October 4 San Francisco, CA

Dean drove to California without sleep, 20 hours as opposed to 26 hours, which was usually how long it took from Richardson, TX to San Francisco, CA. He was that determined to get back on the demon's trail, the one who killed his mother, no matter how low the chances were. He was banking on the information Garth gave him.

Pulling in to a sleazy motel under the guise, Gene Simmons, which thankfully escaped the scrutiny of the unobservant receptionist, he was able to secure a room. Opening and closing the door behind him, an olive drab room, with dark blue curtains greeted him. Nothing about the room was welcoming. The smell of stale cigarettes insulted his nose even with a sign stating in red no smoking. Everything looked so worn down that Dean did not seem out of place, including depressing. A light-brown recliner with a few unnamed stain sat in front of the window with a dim lamplight standing next to it.

In the middle of the room were two queen-sized bed covered in polka-dotted green bedsheets. He sighed at the sight of the beds. He specifically asked for a one-bed room, but the unobservant man-kid at the desk apparently didn't give any shit at all. He decided he did not care, either. He was only staying for a few days, anyway. The room was completed by a nightstand separating the beds and across from the beds: a dresser and an emerald dining table belonging in the 50s. The whole joint needed an upgrade.

Setting his bag on the table that belonged in the crooner era, he sat down on one of the beds just to decompress for a few minutes. Scanning the room, he wondered if he should continue this path or should he jumpstart a career as a life coach. That still made him chuckle in disbelief, but she was actually serious about it.

"Why not? I think you'll do a great job," her voice resonating warmly in his mind.

He made a face. Ridiculous thought and he told her so. "Me? A coach for some douchebag? No, thanks." How could someone need a 'coach' to run their lives when he practically grew up all by himself, turning into an adult at a young age?

"I'll be your first douchebag." Her innocent eyes staring at him with a big smile on her face, awaiting eagerly for what he had to say. They were both sitting on the hood of the impala. She, in his leather jacket, pulling the collar closer to her face to stay warm. The smell of him, aftershave, cologne, old leather mingled, which did not bother her one bit. There was something nostalgic about it. He stayed silent while staring at the beautiful horizon, the purplish hue slowly changing into darkness.

That made him grin innocently. This was new. Usually when he meets a woman at a bar, they start with some small talk and end with meaningless sex. She, on the other hand, was different. He could not put it into words other than she made him feel like he was the only person in the world who mattered. She wasn't flirting; she was attentive. She was curious. He was not used to such treatment from a woman. "You're serious." More of a statement than a question. She shrugged, drowning in his leather jacket, her beautiful brown eyes the only thing he could see. The sight of her in it made his heart skip a beat. What was it about her?

He couldn't remember what else was said, but he vividly recalled saying to her, "Come with me..." What if she took his invitation seriously? How would his life be? Probably different from what it is now, in a seedy motel reminiscing about her instead of thinking of the case. He rubbed his face, hoping it was enough to wake him up for a few more hours. No point in trying to stray from what seemed to be his destiny in life: a dangerous, thankless job, and strings of bad luck.

He let out a sigh. His plan was to jump in the shower, get in his monkey suit, and head on back out to the hospital. The opposite happened. As soon as his whole body fell on the bed, he slept and he slept hard. After all, he was still human. Four hours of sleep was all he needed to function.

"Miss Gibbs will be fine," I heard a man's muffled voice say. "We will keep her here for a few more hours, then she will be free to go. I also ordered some labs and once those are resulted, her medications will be ready for pick up. Just make sure the nurse notes where she or you would like to pick it up. Any other questions, Mrs.-"

"Miss Adams. Miss Heidi G. Adams." She stressed on the MISS, in case the ER doctor did not catch it the first time. Even while I'm in the hospital, she managed to bag a guy. I rolled my eyes, which in retrospect was a mistake, because at that moment, a stabbing pain overwhelmed my head.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Gabby. Will you keep it in your pants for a minute?" I tried pulling myself up, but my body had other thoughts. A wave of nausea hit me so bad I felt like vomiting. Even opening my eyes was a chore. The little slit I was able to muster was violated by bright lights. "Please turn off the lights!"

