Title: No Scratch For the Dealer
Author: scy
Feedback: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Fandom: Supernatural/Lucifer
Pairing: None, gen.
Spoilers: Through the first season, and some for Lucifer, nothing spoilery beyond the fact that Lucifer has been living in Los Angeles for awhile and quit Hell.
Rating: PG-13 for language and monster-related stuff.
Summary: There are ways to hold someone to you and love isn't the only one the universe recognizes.
Author's Notes: Barb wrote 'Marked', and then 'Three Point Landing'. I wrote 'Faster Than A Roulette Wheel' in the same 'verse with her blessing. After she continued the series with 'Four Wall Rule' and 'Pleading the Fifth,' she and I discussed the potential conflicts that would arise from Dean meeting up with Lucifer again. The phrases 'flying lessons' and 'high snark factor' were mentioned. I should add that I *dreamt this* for several nights while writing it. On repeat. Knowledge of the above stories would be helpful, but if not, assume that Dean at least has met Lucifer. Sam. Has not. Title from Rob Zombie.
January- February 2007

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March 18, 2007,  1:03 pm

For being extremely accomplished at chasing down monsters, the Winchesters knew when to fall back to a more strategically defensive position. Sam fell asleep in Washington and woke up somewhere much further north. Sometime during the trip, he'd shifted positions and found his face pressed flat against the window. He awoke when cold air pressed up against the glass, the condensation a chilled bite on his skin.

When Sam shook himself out of the slouch that had curved his body into the contours of the passenger seat, the sky must have been dark for hours, and Dean was settled into that groove of straightaway road that would give them a couple more dollars at the gas station. As he pulled himself upright, Sam swiped at his mouth to make sure he hadn't drooled or that Dean hadn't drawn something on his face. He shivered; the temperature must have been dropping gradually as they crossed state lines, and at present he gauged that it was well under freezing.

Up until that moment, Sam hadn't realized that he still wasn't used to cold weather. When there'd been a class schedule to go by and an allotted number of vacation days per annum, he'd taken trips, gone skiing, but he'd never been at the mercy of the weather the way he was without the certainty of shelter at the end of the day. These months on the road with Dean had been educational in a lot of ways, but by habit, at times he still defaulted to wearing one less layer than he needed to and even though Dean had reminded him on how to dress himself. Still, he had expected that they'd have found a motel by this point rather than having to keep driving through the night.

Dean didn't give an explanation for not pulling over, even when the only thing keeping him awake was the jittering rush of caffeine because Sam, hunched down in his seat, didn't require an answer. He was accustomed to waiting for the signal to move out - back me up, watch that door, get the bags, Sam and don't drop that. Until Dean told him they were at their destination, he could wait as he focused on twisting the heater's dial up all the way and getting as much heat out of the vents as he could.

His brother's habit of bouncing along to the music the way that he did wasn't such a dumb idea now, and if Sam had less than a violent dislike for eight hours of Black Sabbath on repeat, he might have done a little dancing of his own. Instead he rubbed one foot up and down his opposite leg until circulation returned with a rush of prickling sensation and repeated the exercise with the other foot. Dean was intent on the black slickness of highway curving out away into the distance, but Sam heard the joke anyway.

They'd stopped at a bookstore near the Seattle ferry terminal and Sam had picked up a few books on the region as well as a 'Natural Guide to Alaska's Undiscovered Country.' On the ferry that had brought them across the Puget Sound, he'd amused himself by pointing out all the sightseeing and camping opportunities there were to be found. Determinedly engrossed in the newspaper that he'd bought off a guy standing beneath an overpass, Dean ignored all mentions of backpacking, photographic vistas, and historical sites as if he'd been wearing earplugs.

In Sam's mind, heading north when the weather tended was regularly bent toward blizzard or snow flurries sounded distasteful, but Dean noted that not every job took place in warm climates. Chances were that whatever it was that had been harassing the region's residents, it had been there a long time which didn't help the situation any.

"It should be glad to get out of there," Dean guessed.

"So you want to lure it into the car and drive it to Florida so it can retire in style?" By now they had enough reason themselves to head South and Sam was all for that direction as soon as they were able to take a break.

"Yeah, why not?" Somehow that made sense to Dean.

"It's amazing that you haven't been recruited as a tour guide," Sam marveled.

"A real shame," Dean agreed.

Sam thought that if Dean were to actually lead people around the country, pointing out what he thought were important spots, nobody would ever go out after dark without an arsenal.

Dean hadn't explained why they were taking a job up north instead of one of the others, but then there was a lot that he didn't elaborate on. Like the way that, after finally leaving Bobby's, they hadn't stopped moving until they were in the next state, and how Sam knew that Dean wasn't going to let them look into anything that even hinted at demonic or elemental activity.

Sam knew that Dean was attuned to his every nightmare, vision, and freaky dream and that he probably knew better than Sam that the visions hadn't reappeared in any form that he could understand. When he did dream, it wasn't chaotic so much as it felt like he was picking up multiple signals and still didn't have a clue how to sort them into sense. But in their family, one's older brother did not drive all the way to the North Pole to investigate something as a cover for taking a break to bunk down and stay warm. And they weren’t prone to doing that while letting the kid brother get out of range of all the psychic chatter that he couldn’t help but pick up on. A Winchester did not take a vacation, wouldn't baby one of their own, and if they couldn't come out and ask whether something was a good idea they usually went ahead and did it anyway. Trying to figure out Dean's ideals of appropriate fraternal cosseting was difficult under ideal circumstances, especially since he wasn't sure Dean didn't think cosseting had something to do with sewing. Still, he'd at least seen the articles on these bizarre incidents in the town, so he got the general idea of why they were heading north, even if he wished they'd remembered to buy warmer clothes.

He hadn't thought to check the weather report online before he'd nodded off, but several seconds' worth of rolling the radio dial up and down the Am-FM range got him a scratchy, yet still official sounding announcer who warned of another storm system moving into the area within the week.

Sam thought about precipitation and glanced over at Dean. "How long is this going to take, do you think?"

"A few days, if it's not local."

"And if it is?"

"Then it might take longer."

"Great."

"Hey, it's not as if we're working with a deadline," Dean said, managing to avoid reassurance and go directly to 'big brother knows best.'

"We might, weren't you listening?"

"My hearing's still recovering from when you put that classical symphonic crap on."

"Dean, that was three days ago."

"It was very traumatic."

"Which one of us is more mature, now?" If they were trying too hard to sound normal, and their behavior veered toward the extremes of compensation, neither either mentioned it.

"Me," Dean said.

"I just mean, considering the date, Dean, we need to think about making preparations, just in case something happens."

"You're saying that we have to be ready because it's almost that time of the month and I'm going to grow wings again."

"It's a concern."

"If it happens, Sam, we'll deal with it, just like we have the other times. We can't forget about doing our jobs because of a little problem like that."

"Little?" Sam didn't let himself sound shocked, it was an opportunity for Dean to dismiss him, but he was thinking of the trouble they'd had with the elementals, the aggression that they'd shown last time and how they'd gotten through it only unscathed on the surface.

"I haven't forgotten, Sam, I'm the one who had to take flight," Dean reminded.

"So we'll be careful."

"We always are." Dean grinned at him and then looked thoughtful. "So there was a girl who-" and Sam considered the subject heard and closed.

Dean had begun finding obscene words that rhymed with different places on the map and had gotten to Yakutat while they were still on the highway, and by the time they'd pulled onto the town's main drag, he'd moved on to limericks. If Sam had known Dean had any idea how to misuse poetry so badly, he would have insisted on driving if just so he could turn the radio up to cover the noise. Instead he was staring at the sign that said 'now entering' and wondering whether he could hop out without breaking a leg. Though if he did, Dean would probably make up a poem about that too, so Sam concentrated on the scenery as if he was going to be quizzed later.

He knew that there weren't that many people in residence, compared to other cities, but even having strangers arrive in town ddn't bring the residents out. They got a few curious looks as the locals took in their attire but also directions to a motel. The couple who was on duty at the front desk looked very much like the people who worked at this sort of place in every other small town. Whether it was the harshness of the winter season or Sam's state of mind, he thought that these people looked like they thought only the essentials of being fed and clothed were worth the effort and everybody put off certain aesthetic habits until there was more time for them.

A wind had kicked up while the sun dropped below the horizon and it buffeted the car until the windows rattled unhappily. Sam was loath to get out, but Dean gestured sharply at him to help unpack their stuff. At times like this Sam wished that they'd shoved another blanket in beside that extra set of chains.

In spite of the fact that they faced a wide variety of monsters, and unexplainable phenomenon, the elements weren't usually their adversaries. Sometimes though, Mother Nature supplied all the trials and tribulations of a pack of rabid goblins, and then some. The locals confided that the brothers, under this week's assumed name, had come in between spells of cold weather and that the next chilly snap was close on their heels. Leaning into the tuck, as the wind gusted against their exposed backs, they rustled through the trunk.

