well, a sort of revival there, inviting demons, preaching the word, that sort of thing. There were a lot of angels congregating in France around then and so a lot of demons were scared. We priests make a killing off of fear." Demon Thomas smiles then, looking around the room as though waiting for applause. He continues, seeing that his audience is less than amused. "I didn't care much for his pitch, so I left. That's the last time I've seen him."

"Angels," says Dean, voice incredulous. "Really?"

"What, you think it's only the bad guys?" asks Father Thomas mockingly. "How can you not believe in angels?"

Chalendra makes a sound and John looks at her. She shakes her head. "Nothing."

John notices that Sam's looking at her now too, the first time he's looked away from their prisoner. He has no idea what's going on between the two of them, what they know, so he sticks to what he does know. "What was his pitch?" asks John. "What was he trying to get you to do?"

"To worship the devil, of course. What else would you expect of demonic believers?"

John frowns. So, the yellow-eyed demon is some sort of Satanic cult leader. It's worse thinking that the thing that burned Mary, that killed or stole his infant son, that turned his whole life upside down, is nothing more than the demon equivalent of one of those scumbag devil worshippers that steal people's cats for blood rituals while they smoke pot and listen to Ozzy backwards. He's hurting again, more, because the focus of his fifteen year revenge mission is just some zealot.

"So he hasn't been in contact since then?" asks Sam. It's a good question, John realizes, because Demon Thomas had specifically said that he hadn't "seen" Yellow Eyes.

Demon Thomas shakes his head. "Nope, but then, he's not exactly my type of people."

"Who is?" asks John. "Give me another name, another demon, with his location, and I'll exorcise you." Dominos, thinks John. You get a name or two from the ones you exorcise and then you have your next target, a non-stop line of possibilities. Well, almost non-stop. Sometimes the demon won't talk or lies. Then it's back to stopping ghosts and werewolves and vampires while waiting for the trail to pick back up.

"Who ratted me out?" asks Father Thomas.

Sam snarls. "You answer the questions, not us. You're the one in the trap and you're going to give him the information he needs."

John recalls the boy who put his head down next to Chalendra, putting his hands together, and giving silent thanks for his dry pancakes. The one who was practically vibrating with happy, nervous energy when Dean agreed to play Monopoly. This Sam, the dangerous unnatural one, gives him the screaming heebies.

Father Thomas nods. He gives them two names compete with where they can be found, seizing this opportunity, probably to get a little revenge on his associates. John will write them done once they finish the exorcism and get the body to a hospital. It's always been hit or miss whether the possessed survives the exorcism, but with Sam's disturbing but efficient torture method which doesn't harm the body, John thinks that they'll see the numbers tip dramatically in their favor.

John pulls out his ritual book. He knows the words by heart, but it gives him something to look at besides the writhing screaming body and the tormented parasite that he's removing. He flips open to the bookmarked page, but Sam speaks before he does. "It's okay, you don't need that," Sam says to John.

John looks in surprise at Sam.

Father Thomas growls again, a sound of anger but not surprised anger. "We had a deal!"

Sam shakes his head, a small smile touching his lips. "I don't make deals with demons."

The black smoke swirls from the father's open mouth, vomiting the evil thing out. Instead of swirling up through the ceiling or out the door or window, the mass in the air twirls faster and faster, growing exponentially smaller. The room feels oppressively evil and stifling, like all the oxygen is being used for whatever is happening to the demon. Eventually, there is only a tiny spot hovering above the body and when Sam's palm closes, it vanishes, the evil life snuffed out completely.

John doesn't look at Sam's eyes. He's afraid that they'll be black.