War of the Sons E-Book

Rebecca Dessertine

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A Supernatural novel that reveals a previously unseen adventure for the Winchester brothers, from the hit TV series! Twenty-three years ago, Sam and Dean Winchester lost their mother to a demonic supernatural force. Following the tragedy, their father taught the boys everything about the paranormal evil that lives in the dark corners of America... and how to kill it. On the hunt for Lucifer, the boys find themselves in a small town in South Dakota where they meet Don - an angel with a proposition... How far will the boys go to uncover the secret Satan never wanted them to find out?

Leseprobe

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS:

Supernatural: Heart of the Dragon

by Keith R.A. DeCandido

Supernatural: The Unholy Cause

by Joe Schreiber

SUPERNATURAL™

WAR OF THE SONS

REBECCA DESSERTINE& DAVID REED

Based on the hit CW series SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

TITAN BOOKS

Supernatural: War of the Sons

ISBN: 9781848569287

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition August 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

SUPERNATURAL™ & © 2010 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. Cover imagery: Front cover image courtesy of Warner Bros.; Ancient Scroll © Shutterstock; Black Vector Silhouettes Skyline © Shutterstock.

Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

Did you enjoy this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at [email protected] or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive Titan offers online, please register as a member by clicking the “sign up” button on our website: www.titanbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States.

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

HISTORIAN’S NOTE

This novel takes place shortly after the season five episode

“My Bloody Valentine.”

PROLOGUE

This guy’s not from around here.

The thought occurred to Caleb as soon as he saw the man’s car. It was almost silent, drifting up the long driveway to the camp with no engine noise, the only sound the crunch of gravel under its tires. The gunmetal-gray frame came to a halt in the grass field adjacent to the camp that was too-generously labeled “Parking Lot.”

Caleb stared as the driver’s door opened and a tall man got out. The stranger’s appearance was immaculate—every hair perfectly in place—but something was off. Caleb figured it was probably the Hawaiian shirt.

“Where is Justin Black?” the man intoned, without preamble.

Despite Caleb’s considerable strengths as a camp counselor, actually keeping track of the children was a remarkably low priority for him. We’re in the middle of the woods, he told himself, where are they gonna go? For that reason, the Hawaiian-shirted man had caught him off guard.

“Uh... at camp?” Caleb said, and regretted the words as soon as they spilled from his mouth. Is Justin Black the fat one with the Harry Potter birthmark, he pondered, or the creepy little one who was always trying to give out free hugs?

“My son. His location.” The man paused for effect. “I require more specific information.”

Caleb glanced into the open window of the activities building, hoping that he’d happen to see the boy in there.

Nope.

“I’ll find him. He’s out by the lake, I think,” Caleb said, putting on his best reassuring voice. He’d better be, he thought, or this is going to be awkward.

“No,” the man said. “I’ll find him myself.”

The man walked purposefully toward the forest path, and Caleb quickly followed. There was something off-putting about the guy, and Caleb didn’t recognize him from parents’ night. Could have been the weed, though, he thought. Actually, wasn’t it Justin Black’s dad who’d brought the weed?

Caleb hurried to catch up to the man’s long strides.

“Is there a problem?” he asked. “Usually Justin’s mom picks him up—”

“No problem.” The man cut him off. “I just need to speak with the boy.”

Yup, he’s a pervert. Who else calls their son “the boy?” Caleb sped up his pursuit.

“What was your name again?” Caleb asked, hoping it would jog some memory of this guy. “I didn’t catch it before.”

The man turned, slow and deliberate.

“Don. Call me Don.”

The camp counselor was certainly annoying, but it was by no means the worst thing Don had had to put up with in his long and storied existence. His former profession had brought him into contact with the absolute worst of the worst, the darkest blights on the fabric of humankind that ever walked the Earth. I’m like Jerry Springer without the fame, Don thought, amused by his own analogy. After his previous occupation, it didn’t take much to amuse Don. Well, the fame part is about to change.

Losing the counselor in the forest was a simple matter. One moment, the kid was an arm’s-length away. The next, Don was a quarter-mile ahead of him. The path wound its way down a hill, dense thickets of forest obscuring the view. It would all be over before the counselor caught up.

The lake itself was pristine and beautiful, its glassy surface rippling with the slight breeze. An amazing summer day, one like Don hadn’t seen in... too long to remember.