"Found what you were looking for?" Sam asked, hunching his shoulders in the hopes that the wind would find him less of a target that way.

"Not yet. Someone's moved stuff around in here and now I can't find anything."

"Wonder who that was," Sam said blandly.

"Yeah, it's a mystery." Dean didn't turn his head to glare at Sam, but his tone was exasperated enough to make up for it. While Dean wouldn't admit to needing things a certain way, Sam was used to letting him organize the car according to his taste. Not admitting to this kind of little thing was all right in Sam's book of Dealing with Dean. If he deliberately put stuff out of order once in awhile it gave Dean something to focus on to keep busy.

Leaving Dean to his organizing, Sam took his share of the luggage and headed off to find their room, letting Dean fuss over his car for a few minutes. He muttered to himself and did the 'covering with a tarp and reassurance' type of things that he insisted on when there was no place to put the Impala out of the cold. As they closed the door, Sam swore he felt a shift in the air as the sky gave up the fight, and flakes of snow began to tumble down.

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March 19th, 2007, 6:10 am

The first day, Sam looked out the window a lot and let his attention fix vaguely out somewhere in the swirl of thick white flakes. The snow piled steadily as hours passed and soon the Impala was a pile of snow defined only by its shape. He never would have guessed that he'd long for the idiosyncratic behavior of the college server, but as he searched for wi-fi connections. The unpredictably of technology was more trouble than that gang of zombies in Michigan.

By noon, he'd given up doing research and was playing solitaire and losing because he kept getting distracted. Whatever was giving the people of the two trouble probably wasn't going anywhere, and they wouldn't be able to identify it for sure until all of this passed and they were able to get outside to investigate. In the meantime, Sam was going to have a chance to catch up on the few articles they'd been following that detailed the disappearances of several women and children from the town in the last couple months.

Given their status as strangers and the general atmosphere of the residents, Sam suspected that most of their research would have to be done on the 'net or on foot rather than relying on the statements of witnesses. They would have to wait to look around the woods though, and gathering information was the best way that Sam knew to occupy himself.

Dean had his own methods of making the time go faster, and to look at him, nobody would guess that he stress cleaned. When they were kids and Dad wasn't home on time or there'd been trouble at school, Dean had applied himself to keeping one aspect of their lives in order. The weapons were checked, cleaned, and repaired if need be, and then carefully repacked.

"If you're feeling all happy homemaker, you could do the laundry," Sam suggested when he heard Dean pause, offering a diversion before uncertainty gave way to dangerous boredom.

"Good idea, honey," Dean replied, but Sam heard the sounds of cloth rustling and bags being upended. He'd rather not watch the sorting process; Dean had an effective system, but as he worked, order was set aside.

"We're gonna need to pick up some new shirts for you. I swear, you get more ghouls groping you than a rock star."

Sam could have pointed out that he didn't ask to be attacked all the time, but that would have been reasonable, and arguments with Dean rarely took that route. "They must have good taste."

"Maybe they're just desperate."

Wadding up a piece of paper, Sam tossed it accurately at Dean's head. Rolling over, he could see Dean standing at the bathroom sink. "Not going to brave the weather for a laundromat?"

"I'd like to be able to find the room on the way back." Despite that lack of adventuresome spirit, Dean was working at a stain with a bar of soap and determination.

Sam watched him for a while and began to hum along with the movement of Dean's hands.

"Will you stop that?" Dean asked in exasperation, arms braced on the sink as he glared at Sam.

"Am I bugging you?"

"I don't mind the staring because I'm just that fascinating, but I draw the line at having you hum 'Lovin' Spoonful."

Sam hadn't realized what soundtrack he'd chosen, but he realized that when spacing out, his mind automatically defaulted to classic rock. He could blame it on spending his impressionable formative years confined to a car with no access to the radio, and his brother winning the battle for shotgun way too often. "Sorry, man, I didn't know it bothered you."

Dean went back to what he was doing and exuded an attitude of single-mindedness that would have put off anyone with sense.

For awhile, Sam bit his lip and restrained his musical impulses, then he began tapping out a melody on the bedspread with his heels. He closed his eyes and let the wet slapping and wringing noises of Dean working at the clothes fill his ears and soothe him into a doze.

Without being able to see the sky, it was difficult to be sure of what time of day it was and when Sam jolted to wakefulness, he had to crane his head in search of a clock to check. The square red digits blurred as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, glancing around for Dean.

"A couple hours."

"You hear a weather report?"

"The television reception is for shit, but they say that this is going to last for a few days."

Sam looked toward the bathroom and heard water dripping. "So, who's going to forage for dinner?"

"You offering?" In other words, Dean would go if he had to, but he was willing to stay put.

"I can go." Sam scooted to the end of the bed and grabbed his shoes and then stopped to think about it. "Why me?" Just to try and hold onto their old routines, he played at being put-upon, hoping Dean would do his part.

"You've got that freakish height going for you and I'll be able to spot you over the snow drifts," Dean agreed.

This time Sam sent his sketchbook sailing across the room and hurried outside with the sound of Dean cursing following after him.

Outside, the snow was fast heaping up on everything, and as Sam picked his way through it to the office, he thought about how they never planned for stuff like this, and yet they had enough holy water to consecrate a small town.

The owner had their house attached to the motel, and along with the room came a home-cooked meal, provided they could make it in from their room to the table. At first only barely polite, the owner's wife smiled more openly at Sam when he came inside, ducking his head into his coat to try and keep warm. She told him to wait a minute while she got some things together for him and Sam stood on the mat, shaking snow off before it ran down his neck.

"You boys had better dig out a path," she advised as she carefully crimped the edges of a foil sheet over a plate of food. Looking him over carefully, she apparently determined that he was old enough to accept the case of beer she slid sneakily around the counter to him.

"My husband will never miss it," she promised and after she added a paper bag filled with freshly baked cookies to the meal, Sam turned his collar up against the wind and stumbled back to the room.

Dean waited a whole thirty seconds longer than he needed to before opening the door, and Sam expressed his appreciation by sweeping past him without handing over the food. Once Dean got close enough to bend down and poke at the various edibles, Sam put his ice-cold hands on the back of Dean's neck and then watched his brother rear up, nearly knocking into Sam's chin, and flailing as he sputtered angrily. Dean shuddered and swiped ineffectually at his neck while Sam picked out whatever looked the best.

"Bitch," Dean said and Sam flipped him off.

"It's a friggin' blizzard out there, Dean, next time there's a supply run to be made, you get the honor."

"Fine, wuss." Dean slapped Sam's hand away from a piece of chicken. "Stop eating everything in sight or I'll start worrying about you having another growth spurt."

"People do not suddenly grow another three inches just because they're finally not sitting in a car all day."

"You never know, something might set you off," Dean affected a knowing expression, but since his hands and face were covered in grease and breadcrumbs, he came across as uncivilized.

"Slow down, you savage, the food's not going anywhere." Sam shoved him away from the last biscuit before he could grab it, and guessed that the significant look Dean aimed at Sam's nearly clean plate was probably meant to impart brotherly wisdom or something, but Sam ignored it and helped himself to seconds.

In spite of the fact that the television was nearly unwatchable, Dean tossed Sam the remote when he lost interest in flicking between different stations and the variations in fuzzy static. Sam found the weather channel and stopped there. The news anchor's face was a smear of color onscreen, and his voice wavered as if he couldn't quite apologize for the storm system but had to tell the public anyway.

"Is he giving a speech or trying to read his cue cards backwards?" Dean jibed, and Sam didn't have to turn his head to know that Dean had headed for the bathtub and wet laundry.

If Sam was a guest writer on the story of their lives, at this juncture he would insert an interlude. It would go something along the lines of how Dean turned around and told a story about the time where Dad faced down an abominable snowman in a storm like this. Then Dean would add that afterwards he marched back to where he left the boys and they all had hot cocoa and Dean let Sam have the last marshmallows, even though he'd bitched about it. But Sam didn't have all the notes on where they'd been and couldn't pull that kind of comforting memory out of thin air just to feel better, and if he asked Dean, the awkwardness would be intolerable in such an enclosed space. Maybe it was good, old fashioned healthy repression, but Sam couldn't remember ever having been confined to such a small space for such a long time without there being imminent danger.

He didn't know if they'd always been like this; needing to have something to do so that they didn't talk about what was bothering them, but now it seemed that was the only way to live. Each moment of disclosure was alternately a triumph or a failure as obligation and desire collided and Sam despaired of reconciling the two.

Dad used to say that it wasn't bad to be on the road all the time; it kept them alert and ready for the next job. Now Sam guessed that another upside of never pausing long enough for sightseeing was that there wasn't any time to think about what would be waiting when they finally arrived at their destination.