"Oh, sorry about that," I heard the man say. He must've moved because I heard squeaky shoes shuffling away and back. "Ms. Gibbs, my name is Dr. Ong and I am one of the ER providers. Can you tell me your name and date of birth?" Straight and to the point.

I answered as asked. "Reima M. Gibbs. Date of birth 18 August 2000."

"Do you know what day it is?" The man continued.

"Uh, Tuesday."

"How about where you are?"

What's with all the questions? I massaged my temples. The pain was getting worse and the nausea..."Jesus, hm. I'm assuming the hospital?"

There was a sigh of relief. "Good. Do you know what brought you here?"

I cleared my throat as the wave of nausea hit me. Vomiting my guts out is not a far off thing. "Good question, doc, because I want to know."

And Heidi explained what happened, which basically came down to Sam Campbell as the one who sent me to the hospital. That bitch. I fell 3 bleachers down, hitting not only my forehead but also my ribs. No wonder my side was tender as I scooted up. I didn't suffer any fractures because I didn't try to brace the impact. How could I? Everything happened so fast, I didn't have time to react. Because my forehead took all the brunt of it, I ended up with 7 stitches, a killer of a headache, and a possible admission.

"So, admission?" I asked aloud.

"Probably not. Nothing on your CT scan showed any swelling, bleeding, or abnormalities that would be concerning. If Gabby," he paused. I could sense Heidi smiling for ear to ear. I cleared my throat to bring his attention back to me.

"Right. You can go home if you have someone to stay with you for 24 hours to ensure no new symptoms or the symptoms you already have are not worsening," he muffled through his mask. "I would like to do a few neurological checks. Light in the eyes, motor strength...that sort of thing. Do you have any questions before I begin?"

I didn't have any, but I needed something quick. My body was no longer listening to me. "Trash can, please!" I begged like my life depended on it.

In a pewter-colored suit, and underneath a light blue shirt with a royal blue tie, he was Agent Simmons with the FBI. Fake, but as a hunter, he had to play countless roles to do what needed to be done. It was how he was taught by his missing dad. He was good at it, especially as an FBI special agent. He was ready to take on whatever or whoever had it out for him at the hospital and investigate the missing women if it truly was connected to a demon. What Garth told him earlier was this:

"Why would you hang up, bro?" The irritated caller asked. "There's more to the story if you just gave me time." Dean likes it sweet and to the point. Too much information and he ends up confused. He always says, "Keep It Simple, Stupid" or KISS. Every time he says "KISS it for me," some give him a very perplexed or weird-as-shit look. At one point, some random burly guy asked him for his safe word. That completely rendered him speechless. His smart-ass mouth couldn't save him.

The highway was long and empty, but it was serene. Nothing bump in the night to fight, just him and Baby on the open road, an interstate cold and devoid of life in the darkness. "What else did you need to tell me?"

"There's a case. Women have been missing, between the ages of 18 to 25, but one was able to escape. She said they have been..." paper rustling in the background, "Ah! Been looking for you, sweetheart."

Dean rolled his eyes. Garth is like a squirrel. He gets easily distracted. "Garth, get to the point."

"Right. They were kept in a dungeon. One girl taken out everyday but never returned."

"So how did this girl in question escape?" The sun set a few hours ago and his eyelids were getting too heavy. He passed some motels a few miles ago, but none now. He wanted a bed, but if push comes to shove, he could always sleep in or on the car. He enjoyed the outdoors, once in a while.

"Something you're gonna hafta find out," Garth answered blankly. "I'mma tell you somethin', man, it's probably best you stay away. Now that I'm lucid and not hopped up on mary jane, it sounds like a trap."

"No, shit, Gar-Lock," Dean finally acknowledged, trying to make a joke, but it escaped Garth. No point in explaining it; it just ruins it. "If what she said was true, why is she alive? And why the age?"