“Ew! Don’t touch it with your bare hands!”

Don’s head turned an unnatural degree to find the source of the shout. It had come from a girl, about ten years old, running away from a boy of the same age.

Justin Black.

“You’re gonna get warts!” the girl cried, desperately dodging away from the frog in Justin’s outstretched hands.

“No I won’t,” Justin said, “my brother said frogs give you herpes.”

“What’s that?” the girl asked innocently.

“I dunno. Why don’t you ask the frog?” Justin thrust the amphibian at her, only to have it leap out of his hands and into the bog at the lake’s edge.

“Great, now you made me lose it,” Justin complained.

He reached down into the bog to find the lost creature, but another pair of hands got there first. Don lifted the frog out of the swampy water, holding it delicately, as if the slightest pressure would shatter it.

“It’s not lost, my boy,” Don said, a warm look on his face.

Justin took a step back, confused.

“Dad?”

“No, Justin, not exactly.”

The frog croaked loudly, startling both of the children. Justin’s brow furrowed.

“Mom said you’re not supposed to come see me. She said the police wouldn’t let you.”

“My boy, that was the old me. There’s a new set of rules, now.” Don held out the frog to Justin, trying to bring the boy closer.

“You like frogs, don’t you?”

Caleb’s mind was racing. Where had the man gone? Should he call the cops? How the hell had he got so far ahead? He began to run, hurtling down the path as he started to panic, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he felt his foot hit a rock, sending him tumbling down the slope and slamming into a tree.

“Damn it!” he groaned, as the pain shot through him, bringing tears to his eyes. Wincing, he shifted into a sitting position and peered at his leg. His pants were ripped and a trail of blood was seeping down his thigh.

Crap.

He pulled himself up, took a step forward, and collapsed. Oh God, I can’t stand. Maybe it’s broken.

Fear filled his mind. Fear of what would happen to the kids at the lake, fear of what would happen when his boss found out about his inattentiveness, and fear of dying slowly of bloodloss out in the woods where no one could find him.

Calm the hell down, he thought, this isn’t even that bad. It’s barely even bleeding. That realization helped him get back to his feet. He had managed to hobble a few steps forward when he heard it.

The blood-curdling scream of Justin Black.

ONE

I can feel it, Dean thought. The sky is falling. It wasn’t a new feeling. In fact, the sky had been falling on Dean Winchester since he was four years old. The difference, of course, was that this time could very well be the last time. And this is where it all ends? The Apocalypse is gonna go down in the ass-edge of nowhere?

Dean let out a tired sigh as he gunned the Impala onto County Road 6. There was nothing on either side of the asphalt except cornfields, cattle, farms and farmers—the very Americana that Dean and his brother Sam fought to protect. For a moment, Dean’s imagination took hold, and the clouds on the horizon became pillars of smoke, spilling from unseen tongues of flame. The rotting wooden beams of a decrepit barn became the last remnants of humanity. Dean shook the vision out of his head, and the clouds were once again clouds. The barn was, once more, just a barn.

For months, Dean and Sam had been on the suicide mission to end all suicide missions—to hunt down and kill the Devil. Though the weight of the task seemed unbearable, the brothers knew that they were the only ones who could shoulder it. It was, after all, their fault that right now Lucifer walked the earth.

No. Sam’s fault.

Dean shoved the thought to the dark recesses of his mind. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on it. His younger brother—the boy who Dean had practically raised since their mother died—had broken the Final Seal. In a moment of weakness, Sam had killed the demon Lilith, unintentionally popping the lock on Satan’s cage. Now, after nearly a year of chasing him, they were no closer to shoving the bastard back into the lock-up.

But that wasn’t even the bad news. The angels, ostensibly protectors of humanity, had in fact been behind Satan’s jailbreak.

“They wanted you to break the Seal,” Dean had explained to his brother in the moments after Lucifer’s rise. “They’re sick of waiting around in Heaven. With Satan out, they get to bring on the prizefight. Winner takes Earth.”

The angels already had a plan in motion—according to the winged bastards, the only way to defeat Lucifer was for Dean to be the host for the archangel Michael, the most powerful weapon in Heaven’s arsenal. They even had an overdramatic pet name for Dean: the Michael Sword. Every fiber of Dean’s body rebelled against the idea. The battle between Michael and Lucifer would have the minor side effect of destroying half the Earth. A “planetary enema,” Zachariah had called it. The douche.