Sam had been planning a life removed from their family crusade for so long that he hadn't let himself consider what else there might be. He'd accepted that he had a part to play, a place in the fight, but he used to think that afterwards, he'd be ready to walk away. Now he knew that a cause wouldn't be put out of mind simply because nothing could be done about it. He knew what he needed to do, but the cost had begun to sink in and he wasn't sure how to avoid paying it while accomplishing his goal. In the meantime, he felt like filling his time with anything but thoughts of the creatures pursuing them and the battles still left to fight.

Once they'd consumed everything and fought over the cookies, there was nothing else to do, again. Sam was reduced to digging through the books he'd bought on the way in search of any clue as to what had moved in and decided to stay. He got into the history of the northwest and Canada, learned quite a bit about fur trapping, and got an overview of some colorful and almost legendary figures. What time he didn't kill with skimming the books he could use to annoy Dean with random and pointless statistics.

As part of being in Dean's company, Sam had been trying to learn how to read him better, and since they were stuck in one place and still had to be mindful of their injuries, he figured understanding would be the only way to get through the experience. He didn't doubt that it wouldn't be easy, but recent events had proven that not knowing what the rest of the family wanted, or not being able to follow through on something had serious consequences.

In the days before his death, their dad and Sam hadn't really discussed why Sam had taken charge and refused an order, but the expression on John's face when he heard about the semi-truck and Dean's uncertain condition was a new variation of guilt and self-recrimination. When their father finally visited Dean, he didn't touch his eldest son, rather his hands hovered in the air above the gauze and surgical tape that covered Dean's torso for long minutes as he swayed, even sitting down. After that, there was an intense conversation with the surgeon, and John managed to intimidate him, the residents, and the entire floor from his wheelchair. That was when Sam became the family representative for the staff. Sam held that as one of the few times he actually agreed with his dead about manners being out of place.

Dean put the set of knives away, the blades going into their sheaths with a soft whisper and he turned around, ready to focus on work. "What've you turned up?"

"The local paper, regional news, and the reports on people who've vanished."

"Common factors?" Dean rapped out.

"All of them were taken near their homes, within a couple miles, in fact. They 'stepped out for a walk' and didn't come back."

"Are we talking a specific area or all over?"

"The incidents are spread out, but I've got them plotted on this map." Sam turned his laptop so that Dean could see the screen. "They all happen in places where the woods overlap property lines."

"It's coming out of the forest," Dean concluded.

"Right. None of those people lived in town, their backyards are wilderness."

"Lots of animals get pushed out looking for food, this thing could be doing the same. Anything else?"

"The gender and age of the victims, only women or children were taken."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "It's going after anyone that can't defend themselves."

"We don't know that for sure, but it's possible. Tomorrow we need to get out there, walk some of the trails and see if we can find some sign of this creature."

"These people have been going missing for awhile, Sam. This isn't random monster, it's settled in and it knows the ground, otherwise someone would have caught it by now."

"And now we'll track it down," Sam declared. This wasn't the simple job he'd been hoping for, and they would be fortunate if it didn't get more unpleasant soon. That was assuming that Dean's little 'problem' didn't present a complication they weren't prepared to handle.

"Yeah," Dean said, not in agreement but to answer Sam. "I'm going to get some sleep, if you want to watch the lack of channels, keep it down." He kicked off his boots and flopped onto the bed, face down, Sam noticed and thought about time constraints.

"Let me know if you get a feeling like it's going to happen."

"Like if I'm going to turn into a winged wonder in the middle of the night? Absolutely Sam, I wouldn't want you to sleep through one second of it."

"Seriously."

"Uh, huh." Dean turned his head away and apparently went to sleep.

Even indoors, as secure as they were, Sam could hear the wind whipping itself against the building like someone tapping to get his attention. As he listened, Sam though he caught a murmur, almost as if there were words in the wind. That was a bit unsettling; he didn't know anything about the local spirits that would help them, and more worrisome, whatever was causing so much trouble hadn't given itself up with any readily identifiable hallmarks of spiritual entities.

Glancing over, there was no sign that Dean had stirred even a little, but then he could have twitched and Sam would never know if he'd also heard the element's complaints. Dean had different ways of being alert, and some of them still made no sense to Sam.

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March 20th, 2007, 2:55 pm

The storm waned by mid-afternoon, although Sam didn't count on the respite holding for long. He wandered around the small room, twitching the bedspread back into place, straightening the clock and lamp on the table and generally puttering to keep busy and to see whether any of his aimless wandering got his brother's attention. He headed into the bathroom and took a shower. When he came back out, Dean was sitting up on the bed in his shirt and boxers, flicking the blade of the knife he kept under his pillow across a whetstone. His eyes were intent on the gleam of its edge as he held it up to inspect his work and he didn't appear to have noticed the change in the weather.

"Looks like it's let up," Sam observed.

"For now."

"You want to take a look around town?"

"Can we wait for the plow to come through or did you want to dig your way out?"

"I didn't mean right now."

Dean always seemed to take Sam literally; a normal life meant one without anything he'd grown up with, happiness had to be found in certain places, and just because Dean was good at hunting, he was limited to a single occupation. There were ways of saying all those things and not offending his family, but Sam hadn't been moved to find them until it wasn't necessary to lose them in order to have a life. He intended to do both; convince Dean that he wasn't just good at hunting and killing monsters, he could do something else, and that Sam needed space to be on his own, not by shutting Dean out forever. But Sam wasn't sure if he could make Dean really hear him; there was a code for getting through to Dean, and Sam hadn't know it since before he left for school the last time.

Although, if he didn't make a suggestion, then Dean would give him that 'you never really got back into the game' look and then he'd figure out the most annoying way to teach Sam a lesson. It was bad enough that Dean still thought he might be responsible for having to carry Sam's weight, but it was even worse when Dean didn't come out and say it. He took care of things and if Sam contributed, that was a bonus. He wasn't pushing the way he had when Dad wanted Sam to do push-ups for hours and spend his free time rechecking their arsenal. Somewhere between shooting Dean and almost shooting their father, there had been changes and Dean's method for dealing with Sam version 3.0 was making all their old habits jar like unforeseen potholes.

Sam didn't feel as though he'd become a different person. He was more focused on their jobs, always prepared to met up with the demon's little helpers, but that was basic good sense in his mind. Dean on the other hand, acted as if he'd gotten up one morning and found someone else wearing Sam's clothes but he didn't have a way to prove it.

He'd tried to talk to Dean but what with his brother speaking a completely different language, he had to rely on their common tongue and even that ability see sometimes deserted him. Sam kept trying, but not being able to decode everything meant he had to make do with shorthand and his fingers were getting tired. At this point he'd settle for knowing that Dean cared enough to listen.

Sam dug through his bag, found a flannel shirt and buttoned it over his t-shirt. His coat wasn't meant for deep winter, but he was choosing to dress based on the assumption that he wouldn't be caught in a blizzard more than a couple miles from the hotel.

Jerking his head toward the snowy outdoors, he waited for Dean to stow his tools. He knew without looking that Dean had armed himself, and if Sam stared, he could have gotten an idea of how bad Dean thought this job was going to be just by how heavily he stocked up.

But Sam hadn't looked for such tells in a long time, not since he'd realize that even if Dean said hew wasn't going to pack a gun, he would, and he wouldn't hesitate to use it either.

He knew now how far Dean let himself be moved and now one of those lines drawn between their moralities had been crossed. It had happened because of Sam, like almost everything that took a toll on Dean, and it had been the only choice. Sam could reconcile that with his personal views on violence, but then when it came to the demon, he hadn't found the strength to end it. His loyalties were divided, just like always, and even if he hadn't gone against Dean in the most cutting betrayal, his hesitation had led them directly into the path of a semi-truck. So he didn't have the right to ask Dean where all the guns were; so long as he followed through, he might have some ground to stand on.

Going outside was like stepping into the white landscape of all the best winter vacation specials. Sam bounced in place for a few seconds, watching his breath puff out in front of him. There were people on the street, clearing doorways and uncovering their cars, and some waved to the brothers as they passed.

Dean stared around the idyllic vista wearing one of his masks so tightly that even Sam couldn't tell what he was thinking, only that he was reading the scene. Sam was eyeing a snowdrift and considering snowball construction and application to the side of Dean's head when his brother snapped out of it.

"You got something?" Sometimes it was as if Dean had a private line into all the stuff they hunted; he called it years of experience, and Sam let it go most of the time, but when Dean shook off his work mode and motioned sharply in a westerly direction, Sam wondered.

"What did you see?" he ventured.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing."

"Then what is it?" Sam pressed.

"A feeling."

"I don't think being psychic is catching," Sam said cautiously.

"If it was, I'd have gotten it already."

"But it's not." At least not according to the exhaustive research he'd been doing on psychics and their family histories.

"And I'm not, this is just the voice of experience."

