Supernatural: One Year Gone (6 page)

Samuel realized immediately what Crowley was getting at.

“The
Necronomicon
?” he exclaimed. It hadn’t occurred to Samuel before but now that he thought about it, that book
could
cause them some trouble. In the wrong hands, the wrong spell would raise Lucifer.
Those boys would do just about
anything for one another,
thought Samuel.
I guess that does run in the family.

Crowley’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Look here, mate, you and I are wearing the same jersey, yes? So just make sure that Deany-boy doesn’t get his hands on that one tiny little spell. Because let me tell you, that would be a crapstorm of epic proportions. There is a chance that spell, with enough battery power behind it, could actually raise Lucifer in whatever state he’s in. If that old boy gets loose again... Well then, all bets are off between you and me. Understand?”

“How am I going to stop him? I can’t control what he does.”

“No, but you can control who he has access too. So make sure he doesn’t get his hands on that book.” Crowley stood. “I’m a little grumpy that I have to keep repeating meself,” he added, moving so he standing nose to nose with Samuel. “Just do what I tell you to do. Okay?”

The demon’s cold breath stung Samuel’s face.

“Fine,” Samuel said.

“Well, good. I’m just chuffed to bits.” Crowley stepped back, all light and breezy again. “This went well. As always, I enjoy your company Samuel. It’s nice to have another old fella about.”

If Samuel had been up on the latest ways to tell Crowley where to stick it he would have, but since he wasn’t, he stayed silent. Crowley smiled, and in an instant he was gone.

Samuel plopped down into a chair. He hated that guy, almost as much as he hated Yellow Eyes.

“Oops, one more thing!” Crowley suddenly reappeared, so close Samuel couldn’t even stand up. The demon leaned over him while tapping on the crystal of his watch. “Dean is taking the fam’ on a little vacay to Salem, Massachusetts. You understand the implications?” Crowley cocked his head questioningly.

“I have to follow him,” Samuel said solemnly.

“Smart man. No wonder you’re the patriarch of this cursed and screwed clan.” Crowley patted Samuel on the cheek with his palm. “You’re taking a road trip. Chafed ass, corn nuts, having to hold your pee for fifty miles. Such fun. Get your fanny-pack.” And with that the demon disappeared again.

“Damn it.” Samuel pinched his brow. Then he called out, “Sam! Sam!”

A few moments later, his grandson opened up the steel door of Samuel’s office. His bulk almost filled the entire seven-foot doorframe.

“Yeah?” Sam asked.

“We have to go. Reconnaissance mission,” Samuel said, hefting himself out of the chair and toward the wall that served as his mini-armory.

“For what?” Sam asked.

“We have to follow Dean,” Samuel said.

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s...” Samuel trailed off. He didn’t know if he should tell Sam that Dean was trying to resurrect him. Would that cause Sam undue pain to see his brother manically searching for a way to bring him back from the dead? Samuel wasn’t sure. Sam was so cold and calculating, it was hard to know how he would react. But reconnaissance wasn’t a good enough carrot on a string for Sam, he had to pique the boy’s hunting instincts.

“Witches,” Samuel said firmly. “We have to find some witches.”

“What does that have to do with Dean?” Sam asked.

“He’s after them too, and we need to get there first.”

“What are they doing? I mean, they’re kind of small fry compared to the monsters we’ve been hunting.”

“They’re trying to create monsters. Just trust me. We could pull in the motherload with this one.” Samuel was peeved he needed to give any explanation at all. “Go tell the others they’re on their own for a few days—and you and I are going to need the van.”

Sam shrugged and left the room. It was hunting—that was all that mattered to him.

Outside he stared out across the fields that surrounded the camp. He wondered why he felt disconnected from the thought of following his brother. Was it for the same reason that, though there was a breeze, he couldn’t feel it on his face? Did it have to do with the fact that he hadn’t slept since he got back? And though he had been eating, as sort of a facade so he wouldn’t freak the others out, he hadn’t been hungry. Not even once. Did it have to do with that?

And that other feeling Sam remembered having—when he and Dean would come out alive after a particularly nasty battle, or the first time he saw Dean after his brother had been pulled out of Hell—what was that feeling? Because Sam didn’t have that feeling anymore. Not about anything.

The only thing Sam
did
feel was the intense need to hunt. It was almost as if an animal within him had woken up. He could literally
feel
the move a monster was about to make, and be there before it was. Sam was singular in his drive. Hunt. It was as if he no longer needed to intellectualize the right and wrong of it. All he cared about was getting the monster. For this reason Sam really was Samuel’s perfect weapon. Except Sam’s new nature wasn’t without its dangers.