Now, it was Garth's turn to stay quiet. "I don't know, man. For the past two months, eight girls gone, maybe more. She's lucky in mah book. Head on to the UCSF Medical Center. Girl's admitted for physical and mental trauma."

"Yup." And just like that, hanged up the phone, with no goodbyes or see you later. He knew that the caller on the other side was fuming mad and that was what made it funny. Small childish things like this made him smile. He reached for the volume dial on the radio, turned it up to Hotel California and sang along.

Dean was able to find the girl Garth mentioned, Naomi Kazynski, 21. His pristine suit from some tailor shop and fake badge got him access to almost anything. Case and point: the receptionist tried to flirt with him, which he entertained for a minute until he got bored. She was pretty, but outwardly appearances don't seem to excite him like it did once. Gina, the receptionist with Italian genes, called the unit he needed and let them know he was coming to speak to one of their patients. He thanked her and left as fast as he could.

Naomi Kazynski was on the third floor, hooked up to an IV pump with a few bags and to a monitor overhead. She was pretty bad. If it was all an act, she was damn good. Busted left brow and upper lip, bruises all over her, at least on surfaces that were visible, and an imprint of handcuffs on her wrists. He felt sorry for Naomi, but he had a job to do.

"Can you tell me what happened?" He asked, sitting on a chair situated on her left side. Naomi did not want to. She began crying incessantly, whimpering, holding onto a woman he assumed was her mother for dear life. The plump, brunette woman with a shoulder-length hair, red loose shirt and jeans wrapped her arms around her and began calming her down. "We already talked to the cops. Can't you talk to them?"

He understood the frustration. He has dealt with many of them over the years. But he also knew that if this was truly supernatural, no local LEO will be able to handle it. Moot point to tell them. What he said was, "I could, but sometimes things get lost in translation. I understand this is an inopportune time. However, I have learned that getting the information straight from the victim is more beneficial. It also serves as a motivation to hunt these sonofabitches down." He was angry, not at the people in the room but at those who could think they can do whatever they want to such a fragile girl. He reeled in his anger, not crucial at the moment.

"Shh. It's okay, baby. I'm right here. You don't have to talk to Agent..." she paused and looked his way, trying to recall his name but couldn't. "We can do this another time, if you want." Dean really did not agree with her mom's statement, but if he pushed her, the alternative was Naomi clamming up. Not a good start.

"Is everything okay?" The nurse asked, poking her head through the door with a concerned look. She looked at Naomi, then at the monitor. As soon as she was able to lay her eyes on her patient who was agitated but breathing, she went in the room and tinkered with the machine behind Dean. "Agent Simmons, is it?" To which Dean nodded. "I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to leave. You're stressing my patient and this is something she doesn't need right now."

Again, not something he wants to do. How do you get out of this one? He thought to himself. He didn't have to. Naomi came to his rescue. Whatever Dean said earlier must've changed her mind. "I'm okay, Tracy. I want-I need to talk to him." She was failing at looking strong, but her eyes were different. She was a fighter.

"Thank you," Dean thought, while he and the nurse stood toe-to-toe, measuring each other's dick size. The nurse may be female, but she was beefy and if she really wanted to, she could probably flatten Dean on his ass. The nurse, called Tracy, broke away first.

She was not happy that he was staying and she did not hold back. "The moment I notice her vitals shoot up from the nurses' station, you're outta here." To Naomi in a nice and homely voice, "If you need anything, sugar, press the red button on the call light." When her patient nodded, Tracy left but without giving Dean another look, which made him nod. The African-American nurse was not one to play around with.

"Whenever you're ready, Ms. Kazynski," Dean ushered, his notepad on his left and Naomi began to tell him the details that happened within a span of two days. She stopped when it got too intense, but she continued on and he let her.

"I was bound naked on an exam table with my legs up on the stirrups," Tears flowing as she recounted what happened. "The room was dim, but there was a guy behind me a few feet away, sitting, stroking his..." She stopped and closed her eyes. She was visibly shaken by the whole ordeal and her mom held her close as she continued.