"Experience tells you that we need to walk into the woods when it could snow at any time?" Then again, it might not be earned wisdom, but that tendency to think that dangerous stunts would lead them in the right direction, with a few obstacles to be considered.

"If there was someone in town acting funny or doing stuff differently, these people would notice, and it'd be easy to pick up on. Since that's not what's going on, the logical thing is to check out the rest of the area."

As far as Sam could tell, the small town ended where Main Street did, and only a dirt road led vaguely off into the tree line. "So you think that signs are just going to appear, giving us directions to the problem?"

"It's possible, of course there might be some crazy hermit living out in the woods who hasn't seen a woman in years, so you'd better stay close," Dean advised.

Sam pulled a hand out of his pocket and slapped Dean across the back of the head.

"They'd probably be willing to make a trade," Dean mused, and this time Sam hooked his ankle and tripped him.

Dean's reflexes kept him from falling on his face, but it did give Sam the chance to take the lead for a minute or two.

"Where do you think you're going?" Dean demanded after he caught up.

"That way," Sam pointed. "There's gotta be someone out here willing to talk to us."

"Yeah well, watch yourself, you've got a history of being carted off by the natives."

"Once, and I got knocked out."

"By a couple of nut jobs who caught you daydreaming."

"Total fluke, won't happen again."

"Yeah." Dean didn't look convinced and he seemed to be doing both his and Sam's share of keeping watch. It made him get off the subject, so Sam left it alone.

In scanning the woods himself, Sam had identified two kinds of trees, bushes, and seen animal tracks in the fresh snow. Nodding at the impressions left in the snow, Sam drew Dean's attention.

Head down, squinting slightly, his brother regarded the prints silently and followed them with his eyes back into the undergrowth. "Elk, maybe."

"Just one, looks like." Sam wasn't going to lecture on the migratory habits of wildlife, but he thought it needed to be said.

"Could have gotten separated, or maybe it's old and sick." Dean stepped back and began walking again.

Sam stared at the hoof prints a few moments longer, feeling sad for an animal he hadn't even seen and then he followed after Dean.

It was pretty cliché to happen across a cabin built deep in the woods, removed from prying eyes and law-abiding citizens. Even more predictably suspicious was the lack of any obvious occupants.

Sam walked the perimeter, eyes searching the new fallen snow for tracks, which he didn't find. "They could have just holed up during the storm," he suggested.

"Without a fire burning." Dean noted, and Sam looked up at the squat roof; indeed, there was nothing to imply that anyone had lived here in a long time.

"I think I see a bird's nest."

"Wrong season for it," Dean said, and Sam agreed.

"Abandoned then."

"Looks as though we'll have to be creative if we want to take a look inside." Dean jiggled the door handle, and Sam thought he heard something groan stubbornly on the other side.

"Window?" he asked, hoping hat they weren't going to have to commit major property damage just to be sure the house was empty.

"Second floor," Dean said, and scrambled up on the porch railing with a seeming unconcern for ice.

"Careful," Sam couldn't help cautioning and Dean took it about as well as he usually did.

"Sure, Grandma."

"If you fall, I'm gonna leave you here," Sam snapped, again reduced to the basics of insults to get his worry across.

"I'm not going to fall," Dean declared, and Sam conceded that he was right, even on the narrow railing, Dean balanced easily, like his center of gravity didn't respond to the same forces as everyone else's. With his hands on the window ledge, Dean paused, one hand up to halt Sam as he listened.

"What are you-"

"Quiet, Sam," Dean snapped, head on one side as he listened intently.

"Dean, there's nobody out here."

"That doesn't mean that they can't hear us."

"This is one of those times when you're not making sense and you need to knock it off."

"Are you sad because you're not the only one to hear voices, Sammy?" Dean teased distractedly.

"More like I'm worried that you're picking up on them." There had been a peculiar quality to the wind last night, but it hadn't been words that Sam could decipher, he'd though it was only his mind assigning meaning where there wasn't any. Now that assumption seemed incorrect.

"Don't be."

"You say that like I don't know you," Sam said, not pleased with Dean's shifting to look past him. "What are you hearing?"

"I'm not really hearing stuff, I just know something's around."

"Where's this strange noise coming from?"

"Around, could be inside the house."

"Alright, you take the window and I'll come through the front door."

"The place is empty," Dean said from where he was perched.

Then what are you hearing, Sam wondered silently. "Be sure," he said.

Dean boosted himself up over the sill and dropped inside.

Sam moved around the house and waited, gun out.

"Clear," Dean called and Sam kicked the door in.

Dean came through the doorway to the only other room in the cabin, holstering his weapon as he nodded at Sam. "There aren't any signs that anyone's lived here in years."

"No reason for you to be hearing stuff, then," Sam said. That was true, unless Dean picked up what Sam heard but in a different way. That was a first, and the reason for it happening was likely due to the beings they'd been skirmishing with since one had given Dean a gift that was revisited on him repeatedly. Of concern to Sam was the fact that somehow the wings seemed to have an effect on his brother and each time the cycle turned on them,

Dean adjusted a little more quickly. This time, he hadn't even gotten them yet and he was demonstrating unusual behavior.

"I can't see why, but you can tell better than me if there's a vibe to this place," Dean said.

"I'm not picking up mysterious sound waves, Dean," Sam corrected.

"Too bad, we could use instead of an EMF meter."

"Funny."

Dean smiled widely and then turned to search the main room, focus almost a palpable force as he investigated. He had his methods of taking in a scene and Sam had his own.

"Dust everywhere, evidence of plant growth on the logs in the fireplace." Sam walked around, ticking off each object as he worked out a timeline. "Broken dishes, pushed into the corner, they're incidental." He looked around, getting an idea of the course of events.

"Whatever happened here to the people living here it wasn't about them, they weren't important. Why?" He turned to find the source of a hollow thudding sound.

Dean kicked a section of flooring and it echoed against the impact. "They were after something, not inside, but underneath. So why don't we go and see what it is," Dean suggested and pushed the carpet off the planking to reveal an uneven square cut into the wood. "A trapdoor in an old house in the woods, how very Sleepy Hollow."

"It probably leads to a cellar, somewhere to keep canned goods so that they'd stay fresh for months," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, I'm sure they were targeted for their peach preserves." Dean felt around for the lip of the door and pulled out a knife to jimmy it upwards so he could get a hold of it. "There we go."

The opening was large enough for someone to descend into the ground but with little shoulder room and they would have to take careful steps on the ladder which was warped with age. Dean motioned to Sam and he handed over a flashlight. Dean pointed it into the darkness and nodded. "Alright, we've got your normal hoard of canned food, probably there for years, I'm going to see if there's anything else down there."

"I'll follow, go on."

Dean went down the stairs first and at the bottom disappeared for a moment. Sam saw the beam of the flashlight bouncing around below and then Dean stepped into view. "Come on down, you need to see this."

Below ground the air thickened, became moist, and Sam could smell the soil and everything living in it.

Dean stood by an area of disturbed earth and stepped back, light directed for Sam's benefit.

"I already snapped some pictures, so go ahead."

Sam crouched down and ran his fingers around, searching until he felt the smooth hardness of bone. He kept moving, collecting over a dozen and then sitting back. "There's a lot of bones here, Dean. Too many of the same type to be from one person."

"Yeah, it's taking these people and eating them. Worse, there aren't enough bones in that pit for a whole body. They kept some."

"That's sick," Sam stood up as Dean stomped around the cellar, trying to find some other evidence. "You find anything?"

"Nothing that tells us what would do this." Dean slapped the flashlight on his thigh. "It's still here. There's a town nearby, families, plenty of easy hunting, no it's not going to move unless it's forced to." Dean's expression warned that he had some ideas on how to do that, and Sam didn't like the way he was fidgeting.

"That grave has bones of different ages and I bet some of them are years old. Nothing could do this in just a couple months."

"Which means we aren't prepared for this."

"We will be," Dean said intractably and gave the cellar walls an assessing glance as he turned and led the way to the ladder and above ground, expecting Sam to follow, which he did, more uneasy than ever.

Back at the motel, Dean paced and around the pictures he'd taken and laid on the floor.

"It's making offerings," Sam whispered. It was clear that the bones weren't dumped carelessly into a hole in the earth, but it wasn't until Sam was running a search that he found pictures of specific rituals performed for a specific purpose.

"To what?"

"A demon." Sam's belly was tight with dread. He'd been worrying that there was more to this job than they'd suspected and for demons to be involved meant many things and none of them any good.

"Can you tell which one?"

"Does it really matter?" Sam demanded, but continued reading.

"Yeah, if it gives us an edge."

"The ritual is for those who comes as supplicants to dark power," Sam translated.

"As if that doesn't include the entire underworld," Dean muttered.