Lucifer’s final vessel was to be Sam. The symmetry must be funny to someone upstairs, Dean thought. Michael and Lucifer were brothers, one of them following closely in their father’s footsteps, the other... Well, just like Sam, Lucifer had always wanted to go his own way.

However, the one thing neither Heaven nor Hell could control was human will. While on Earth, angels—both righteous and fallen—had to take a willing human host. If Sam and Dean didn’t say “yes” to Lucifer and Michael, the battle couldn’t happen. The archangels would have to putter around in their alternate, non-ordained meatsuits, tearing their lesser vessels apart while they waited for Sam and Dean to come around to the party line.

The Winchester brothers weren’t going to fight each other. There had to be another way.

But every time they thought they had Lucifer within their sights, fate slapped their faces again. They had tried their old standby: straight-up violence, attempting to kill Lucifer outright. First with the Colt, a gun so powerful it was said to be able to kill anything, but that had barely given their Adversary a headache. They had Ruby’s demon-killing knife, but that was just as impotent against an archangel. The only chance they had left was to catch Lucifer by surprise. No small feat.

“Take a right at Camp Dakota Road,” Sam directed.

“Really? Couldn’t have figured that one out, Sam,” Dean shot back. “Since we’re going to a camp.”

Sam had been getting under his skin recently. Actually, everything had been getting under his skin. The endless hours on the road had proven useless thus far, and Dean was beginning to doubt that they would be able to win this war.

Can’t fight something you can’t find, he thought. But he also had doubts about his role in the battle to come. Even if I’m doing everything in my power to find another way... can someone change the role they’re destined by fate to play? Avoiding destiny is what Dean and Sam had been doing so far. But how much longer can we keep that up? They were flying under the angels’ radar, and for now, that was enough.

It had to be.

A week ago Sam had started tracking the local news from a small town in South Dakota. It had been lighting up with apocalyptic signs like an end-of-the-world Christmas tree.

Maybe we’re finally getting a freakin’ break, Dean thought hopefully.

Their first stop was a kids’ day camp. A gas station attendant a couple of towns over had told them about it. The scruffy dude had said he didn’t rightly know what had happened, but his cousin’s girlfriend’s mom had told him that it was like something out of the Bible and children had been harmed. That alone was enough to warrant a visit.

Dean pushed the accelerator to the Impala’s firewall, his hazel eyes glinting with anger. Every second they were delayed, Lucifer got another step ahead of them.

Sam threw a sideways glance at Dean. Thanks to all the years they had spent on the road, Sam could read his older brother’s mood just by the way he tightened his grip on the steering wheel or blew his breath out through his nose in short staccato bursts.

Dean’s pissed about something again, Sam thought. And probably for no good reason. Sam felt the constant burden of his brother’s anger and expectations. Chief among them was the expectation that they’d do things Dean’s way—or, more accurately, John Winchester’s way. The pressure to fit into their father’s shoes had always been immense—doubly so since his death—and Dean was the poster child for Daddy’s boys. He dressed like John Winchester, drove his car, listened to his music. He even walked like John. Sam, on the other hand, had tried time and time again to get free of his father and everything that he represented. Now, Sam realized that Dean felt like his brother had strayed too far off the path, at times even irretrievably. He had dealt with demons, using the power that their blood gave him... all things that John would never have allowed. Despite all of that, Sam was fine. He knew that, he just wished that Dean would realize it too. For the most part, Dean seemed to trust him, but that didn’t mean they would always get along.

The final battle is looming, and we’re stuck smack dab in the middle of it. Sam pursed his lips together—he felt like they were coming to the end of something. He just didn’t know what.

Preoccupied, Sam glanced out the passenger window just as the Impala careened by the split log sign for CAMP WITKI NIKI.

“There!” he shouted, a little too loudly, pointing at the sign.

“G-and-an-H crap!” Dean yelled, as he turned the wheel quickly to the left, fishtailing the Impala’s tires, a spray of gravel hitting the trees on both sides of the deeply rutted driveway. “Inside voice, inside voice!” Dean spat. He opened his mouth to say more, then clearly decided to drop it.

The Impala bumped its way over the gravel.