"There were two other guys who just stood next to me, watched me as I begged for them to let me go. Then a fourth guy showed up, as naked and as ready as the guy sitting behind me."

"He, um..." She stammered, lips quivering. It was taking all of her courage to re-tell what she went through. He dealt with a few who couldn't remember details, some experiencing temporary paralysis because of how intense the trauma was. He intended to avenge her and those afflicted by these demons.

"He got permission from the guy sitting...his boss to...um, start." Dean clenched his jaws. He knew where this was heading, but he did not interrupt her since she had been forthcoming with information.

"Um...the moment he shoved his tongue in me, he stopped. He said that I did not taste right." Dean blinked a few times, asking what she meant, without saying it aloud. Naomi responded by looking downwards.

"He stopped?" Naomi nodded her head.

"Man was full frontal and he stopped," Dean found it unusual, but he moved on. "Anything you remember? Names? Tattoos? Scent, maybe? Anything at all."

She closed her eyes for a minute and when she did not answer, Dean assumed she was done. "The boss, the one sitting with his hard-on on his hand, he was called Azazel. He had..." she paused as if she couldn't believe what she saw. "...yellow eyes," she whispered, shaking as if saying his name will make him appear like Bloody Mary.

Dean looked up from his pad. This was the break he was waiting on. "Good job, Garth." He added a note on his pad saying that he owed the guy a beer whenever he sees him. Azazel...finally a name to a face. "We got you now, you son of a bitch," he murmured under his breath, which fortunately escaped the ears of those who were in the room with him.

He had so many questions in mind, but he didn't want to get too excited about it. After all, Naomi went through physical and emotional trauma. He may be a jerk but there's a time and place. "You're doing great, Naomi. Take your time." This time, he meant it.

Naomi slowly agreed and gave it more thought, her face twisting as she re-lives the horror of the past 2-3 days. "Rotten eggs...I distinctively smelled rotten eggs. There wasn't that much conversation between the two or any of them. And...and...the guy from that movie High School Musical. He was the one..." She finally broke down. She ran out of her courage juice. He had no idea what High School Musical was, but he wrote it down in case it meant something useful; he doubted it. Dean wanted to tell her it was going to be okay, but it wasn't going to be. The emotional damage was already done. She either buries it or let it consume her. Either way, things will be different for her from this day on.

There was no asking questions anymore: 1) Naomi began hyperventilating, the machine beeping loudly, 2) Nurse Tracy rushed in the room with some kind of syringe in her hand. Before Nurse Ratchet could say anything, he got up and said, "I know. I know. I'm leaving. Here's my card in case you think of something else." He knew he was talking to dead air, but he said it anyway. He left it on the night stand, littered with food and cards wishing Naomi a speedy recovery; so did he.

His sympathy quickly passed and began thinking of his next plan. He will have to contact the local LEOs after all to make sure he did not miss any other information, like how she escaped.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, the sound of Naomi and her mom crying ceased. Instead, he was assaulted by the sounds of beeping machines and nurses chatting to his right. When they noticed him staring at them, with some kind of look on his face, they stopped and went back to work. He had the G-man look. Some were terrified, and there were some who just did not give a crap. It was fake, but they did not know that.

The exhaustion that was all over his body was no longer there. The new information he gleaned from Naomi was enough to wake him. Grabbing his phone, he quickly searched for a name and clicked on it. Not surprising, he got a voicemail. "Dad, this is Dean. Call me back. I have a lead."

He thought of what to do next, which his stomach answered loud. "Grub it is," he stated to no one in particular. Before the elevator closed on his face, a blond nurse with red tips approached him, preventing the doors from closing. He was annoyed, and he let his face show it.

The look of annoyance on Dean deterred the woman from saying anything, but she decided to ignore it because she had to have him. "Agent Simmons, you want to leave me a card just in case I need to get a hold of you?" She was flirting and he knew it.

His gaze lingered on her eyes for a minute and something popped to mind. "Do you know anything about some movie called..." he paused and checked his notepad. "High School Musical?"