"The different layers of bones were laid on top of each other with a purpose each time, in a unique arrangement. I think that every time this thing killed, the offering was to a different demon, leading up to this last one." He scanned the next lines. "Hold on, this part's kind of obliquely referencing a guardian, no, a steward." Sam frowned and read further.

"Suspense is not called for, Sam."

"The steward of lost souls. This is a spell for summoning the devil," Sam said, the usual feeling of triumph for having gotten the answer absent.

Dean's hand clenched on the back of Sam's chair and he was quiet. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Are you sure?"

"Some of the language is hard to convey in English, but I'm positive, this says that the intended recipient of these sacrifices is the Lord of Hell."

"Who might not even be the devil."

"Is there more than one fallen angel in charge of the damned?" Sam inquired. It was as though Dean was trying to find another party to assign blame to.

"I guess you're right, it doesn't mean he got the message."

"According to my sources, this ritual is missing several key ingredients and without those it can't be successful. Lucky for us, because if there was such a being and he did respond to this plea, we'd have more than a monster on the hunt for fresh victims."

"Maybe not."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, I was thinking, it's not important." Dean stared at the computer screen, brow furrowed in thought.

"Something that happens so rarely is an event, I'd better write it down." Sam made half-hearted movements toward a pen and paper while he waited for Dean to explain himself or deflect Sam's questions.

"You can play scribe later. Does that site have any information on how to undo the spell or banish these guys?"

"To turn it around on them?"

"Yeah, reverse the calling for aide or whatever and send them on a one-way trip instead." Dean looked hopeful about that possibility.

Sam scrolled down and went through all of the materials without having any luck. "Nothing here can undo a summoning and bind at the same time and I don't think the journal or Dad's contacts mentioned anything like that. A Devil's Trap is just about the most powerful thing out there that anybody has heard about."

"On our side," Dean murmured.

"I guess." Now Sam could tell that Dean was holding back and putting a plan together at the same time. "Are you going to tell me what you're plotting or do I have to do something drastic to get you to talk?"

"If inbred cannibal hicks couldn't get a word out of me, you haven't a chance, Sammy."

"I have my methods," Sam threatened.

"Whining only worked when you were in the first grade, just forget about it. I don't think it would work here anyway."

"And you don't want to try and be certain?"

"You don't listen at all, do you?" Dean said hopelessly as he headed into the bathroom and shut the door.

Sam wasn't gong to let this slip his mind; Dean had a scheme worked out, or enough of one to get him in a bad spot unless Sam watched his back. That he could do even if Dean didn't want him to.

Dean came out of the bathroom with wet hair and fresh resolve. "We need more than this. Knowing what these guys were trying to summon doesn't tell us what they are."

"It could be a cult."

"There weren't any markers or symbols in the cellar, Cults like to announce their loyalty, desecrate holy sites, there wasn't any of that."

"No vandalism in town?"

"A couple broken windows, kids making trouble, but nothing that any one gang took credit for."

"So it's not kids."

"Unless they totally break all the profiles for rebelling against authority, I'd say that one's out."

"Terrific." Dean stared at the corner of the room like it was only empty if one wasn't looking for answers. "There has to be something, a rumor, history of the town, these things don't skate completely under the radar."

"So you keep searching and I'll check around for the local herbal expert. In a place this isolated someone has to put stock in the natural arts."

"Don't do anything without me," Sam cautioned.

"I won't." Dean assured and gave Sam a weary glance. "Nothing Lone Ranger-ish unless you're along for the ride, okay?"

"Good." Sam returned to the search as Dean headed outside.

Hours later, Sam had scrawled notes and runes down on napkins and the notepad of generic paper provided by the management. What he'd discovered worried him enough for him to recheck their weaponry and he waited impatiently for Dean to return.

Dean brought a draft of chilly air in with him and left snow on the carpet as he shook off.

"What did you find out?" Sam asked. There was something; Dean would bitch and snarl if there wasn't a single clue, but his relatively quiet entrance let Sam know that there had been a breakthrough.

"I got a lead on the town weirdo."

"How? Nobody wanted to talk to us yesterday," Sam reminded.

"They didn't want to talk to a couple of tourists, but a vacationing law enforcement officer who saw someone doing something shady outside at night, they really felt like they could share with him." Dean smiled; being able to pose as an officer of the law always made him happy in a way that Sam didn't fully comprehend, but it often worked the best of their cons.

"What's this guy's name?"

"Marvin Wilsey. He's lived around here for years, was the town drunk for a while and then he cleaned up, left and when he came back, moved into his parents' house," Dean recited."

Guess where they used to live."

"Outside of town in the woods."

"Yeah. Marvin told the sheriff that he came home one day and found that they'd been killed, some wild animal broke in and he was too late, but there was something funny about his story. They couldn't prove anything but the kids are supposed to steer clear of his place and they have a file on him."

"He's the guy," Sam concluded. He was surprised that it was a human being doing all of these terrible things instead of a creature born to act according to its nature.

"Looks like it. It was hinted to me, very carefully, that if Marvin was to vanish, nobody would be too sad about it," Dean said significantly.

"They think that he could be the one to kill those people."

"Like I said, they can't prove a thing that a court would accept, but these people are convinced that he's a bad seed and they want him gone."

"How do you want to catch this guy?"

"Well, we know what he's into, where he's been making his sick offerings, I'd say we've got to stake out that cabin and grab him when he shows up."

"What if he's out killing another woman right now?"

"I don't think he will. Those rituals are important enough to him to kill for, he's not going to take a chance on screwing up a key detail like not waiting for the full moon."

"Wilsey isn't the only one who should be aware of the date," Sam said. He hadn't brought the subject up seriously since the last time it had happened, but he had the calendar as an open window next to the results of his research. Each occasion that Dean felt the effects of the elementals touch came once every couple months, and two out of three times on holidays. There was no way to tell whether this would be the fourth time Dean gained wings or the one where they failed to depart when the day was through.

"Are you jonesing for your feathers fix?" Dean demanded. He sounded testy, which wasn't a shock given what he knew was going to happen, even though he didn't want it to.

"I'm not out for a hit," Sam corrected testily.

"Even with all the signs," Dean reflected.

"This is has to do with you, Dean and what might happen. I mean, it's been going on for months, and that’s enough to find a pattern. What that elemental-"

"Bastard," Dean interrupted.

"Whatever that bastard of an elemental did, it takes hold on particular days, not the same one each month and at no exact interval. The only indicator for when this will come around again is the solstices."

"Samhain, Yule, Imbolc." Dean said. "Why the cycle?" 

"It could be related to the changing seasons, all the elements play a part in that." Sam was aware that he was lecturing like a guy who'd written a book that belonged on Oprah but it was just about everything that made sense about this entirely strange new facet to their lives. "It's possibly due to a buildup in energy somehow and it has to go somewhere. If you're marked it can go through you."

"We're about due, then" Dean offered, like he didn't know that Sam hadn't already gotten that through his head. They hadn't learned what it meant that Sam had been caught up the last time.

"We can't handle this here, Dean."

"There's plenty of open space. No walls to be blown down on top of us," Dean said positively.

"Nowhere to hide," Sam countered.

"What do you want? Let Marvin Wilsey keep on killing people and trying to raise a monster until finally he gets one and it gobbles up the town?"

"I'd rather you weren't a great, big, flapping, target," Sam hissed, keeping his voice down so that the thin walls didn't give away to the locals the fact that their saviors with badges were having interpersonal conflicts.

"As if you aren't. This cycle or whatever is going to keep turning and we can't just head to Bobby's and ask him if he minds renting out his storm cellar whenever we think there's going to be a repeat. We have a job to do, Sam, and we can't let them stop us from doing it."

"Okay," Sam eased away from taking all the possible precautions and knew that he'd be making as many as he could along the way. "This is going to be a major problem if I'm right, Dean and we don't know if Wilsey will show up before that."

"If he doesn't show his face until I've molted, then I might just take the vengeful messenger from on high again," Dean said lightly. "Now let's get going, not a whole lot of daylight up here and we need to find a good spot to wait for that creep."

"We're packed up, I've got food left over."

"Everything else ready?" Dean asked, checking the bags as if Sam hadn't already told him that they were ready. Sam tolerated it and caught the backpack tossed his way and followed Dean out the door.

-------------

March 21st, 2007, 11:20 pm

Sam knew how to handle a stakeout. A lot of the time he'd spent in the background on hunts had been spent keeping his eyes open for some ghost or creature about to leap out and find itself hunted.

Most of those hours were spent in the Impala, but Sam had done his time crouched behind crypts and headstones. He would have preferred a graveyard to the forest; the dead were unpredictable, but living people presented limited options. Sam didn't know what Dean's plan was for turning Wilsey over to the authorities, or even how they could be sure that he wouldn't continue attacking his neighbors. That couldn't be assured without taking measures that Sam had considered over the line, even for them. Dean had kept his answers uninformative, but Sam could tell that his brother saw the end of this job and had determined where the cost would rest.