“Okay,” Dean said. “So what are we walking into?”

Relieved his brother’s outburst was over, Sam grabbed his laptop.

“From what I can find, a bunch of creeped out parents, but no dead kids. Guess our gas station buddy was overstating that part.” Sam pulled up the Grenville, South Dakota Tribune webpage and scanned the article.

“There’s this posting on a comment board written by some totally hysterical mother named Nancy Johnson. Something huge happened yesterday, but she doesn’t say what, just that a strange man walked into the camp. It scared the bejesus out of all the parents, but there’s nothing in the police report, so technically no crime was committed. This woman writes, ‘Considering the highly sensitive nature of the children at Witki Niki, it is of the utmost importance that each child be under an adult’s care at all times.’”

Dean brought the Impala to a stop on a grass field. Pulling on the hand-brake he turned to Sam.

“We’re here because some berserk Betty on a mommy-blog vents that a ‘strange guy’ walked into little Timmy’s day camp? Are you effing kidding me, Sam?” Dean paused for a moment to let his frustration sink in. “What, so if somebody farts in Yankee stadium, we run it down as a demon?”

Sam sighed. Sometimes he felt as if he could never to do anything right for Dean.

“There are apocalyptic omens here. The attendant says it was straight out of the Book of Revelation... You don’t think that’s worth looking into?”

Sam pushed open the car door. Then he heard it.

“What the hell is that?” Dean growled, emerging from the other side of the Impala.

A cacophony of what sounded like a thousand dying car horns emanated from behind a grove of trees. Sam and Dean looked at each other, the edginess of the last twenty minutes now dropped.

Sam sprang into action. Ears stinging from the piercing noise, he ran round to the back of the car, popped open the trunk and lifted up the false bottom to reveal their secret stash of weapons and materials. Dean reached in and backhanded Sam a revolver, taking a sawed-off for himself. He slipped the shotgun down the back of his worn Levi’s with practiced ease.

Sam palmed a quart bag of salt and slipped it into his breast pocket. Never be caught off guard, he thought, hearing his father’s words as if John was standing two feet away.

They strode through the grass with deliberation, the strange noise getting louder and louder. As they reached a rocky path that led down a slope, they heard a high-pitched voice call out, “Hey! Stop! I said stop!”

The Winchesters turned and were accosted by a freckled, red-haired youth, several inches shorter than Dean and several years younger than Sam. He came limping toward them, an elaborate-looking air cast on his left leg.

He managed to get within a few yards of them before he had to start hopping on his good foot. Dean looked the young man up and down, eying his lime-green cast.

“Wow, that’s some injury there. You get that playing World of Warcraft, or doing some major texting on lonelygeek dot com?”

Sam saw the guy’s face immediately sour. Smooth, Dean.

“I got it on duty,” the young man squeaked out.

“Really. On duty?” Dean said, smirking. “What do you do, exactly?”

“I’m head junior counselor. Who the hell are you?”

But Dean had already lost interest and was making his way down the hill.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

Sam glanced at his brother’s retreating back, then smiled at the young man. “We’re just checking some stuff out. Were you here yesterday? I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

The young man looked embarrassed and Sam could see sweat bead on his upper lip, despite the breeze.

“Caleb. It wasn’t my fault,” he stuttered. “The EPA said it was just a freak explosion—”

“Explosion?” Sam interrupted.

“Yeah, freak explosion of the population.”

“The population of what?”

His answer didn’t come from Caleb, but from the tree line.

“FROGS!”

Sam turned to see Dean holding up a large frog. Dean took one of the amphibian’s front legs between his thumb and forefinger and made it wave at his brother to join him. Sam thanked the kid and headed down the hill to meet Dean.

“Can you believe this?” Dean said, gesturing toward the sea of frogs that were hopping around the forest floor. “Guess Kermit and Miss Piggy have been busy.”

Sam walked past him toward the lake.

“Okay, you got your frog-sex joke in, but now are you going to tell me I was right? I mean, this is about as apocalyptic as it gets.”

“I guess so.” Dean gently put down the frog and caught up with Sam. “Remind me what the deal is with frogs and the Apocalypse?”