Wilsey's practice of preying on mothers and their children made it a particularly sensitive case for Dean and he'd mete out justice harshly, even with Sam close by.

They'd argued about staying out of the cabin, but Dean pointed out that if they were caught in the open with wings, they would be fighting off elementals and trying to subdue a demon worshiper.

"We can ambush him underground, Sam."

"But if something goes wrong there's nowhere to go."

"We're prepared and we'll lay down protections, and that sicko will be trapped too."

"Oh great, I was hoping I'd be trapped underground with a Satanist," Sam said waspishly.

Dean patted his shoulder. "Makes up for the all those late birthday presents."

"Do not think you're getting away with not changing out your tapes for a couple hours on the next job," Sam said. "You promised."

"Don't worry, Sammy, this is just a bonus," Dean explained.

"A surprise I didn't ask for?" Sam inquired.

"That's right, how you go down the stairs first. See any humungous spiders waiting at the bottom?"

Dean's ankle was within reach so Sam tugged on it and dodged out of the way when Dean kicked at his head.

"Asshole," Dean said in a low voice, but didn't hit Sam until he was standing on the dirt floor. Scales blanked, he turned to scan the cellar and then waved at Sam to begin laying down a salt circle. They started at opposite corners and met up to close the barrier. Sam took out a knife and began carving the Devil's Trap in the boards above their heads. He caught Dean giving the symbol an inscrutable look, and knew there had to be something Dean thought he needed to protect Sam from. After this was over, he'd have to confront him; the time had passed for such considerations and Sam couldn't let Dean face those unknowns by himself.

When they were through making their preparations, no demon called into the cellar would be able to influence or hurt anybody without risking its destruction and they took up posts in the deepest shadows cast by the ladder, one on either side.

"When it happens, Sam, let me make my move, I know what to do with this guy," Dean said.

"I'll do the heavy lifting and you can be the voice of reason." Sam's expression was dubious and he held back his misgivings with their customary banter.

"Just don't reach out and do that grabby thing."

That was easier to understand and Sam was relieved that the cellar was poorly lit so that his reaction to thoughts of Dean's wings couldn't be seen. Dean's response was disbelieving, but he stepped away, yanking off his coat and leaving on a t-shirt that he wouldn't miss if it got shredded. They waited, their breathing barely audible, and then to nobody but each other.

Sam had last checked his watch at a quarter to eleven and it was awhile late that he heard footsteps above them. He and Dean stepped away from the ladder so they were flush with the wall. They'd both had guns out, but Sam heard Dean slide his away and knew that his brother was going to be the one to work in close quarters, leaving him to cover Dean.

Whoever it was moved fast; they knew their way around the cabin and came unhesitatingly to the trap door. Sam and Dean had closed it behind them but they weren't counting on something not being out pf place. The door lifted up and Sam held still as the dust circulated with displaced air.

Sam could nearly hear Wilsey's thoughts, the questioning of how he'd left this hideout. If he hadn't been so consumed by his efforts to acquire a demon to act in his stead, the man might have checked further. But Sam knew that he wouldn't stop to think when his plans were near completion. Wilsey came down the ladder, flashlight held loosely as he was confident of his footing.

Sam and Dean didn't move away from the wall as Wilsey dropped a bag on the floor. He rustled in it and removed two candles, a jar less than a quarter of it full and stopped. "Got to get it right," Wilsey said. "This time, everything's perfect, has to be." He began unscrewing the lid of the jar. That was their signal' Sam stepped forward and kicked Wilsey in the stomach and as he landed hard, wind knocked out of him, Sam planted a foot on his chest to keep him down. Staying back, Dean caught the jar as it flew toward him and peered inside.

"Hey, Wilsey, what's this?"

"It looks like blood," Sam offered, flashlight catching the gleam of dull red behind the glass. He turned to Wilsey. "You're carting blood around with you in case you need a transfusion?"

"Who are you?" Wilsey demanded.

"The morality squad," Dean snapped. "It doesn't matter to you."

"Your names, tell me who you are," Wilsey demanded. "By coming here you violate my temple, you must be fellow workers of magic, don't you want to be remembered?"

"Why is it the psychos always sound like they've had the same courses in doing the wrong thing?" Sam wondered.

"They'd be better off learning how to back down when they're beaten," Dean said.

Wilsey was struggling to get loose, but Sam pressed down with more force and he went back to trying to identify them.

As they listened to him guess names they memorized them for later. Finally Wilsey had run out of breath and Sam spoke up.

"This is your power base, right? All of those things you've done to people, the bad stuff to get your own pet monster, it's tied up in the ground with blood and candles." He stared directly at the man and smile unpleasantly. "We know about it, you can't get away from what you've done." Readjusting his stance, he thought out loud. "You want to know our names so that you can call up one of those demons you've been searching for." He glanced back down at Wilsey who had begun to look increasingly sickly in the beam of the flashlight.

"And you think that'll solve your problems, get rid of us and you can go on trying to make something listen when you talk." He shook his head in disgust.

"It never works that way," Dean chimed in. "Demons don't just do what they're told. Pretty soon they've learned everything there is to know about you and then they get loose. Like a mad dog off its chain, only this mutt can't be put down so easily."

"That's not the way it's going to be," Wilsey insisted.

"You're that sure of your plan, everything's been accounted for?" Sam asked.

"I know what they want, these old gods, its' been so long since they were given the respect they're due," Wilsey said.

"This isn't how you summon a god," Dean informed him harshly. "Moron. You think that they care about a string of sloppy murders? Give one of them a little and they'll take the rest."

Wisley glanced in Dean's direction hatefully. "You can't hope to understand. You've never been in the presence of such glorious and pure power."

Sam resisted the urge to drop his foot into Wilsey's crotch, but didn't stop himself from changing angles with his boot.

"Really." Dean's voice had gone flat, like he'd pulled every piece of himself out and only someone who knew him would hear purpose, deadly and unrestrained. "What I've seen and met and defeated would swallow you down without stopping to belch," he said, false levity making Sam's skin prickle.

"You want to see what they're like so bad, let's find out how much loyalty means." Dean shook the jar and twisted the top off. "You've already done the legwork for this one, mind sharing who you were trying to invite up?"

Wilsey snickered, a whistling sound that was equally fearful and triumphant. "Go on."

Dean considered the challenge for a second then he shrugged. "Okay." He threw the jar's contents on to the soil and Sam saw a line of runes flare brightly as the blood was absorbed.

"Dean," he said expectantly, waiting for an explanation or an assurance that his brother hadn't lost it while posturing at a deranged man.

"Now you've done it," Wilsey chuckled, wriggling out from under Sam's foot and sitting up just outside the circle, not caring that Sam had a gun aimed steadily at his head.

"You know who these offerings were for? The Prince of Darkness, the Lord of Hell. You stupid boy, you've' completed the ritual."

"The Devil?" Dean asked, sounding at all worried, not like Sam though the moment warranted. "Well, I know a thing or two about angels and even fallen ones don't care much for humans getting too full of themselves." He came out of the shadows and bent down right next to Wilsey, and Sam saw why he'd been keeping back up to that point. With his wings spread out fully, Dean looked like the archetype of a demon's adversary.

Wisley gaped at Dean, making gestures that could have been protections against goodness, if Sam had cared to interpret them. He was more occupied with watching Dean as he leaned in to speak softly.

"And you know who God sent to do his dirty work? Angels. So what do you think a banished angel will do with you?"

"Dean, step back," Sam pleaded. He couldn't tell if the sweat in his eyes was from the tension or the rise in the temperature, but the room was getting warmer.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, ignoring the warning, his posture odd, leaning forward, almost crossing the circle, but not, like he could feel it and was almost resting against it.

"I'm serious, get away." Sam reached out and straight-armed Dean back, knocking Wilsey to the ground again as he did. He didn't really care if the man was too close to the circle and whatever was approaching, but Sam knew that Dean was caught up in some strange headspace and wouldn't go far from Wilsey.

The air was stifling, all the years without circulation suddenly being breathed in and Sam coughed. Then there was a weave of heat from inside the ring, centered and holding to that space and then it was gone and there was a figure standing in front of them on charred soil.

Everything in Sam told him that this thing wasn't human, no matter what skin it was wearing. Still, it looked normal apart from the eye; they had the glow of a ten seconds-old match.

"Placing a call at in a sacred circle is the equivalent of shouting in a library," the creature said offhandedly.

"It was the surest way to summon and bind you," Sam said, trying to hold himself tall and look forbidding. It was largely wasted; Dean needed to remind him that having hair hanging in his eyes did nothing for his intimation skills.

"I hear and see further than the horizon, Samuel, and you have not the power to bind me."

"Really." Sam sounded skeptical, which was partly Dean's fault; give someone a few jolts of prescience, tell them the best way to bind a demon and they thought that they had a better handle on matters than the rest of the world. Dean, who had been jabbing at Wilsey with the toe of his boot, was shooting Sam looks full of words that he wasn't saying, and Sam didn't think they had the time to wait for an interpretation. "How do you know my name?"

"I see that even among family some things aren't shared," the thing continued, staring past Sam to Dean, who shifted his wings lower, guiltily, Sam thought.

"What's it talking about, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Haven't I said that you meet the strangest people in bars?"

"That isn't a person."

"Rather quick to put the unknown to the knife," the demon commented and Sam met its gaze, chin up. To Sam, this thing's non-answers were an indication that they had an agenda and wanted to keep it to themselves.

"It's too cold for double talk," Sam said warningly.

This amused the demon and his thoughtful air melted enough for a smirk. "You would be an authority to heed."

"Well, he's definitely not a weatherman." Dean spoke up.

Sam shook his head warningly at Dean; he wasn't sure what this demon wanted or if he was about to become a problem, but without knowing the defense, they couldn't turn their backs and the last thing they needed was for Dean to start antagonizing this stranger.

"Your kind." Sam said, more tired than angry, "think you know everything."

"Or close to it," the demon said, still not stirring from the center of the circle, even as Sam stepped towards him.

Wilsey had been quiet up until now, but he'd gotten his courage back and pulled himself up onto his knees, worshipful excitement shaping his face. "Lord Lucifer," he said eagerly, and Sam guessed he wanted to ingratiate himself with the demon, but all that was dampened when the demon glanced at him and spoke.

"Hell is under new management," he said with a head tilt that was more than faintly ironic.

"What do you know about it?" Sam demanded.

"I'm well informed." From someone else it would have been bragging, out of his mouth, it sounded like an absolute.

"But I called the Lord of Hell," Wilsey said, bewildered.

"You didn't call anyone, your symbols and ritual are a mortifying collection of rituals and ideologies. Not even your faith was sincere, you couldn't have called a higher demon unless they were hungry and bored." He paused. "And they would also have to be exceptionally dense, to enter freely into a circle, particularly when someone's taken care to lay out a devil's trap as insurance." For all the notice he gave it though, it might as well have been graffiti on a subway wall.

"But you came," Wilsey pointed out.

"Not for you." Again, he looked at Dean, specifically his wings, and smirked blatantly.

"Eostara has come around to touch you, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, I got that, this makes four now," Dean said wearily. "Maybe I should start marking my calendar."

"It would be more prudent than tormenting a misguided murderer."

"I'm a faithful servant of the dark powers," Wilsey objected. "I've done all of this for you, Lucifer." He shrank back against Sam's legs when that unnatural gaze was turned on him.

"I have never been one to accept offerings of blind faith and I have less tolerance for it than one of humanity's forgotten gods."

"That doesn't mean you don't use people when they pull this kind of crap," Dean interjected and smiled unflinchingly.

"To ignore opportunity when it may benefit your ends is unforgivably foolish."

"And what about doing what he has?" Sam asked.

"Look at me," Lux commanded, and Wilsey's chin jerked up as if he couldn't control his own muscles. Lux stared into the man's face for a couple moments, evaluating and then he sighed.

"Is he possessed?" Sam asked.

"No, merely deluded. Few demons would choose a host so consumed with making such obtrusive blunders," Lux released Wilsey's gaze and stepped back again.

"You mean murder," Sam said.

"Yes." Lux was unfazed by Sam's searching looks as he eyed Wilsey.

"What're we going to do with him?” Sam had always been the practical one, even if he didn't like to think that way about another person. They couldn't let Wilsey go, he was devout, if crazy and the legal system's loopholes let the insane or those playing at it slide out too quickly.

"We need to be sure that he's never going to do this again," Dean said, and they all ignored Wilsey's promises of good behavior. "He won't change, Sam, not even when he finally calls up something that won't mind taking his body for a spin and topping what he's done. They all want to be bigger and badder than the rest," Dean added.

"Needless posturing," Lux informed them.

"You being the final authority in this area," Dean teased.

"Amateurism is fairly dull and predictable," Lux agreed.

"So what're you going to do about it?" Sam didn't know how to react to someone not overtly threatening them, but who he had a feeling could be the most dangerous being they ever met.

"Did you want me to do you a favor?"

"No way," Dean cut him off and stepped in front of Sam, wings spread slightly to shield him.

"But this guy's a psycho who thinks the devil is adding up his points every time he spills blood."

"Is it smart to encourage that sort of thinking?"

It wasn't Dean's best argument, and his manipulation was transparent, but Lux seemed more amused than offended.

"Still bold, Dean Winchester."

"Haven't changed much yourself."

"I see that you've landed in an elemental conflict, though."

"The wings drive women crazy."

"Not just them," Lux insinuated, and Sam couldn't tell if he was somehow making a reference to Dean's brother or the elementals that had been chasing them.

"I guess I've got that way about me," Dean shrugged. "What can you do?"

"Likely make the most of it; elementals have the patience of the earth."

"So we're locked into their sights for who knows how long," Dean gathered.

"It follows that confrontation is inevitable," Lux said.

"I'm not feeling any better," Dean retorted.

"You've been singled out as belonging to air, and that makes fire and earth adversarial."

"Terrific."

"I'm certain that you'll reach a truce, or obliterate anything that you can if it doesn't back off," Lux said confidently. "In the meantime, this one must be handled and the ground cleansed so that no one else will continue his work."

"You can do that?"

"My will shaped the sun, Samuel," Lux said. "Fire purifies, renews."

"It also burns feathers," Dean pointed out, looking worried, but still curious.

"Have you managed flight?" Lux asked.

"Once," Dean admitted.

"Then now will be your second chance. Take hold of your brother, there will be a substantial back draft." Lux caught Dean's nervous shifting and his mouth curved. "Take hold of my arm until you've left the ground, the momentum will be enough to encourage instinct." 

"And what about Wilsey?" Sam asked, standing closer to Dean and letting his brother put an arm around his waist.

"I'll take him."

"Where?"

"Up." Lux and Dean exchanged glances and Dean frowned unhappily. "A fear of flying will have to be put aside," Lux advised and grabbed Wilsey's collar. "Prepare yourself and fly away from the heat."

"Crap," Sam muttered. Dean had flown before, but that had been when he absolutely had to, in dire circumstances, when there wasn't another choice. Here, if he had time to argue, he'd get out of it. "Dean, you have to," he said to his brother; seeing Lux's unsettling eyes glow brighter and feeling another warm rush of air, he knew that they had to get out of the basement, immediately.

Lux raised a hand upward to rest on the ceiling and Sam heard the foundations of cabin creak and tear loose. Sam cringed, expecting it to come down on their heads, but the building moved with Lux as he gestured as if he was pushing something off, like flicking water, for all the effort it required. "Up, now," he commanded, and Sam grabbed Dean's arms, not wanting to impair his flight, but understanding why Dean could have issues with not touching the ground. There was nothing between him and earth but thin air and he could hear Dean straining to learn the mechanics, as they were needed.

With Wilsey held under one arm like a wriggling animal, Lux spun in the air, his own wings beating slowly. He reached out his other hand and fire erupted from his palm; a flame trailing in the wake of the motion as the house was engulfed below them.

Since Lux had let go of Dean, Sam hoped that his brother was occupied with staying aloft, therefore Sam kept his focus on Lux. One twitch of his fingers in their direction would effectively incinerate them and Sam didn't think he had whims about possible annoyances. Everything in his speech and movements promised deliberate catastrophe and Sam could tell that the only way to be safe was to know when to step out of the way. With this guy, light's triumph over darkness might not be the victory they were looking for. Sam also wanted to know why Dean, ever ready with a sarcastic remark, was taking no mind of the threat they were dealing with, and was treating Lux like someone he'd dealt with before.

“Where did you two meet?” Sam called to Dean. If anything could keep his brother from losing his cool and panicking, it would be an argument. Sam could already tell that he wasn’t going to like what Dean had held back and he knew what his part.

“What?”

“You and Lux, you’ve met, where?”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Now you can’t avoid the conversation,” Sam said reasonably.

“That’s because I’m trying to keep us from falling out of the sky while stuff is on fire,” Dean replied tersely. His wings were beating steadily with occasional bursts of quicker flapping.

“Keep moving your wings, I can feel us sinking.”

“Shut up.” Dean adjusted and they climbed higher while his breathing sped up and Sam raised his voice.

“So what were you doing while you were chatting with the townies? Did you make a call in case things went badly, or had you already talked?"

“Huh?” Dean glanced at Sam.

“You made a deal.”

“You think I would, that-” Dean was swallowing words as they rose in his mouth.

A year ago the question would have been beyond every line Sam had concerning Dean, but after all they’d been through, he had to raise the question.