Sam looked toward the lakeshore, where every kid in the camp was sprinting around with buckets, bags, milk crates— anything that could carry more than one frog. He spotted several makeshift frog-racing sites, as well as kids trying to make frogs play badminton, kids having frog tea parties, a couple of kids trying to have frogs play basketball—there was even one lonely kid that had set up frogs for a mock trial. Deep inside him, Sam again wished his childhood had been more normal. The kids here were having a ball, despite the biblical overtones of the situation.

Sam turned to his brother.

“In Exodus, God rained frogs down on the Egyptians as punishment for not letting the Israelites free. ‘And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs.’”

“Okay, so frogs are bad. But these kids are going apeshit over them. Doesn’t look so terrible to me.”

Sam shrugged. He didn’t have all the answers.

Caleb tottered down the hillside and caught up to them.

“Excuse me, I still didn’t get your names,” he said.

Dean scowled at him.

“Why don’t you tell us how all these frogs got here.”

Caleb threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Like I told Mr. Butler! How many times do I have to explain this?”

“Who’s Mr. Butler?” Sam asked.

“My boss,” Caleb said with a hearty eye-roll. “Justin Black’s father showed up out of the blue yesterday. I didn’t exactly realize he wasn’t supposed to see his son. Guy was acting kind of strange, and the next thing I know he’s down at the lake with the kids. Then all hell broke loose.”

Dean surveyed the children running around in near-hysterical, frog-induced mayhem. A few tired-looking counselors were trying—and for the most-part failing—to keep some kind of control.

“Where is Justin Black?”

Dean and Sam made their way toward a large rectangular log cabin dining hall. Inside, little Justin Black sat at a long table. He was pudgy, and wore a striped shirt a size too small and cargo shorts five inches too long, Dean could tell that Justin wasn’t the most popular kid at Camp Witki Niki. Dean himself would have made fun of this kid.

Justin’s face was red and splotchy from crying. A large frog sat in his lap, and his fingers stroked its flat head like it was a golden retriever.

“Justin?” Sam said gently.

The boy looked up suspiciously.

“Justin, hey. I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean.”

Dean gritted his teeth. Aliases, Sam, aliases. Guy has such a soft spot for kids.

“Justin, we know that your dad came to see you yesterday. Was that the first time you’d seen him in a while?” Sam made his way to the bench next to Justin, and the boy nodded his head.

“Not supposed to see him till he pays my mom all the supports,” he murmured, and then sniffed and wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand.

“You mean child support?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Justin said, keeping his eyes on the table.

Sam scooted toward Justin a little.

“You know what kind of frog that is?” he asked.

“It’s a Rana catesbeiana, American Bullfrog,” Justin said with a short snort.

“Oh, of course,” Sam said, gently touching the frog’s head. “Justin, did your dad seem... normal yesterday?”

“Umm. What do you mean?” Justin moved the frog away from Sam’s reach.

“Did you recognize him right away?” Dean probed. He pressed his hands on the table and leaned toward the boy. Sam gave him a warning stare, indicating that he should take it easy.

“He’s my dad,” the boy responded.

“No, I know that, but did you notice anything different about him?” Dean persisted.

“Well. Like maybe...” Justin trailed off as he inspected his frog.

“Like maybe what?”

“Maybe he wasn’t like usual... like... mean.” Justin’s large wet eyes met Dean’s.

“Do you think that was your dad, Justin?” Dean asked, crouching so his head was level with the boy’s.

“Of course. He brought me my favorite thing.” Justin rearranged himself on the bench.

“What’s that?”

Justin looked at Dean like he was a complete idiot.

“Frogs. What else?”

Sam and Dean got back into the Impala.

“Okay, so the kid’s father shows up, hasn’t seen him for a while. Guy used to be a dick, now he’s bringing Justin a butt-load of his favorite apocalyptic omen? What, the store was out of Super Soakers?” Dean pressed his fingers into his forehead, soothing a building headache. “Who is this guy?”

TWO

Later that day, the Impala rumbled its way through the small town of Waubay, South Dakota. Like so many American factory towns, the place seemed mostly deserted.

“Keep your eyes open, we may be walking into Hell’s favorite fishing ground,” Dean said as they parked. He tucked the shotgun underneath his worn leather jacket.

The brothers walked side by side down the empty streets. The facades of the small mom-and-pop stores were mostly run-down. Paint peeled off the clapboard, giving everything a rag-tag look.

An obnoxiously loud rumble broke the silence, causing Dean and Sam to swivel on their heels, only to see a jacked-up pick-up truck swing around a corner and disappear. No one else was around.

Then someone screamed. The boys looked at each other.

“Where did that come from?” Dean exclaimed, sweeping the streets, wide-eyed. They still seemed to be alone.

They heard another scream. Sam cocked his weapon, aiming at a nearby intersection.

“This way,” he said.

The boys took off, their heavy boots pounding the pavement as they turned the corner and heard it again. Sweat ran down their faces as they skidded to a halt in front of—

The Waubay Community Swimming Pool. The pool was empty and several old women were wandering around in bathing caps and large tent-like bathing suits. Dean looked at Sam, who just shrugged.

“What just happened here?” Dean called out, one hand shielding his eyes from the bone-chilling display of geriatric flesh.

Despite his best efforts, Sam was also having trouble dealing with the half-naked old women. He spied a young-looking guy in sweat pants, holding a whistle, and moved toward him.

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” he asked.

The guy, whom he assumed must be a swim instructor, squinted at Sam in confusion.

“I have no idea,” he said helplessly. “I was giving our regular aquatics class, and the pool just started bubbling.”

“Bubbling like... boiling?” Sam asked.

Joining them, Dean smirked.

“You sure one of these lithe young ladies didn’t lay one?” he said.

The instructor tilted his head sideways at Dean, a look of surprised irritation Sam had seen directed at his brother with some frequency. Without another word, Dean walked away, wisely leaving the interrogation to Sam.

“Was anyone hurt?” Sam asked, trying to brush past the instructor’s annoyance.

“No,” the man replied. “No one gets hurt on my watch. It’s just like I said: the pool started bubbling, scared the scream out of everyone here. Who are you guys anyway?”

Sam smiled. “Inspectors Antilles and Solo, we’re with the NPSS, National Pool Safety Systems. Have you had your filter updated to the latest safety standards?”

“Of course I have,” the instructor answered, scowling. “What kind of community pool do you think I’m running?”

Sam took a step back.

“Fantastic, we’re always happy to see a dedicated guy like yourself take responsibility. Pool safety is...” Sam trailed off. “... important. I guess. Thanks for your time.”

Sam joined his brother, who was interviewing a large woman with a bellowing voice. Dean nodded at Sam’s approach.

“Myra, could you tell my partner here what you just told me?” Dean asked.

Myra pulled her robe tighter around her.

“We was just doing our morning routine when the water started getting bubbly,” she boomed. “Slowly at first and then more and more, then it got hot. Real hot, but not enough to boil you. The weird thing was, Eunice and me were just saying that the pool was way too cold to be in it.”

Sam cocked his head. “Wait, you just said you were cold, then the water got warmer by itself?”

“Uh huh,” Myra said, nodding her bathing cap-clad head.

Thanking Myra, Sam and Dean walked away and headed back through town to the Impala.

“There are lots of references to water transformation in the lore,” Sam said. “Turning to blood, floods... and boiling.”

“So, it’s the frickin’ Apocalypse, the town is lit up with apocalyptic signs, but they’re... jokes?”

“You think it’s the Trickster?” Sam gulped. “Gabriel, that is.”

“Not a chance,” Dean said. “Not his M.O. He’s not one to leave survivors, you know?”

“So what is it?”

“I don’t know. Is My Little Pony one of the Four Horsemen?”

Dean parked in front of a battered motel. The neon sign read ‘Two Pines Motel,’ and sported two fluorescent pine trees blinking alternately, so it looked like they were swinging in a stiff wind.

“Oh good, there’s a fish cleaning station on the premises,” Dean said sarcastically.

“We’re in prime walleye country,” Sam noted. Dean hopped out of the car and headed for the motel lobby.

Two minutes later, Sam was startled by the thump of Dean banging on the hood. A key dangled from a fish-shaped key lug in his outstretched hand.

“Let’s go.”

Sam pulled his duffel out of the trunk and followed Dean into a wood-paneled, simply appointed motel room.

Dean threw himself onto one of the beds.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

Sam pulled out a chair and sat down, tugging his boots off and kicking them underneath the wooden table.

“I guess we see if we can find anything on Justin’s father. Only real lead we have.”

An hour later, the boys were knee-deep in research. Dean was sprawled out on the bed, his laptop on his chest.