“I’m not sneaking around keeping secrets from anyone.” Dean’s grip slipped and am knew the strain was wearing on him.

“Nothing?”

“Deals with the devil, I’d remember.”

“He’s Satan?” Sam’s voice rose and cracked like he was twelve again, but it was understandable given the revelation Dean had just dropped on him.

“Lucifer will do,” was the correction and Sam flinched.

“The flames have subsided, it would be prudent to descend.”

“How,” Dean asked, voice shaking his composure loose.

“Extend your wings, catch a gust as it supports you and gradually coast downwards.”

“That’s it?” Sam asked.

“If you care to dismiss inexperience and a steep learning curve,” Lucifer chided.

Sam took the hint and kept quiet and still.

Dean seemed to be following Lucifer’s directions, and was bringing them to ground in jerky fits and starts. As the distance to the earth decreased, Dean confidence grew and his wings beat smoothly. He touched down and let go of Sam, who staggered out of the way.

He gave Dean space to move fast but was near and was ready to step in if needed.

“Your form would shame a fledgling,” Lucifer said critically, and got a dirty look from Dean.

“Easy for you to say, you’ve been doing this flying thing for eons.”

“Age does have its uses,” Lucifer agreed. “In the meantime, practice would be a great assurance that you’ll live longer.”

“Are you going to give me tips?”

“I did,” Lucifer said.

“Yeah, thanks, I’m not taking off unless I have to.” Dean examined a flight feather and then folded his wings behind him. “How did you learn?” He asked Lucifer, showing no fear of this being or worry that he was taking liberties that would be counted against him later.

“I came into being knowing my purpose and abilities,” Lucifer replied.

“So you could fly right away?”

“Doubts don’t linger when you’re airborne.”

"I guess not," Dean conceded. 

"You either move and adjust or you-"

"Fall?" Sam suggested and was treated to a cold look that dismissed his remark as being in really poor taste. 

"Interpretation is more than rereading the text, Samuel, you know that history is not only what's been recorded." 

"And some things aren't written down at all," Sam said, nudging his brother.

"Happenstance isn't as popular as organized propaganda that's been handed down from on high," Lucifer told him. "Dean was in a place and it was the right time, so I stopped in to have a word with him."

"Why?"

"My reasons are my own."

"What do you want?" Sam demanded. 

"From you two? Nothing specific. My goals have a greater scope. But you need to be aware of how much attention you've gathered."

"But why approach Dean?" In the months that preceded this job, Sam had thought that Dean was a target, wings putting him in a fight that he didn't ask for, and now there was this being, one that Sam had thought existed, but not in such a solid way, was telling Sam that he'd had a talk with his brother just because the urge struck him.

"Why not insert myself into one of your prescient visions?"

"Yeah."  

"Your concerns lie first with logic, what should be done, not what needs to be. Dean's pragmatism is more receptive to input."

"So you gave him some pointers?" That Sam didn't believe.

"Ask Dean, if you're feeling untrusting, I have no reason to lie or comfort you." 

"That's blunt," Sam said softly. 

"I'm not known for being careful," Lucifer said. He twisted a hand in Wilsey's coat as if to remind the brothers of the man's presence and that they needed to deal with him. "Something like this requires minimal fuss and very little finesse with expert handling." Ignoring Sam's eyes, Lucifer looked at Dean. "Here, hold him still for a moment, this needs contact."

Dean stepped forward and held Wilsey's shoulders, lifting him slightly off his feet so that he was too unbalanced to get away. "What are you going to do?"

"There's a flaw in him that another turn of life won't cure, he hasn't learned enough to change." Lucifer pushed Wiley's jaw from side to side contemplatively, the man resisting weakly and making frightened noises, long past denial or pleading. 

"You're saying that death would be like letting him go free," Dean said as he worked it out. 

"Yes, too soon he'd be doing the same thing, only with an earlier start."

"What can you do, then?" Sam wanted to know. He didn't want to see someone killed in front of him, but the man was evil and that couldn't be ignored.

"Wipe him clean," Lucifer said. 

"You mean-"

"Consider it recompense for the lives he took thinking I'd accept them."

"What do you want for it?" Dean wanted to know, showing that he wasn't completely at ease with the devil, which made Sam relax slightly.

"Nothing." Lucifer smiled at them, fully aware of how that sounded and savoring it. "This is sufficient." 

"You came around to give me a hard time about my wings?" Dean asked. 

"Not only that, now hold onto this one." 

Sam touched Dean's arm lightly, asking if this was something they could live with, and Dean let Sam's hand rest there for a moment. Not the first choice, but one that he'd take. Sam didn't pull back; he wasn't going to allow Dean to be the only one responsible for this, he was a part of it too. 

Lucifer put a hand on Wilsey's forehead, like he was checking for a fever, and when he found whatever he was searching for, inhaled deeply. Then he dropped a hand to rest on the man's chest, the other cupping his head, not in reassurance, but to hold Wilsey still.

Then Lucifer shoved his hand into Wilsey's chest and felt around inside. Wilsey gagged and struggled, but Dean was behind him and Lucifer wasn't letting him move either.

"Can you hurry up with whatever you're doing?" Dean asked.

"Another second will do it," Lucifer said. "He's rather attached to his misconceptions. Well, there we are, all of it." Lucifer withdrew his hand from Wilsey's torso, something held in his palm. It was dark and looked like a lump of mud, but the smell of it was like rot kept out of the sun.

Sam winced and Dean's muscles locked as Wilsey shrieked, seeing what Lucifer had taken out of him.

"What is that? What did you do to me?"

"That is all of your devotions, the corners of your soul that were infected, pulled free and leaving what small portion was still decent," Lucifer informed him.

"That's mine, you can't take part of me," Wilsey protested.

"I can and if you knew better you'd thank me, but you don't need to because none of this will be left for your to remember." Lucifer clenched his hand around that clump of darkness and there was a flash of brightness. When he spread his fingers, the thing that had come out of Wilsey was gone. "All that remains is to be certain it takes."

"How are you going to do that?" Sam asked softly.

“By being thorough.” Apparently Lucifer wasn’t going to give specifics; since that wasn’t an essential step in this, he left it out. He laid his hand on Wilsey again, but this time he wasn’t removing anything.

Sam’s vantage point didn’t let him see exactly what Lucifer did, but Dean compensated for the jolt that went through Wilsey and Sam felt that.

Wilsey fell back into Dean ad as he lowered the man, Sam saw that Wilsey had been struck unconscious.

“Is he going to be alright?” Dean looked at Lucifer for whatever he would tell them.

“He suffered a severe blow to the head and has likely lost at least two years, but when he wakes up in some area clinic he will present as an ordinary member of the human race.”

“He’s harmless?” Sam wanted to know.

“Nobody ever is, Samuel, but he is devoid of those tendencies that made him seek approval by such crude means.”

“I’d thank you., but it wouldn’t mean that much,” Dean told Lucifer, who laughed shortly.

“The intent is understood.” Lucifer took in the brothers; Sam standing at Dean’s shoulder, wings lifted to that they curved around Sam protectively, both of them watching Lucifer warily. “What you have, Winchesters, should not be dismissed as common.”

“We’ve heard that before from monsters,” Sam warned.

“Different motive doesn’t equate dishonesty, remember that.”

“Who couldn’t you convince?” Dean asked.

Lucifer’s golden eyes fixed on Dean and Sam could tell that Dean was forcing himself not to back off.

“Learn from history, its participants would prefer not to see it repeated,” Lucifer advised and spread his wings, white, to their full span and lifted off the ground with none of the uncertainty that Dean showed.

“What does that mean?” Sam said through his teeth to Dean. They were going to talk about Dean having no idea of how to define ‘causal chats’ at the earliest opportunity.

“Look it up,” Dean suggested and kept his eyes on Lucifer. “Are we going to have to watch out for you?”

“I’ve told you, Dean Winchester, that my interests in you two are not to be counted in the plans of minor demons. Whether there is a need or you wish to raise unfounded theories to my attention, I am aware of your limitations.”

“Great, you don’t come when you’re called, just if you feel like it.” Dean shook his head. “And thanks for leaving us with the clean up, by the way, we’ll be luck if every elemental in the northern states didn’t feel that stunt and isn’t heading our way.”

“They know when not to antagonize greater power,” Lucifer told him. “You have at least until the next solstice to prepare.”

“Thanks,” Dean said and wiggled his fingers at Lucifer, not waving, but something close to it.

Lucifer sought out Sam’s gaze, held it for a long, uncomfortable beat and then propelled himself upward into the sky, vanishing into sunlight so bright that Sam and Dean had to look away.

They made their way silently back to town, Wilsey slung between them like a drunk that had wandered out too far and narrowly avoided being frozen to death. Dean’s wings brushed against Sam too often for it to be accidental, and Sam stayed close enough for the feathers to touch his face as they walked.

-end