“Don Black’s DMV records are clean, so are his credit cards—meaning he doesn’t have any. Guy is just a poor schlub trying to make a living.”

With a couple of simple clicks, Sam had hacked into the local county records.

“Listen to this. From the family court records, Don Black owed $15,000 to his ex-wife in back child support. Yesterday he paid it all off, in cash. How do you explain that? And I took a look at the auto sales in a hundred-mile radius. Seems yesterday he walked into a dealership and bought a Prius, also using cash.”

Dean swung his legs onto the floor.

“Huh. Can’t say I can picture a demon driving a hybrid,” he said. “Okay, he’s the World’s Number One Earth-Loving Dad. He’s not Lucifer. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Can we at least talk to Justin’s mom before we leave?” Sam got up, pulled his boots and coat back on and opened the door.

Dean stayed where he was.

“He just paid her fifteen large in cash, you really think she’s gonna sell him down the river?” he asked.

“Best shot we’ve got,” Sam responded.

Dean looked at his brother hesitantly. “Where is she?”

“She works at a restaurant down the road.” Sam nodded his head toward the Impala, visible through the open door.

Dean dragged himself off the bed. He gave the room a scornful look as he walked outside.

“As long as it gets us out of this motel. Place smells like Ariel took a dump.”

A shrill bell announced their arrival at the diner. The small smattering of locals turned Sam and Dean’s way, then quickly went back to their lunches. A pretty redhead stood at the pass-through barking orders at an overweight fry cook.

“Tommy, how many times do I have to tell you, medium rare ain’t a bloody cow on a bun,” she yelled at him.

“Kathy Black?” Dean queried. “Ex-wife of Don Black?”

“Who’s asking?” the redhead demanded, her expression stiffening at the mention of Don. Her reaction was enough to confirm her identity.

“Listen, I don’t know where he is,” she continued, not waiting for a reply, “but if he owes you money I’m not paying it. And I keep a sawed-off under my pillow in case you have any ideas.”

“We aren’t loan sharks, ma’am,” Sam said. “We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your husband.”

“As he said, ex-husband,” Kathy replied pointedly.

“Right, ex,” Dean said, stepping in. “My partner apologizes. He doesn’t know how to talk to women. Do you know where Don might be?”

Kathy frowned, the wrinkles becoming more pronounced on her otherwise attractive face. Years spent trying to wheedle information out of people had taught Dean a couple of things. Never ask questions that are going to waste busy people’s time, and never piss off an ex-wife.

“You cops?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Not cops.”

“’Cause he hates cops.”

“So do we,” Dean said with a Cheshire-Cat smile. “Do you know if there’s some place he likes to hang out?”

Kathy’s gaze shifted to one of her tables across the diner.

“Listen, I gotta get that guy back there more coffee—”

“Please,” Sam interrupted. “We work at the dealership. My partner forgot to get Don’s signature on his new car’s registration, and our boss is gonna take it out of my ass—”

Kathy waved at Sam to stop talking.

“Fine. Whatever. If he’s around, he’s usually at Polly’s Bar, down round the corner, beige building on the right.”

Sam and Dean thanked her and left.

A few minutes later they were outside Polly’s Bar, an ugly old establishment squashed between two uglier buildings. Dean pulled open the door and ducked his head as he stepped through the low entrance.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he made out a narrow dingy-looking interior with a small number of patrons crowded into one corner. A high-pitched, fast-talking voice immediately drew his attention. Dean and Sam crossed to the bar, where a Hawaiian-shirted man was holding court with the townies.

“So then the priest says, ‘It can’t be my credit card, because I answer to a higher power.’” The townies snorted a laugh. “Okay, next round on me.” The man gestured around the bar wildly. “For everyone!”

Dean stood watching, Sam beside him, as the guy took in the small collection of half-hearted whoops and claps that followed.

“I gotta go to the head,” the man said, peeling off toward the back of the dark room. He entered the hallway, and his head was ratcheted against the wall with a thwack. Dean spun him around forcefully, knocking the wind out of the older man, and shoving his forearm under the guy’s chin.

Not to flatter himself, but Dean fully expected the guy to wet himself with terror—especially since he was on the way to the bathroom—but the man merely laughed.

“Hey, if it isn’t the Winchester boys!” he cried. “Ease up. Certainly took you guys long enough.”