Three weeks ago he and Samuel had been hunting down a monster that had taken up residence in a halfway house full of recovering drug addicts and alcoholics. The local paper had covered a murder-suicide and another unexplained death at the house. Police thought the deaths were due to the unsavory characters of the residents, most of whom had been in and out of jail or had some type of police record, but Sam knew better. He talked his grandfather into going with him to investigate.

The next morning they arrived at the door of the facility posing as priests.

“May I help you?” A short-haired, round woman answered the door.

“Bless you, child. I’m Father Tipton,” Sam introduced himself, “and this is Father Halford. We’re with the Cumberland County Prayer Outreach Center. We were hoping to come and help your residents in their time of need. Two deaths in three weeks. Terrible.”

The woman assented with a pudgy-cheeked smile. She introduced herself as Beverley and led them into a meeting room, where they talked her into letting them take a look around the house.

Seeing that each room was outfitted with a floor grate, their first thought was that the monster had been moving from room to room through the heating system. But the grates were wrought iron. Since ghosts can’t pass through iron and demons don’t like to either, they were confused. What was it? There was no way to be sure. Sam proposed they act as bait.

With a little persuasion, they were allowed to stay the night.

“I’ll stay up. You go to bed,” Sam said to his grandfather. He and Samuel had been given a room to share in the halfway house.

“Naw, I’m fine,” Samuel said, though Sam could see he looked tired.

“Okay, just saying. I don’t need much sleep.”

“Right. Maybe I’ll just shut my eyes,” Samuel said, relenting. He lay back on the bed and moments later his breathing slowed and he began to snore gently.

Sam held his salt-packed shotgun in his lap and stared into space, waiting.

Then he heard it. A deep moan from the bowels of the house, as if someone was trapped within the walls, trying to get out.

Without waking his grandfather, Sam crept out into the hallway. The residents’ rooms were all located off the upstairs corridor.

A door slammed. Sam whipped around, but didn’t move an inch further. He listened again, and heard the same moaning noise. Sam peered into the gloom at the end of the hallway. A grey mass appeared out of nowhere and gradually took shape in the dirty dark.

Sam trained his shotgun on the specter, but in a blink it was gone.

Sam ran down the corridor to the spot where the thing had been. There was no heating grate, no nothing—nowhere for it to go. Above him a single bulb flickered. He moved to touch it, but the bulb suddenly got brighter and brighter until it popped.

The thin shards of glass broke in Sam’s face. He calmly picked them out of his skin with his fingernail.

Down the hallway underneath a door, Sam saw a light. He moved toward it and kicked open the door. A girl, about his age, stared at him, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Without hesitation, Sam spun around and aimed his gun at the ceiling above him.

BLAM!

The shot missed the creature as it dropped on top of Sam.

A shtriga,
he realized. Sam struggled but the shtriga stuck its putrid face into his, and started to suck. It pulled, its beetle-black eyes rolling into its head. But there was something wrong, nothing was happening, no soul was being sucked out of Sam.

Sam smiled and with his right arm aimed the gun at the monster’s head. The shtriga avoided the shot and skidded up the wall, still facing its unbeatable prey. Sam aimed again but it was gone.

The girl on the bed finally let out a nails-on-a-chalk-board scream.

“Shut up,” Sam barked.

She did, cowering back away from Sam. Sam opened the bedroom door, but despite the screams and gunshots, the house was silent. He flicked the light switch.

“Don’t do that. It might come back! What if it—” the girl squealed.

“What did I say?” Sam spat. She shut up again.

Sam closed his eyes. There were twenty people in the house. It was the perfect place for a shtriga to feed—beaten-down people who had given up on life. Easy prey. Like the shtrigas’ taste for children.

Sam crept back into the room where Samuel still slept; somehow the noise further down the corridor had failed to wake him.

Sam quickly loaded a couple of iron bullets into his gun—the only thing guaranteed to work on a shtriga. Then he turned out the light and leaned over his grandfather.

Sam knew the monster would be attracted to a body that wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. He took a pillow from underneath his grandfather’s head. He held it over Samuel’s face and lightly pushed down. He needed to slow Samuel’s breathing enough so that the shtriga would be drawn to his body, on the brink of dying. Samuel’s eyes popped open. He struggled against Sam, but his strength was no match for his grandson’s and in moments Samuel was unconscious.

Sam released the pillow and checked Samuel’s pulse—it was weakened, but still there. He was fine. Sam then got down on his hands and knees and shimmied underneath the bed.

A few seconds later, the lamp on the nightstand started to flicker and the air filled with a heavy weight. From his position, Sam could only see a foot of space between the floor and the underbelly of the bed.

Slowly, the dripping grey matter of the shtriga appeared, fluttering a couple of inches above the floor. It was singularly focused on the unconscious old man lying on the mattress above.

Sam heard the shtriga’s large mouth open, followed by a hollow sucking. Samuel gurgled. The life was slowly being drained from him. Sam silently pushed his way to the opposite side of the bed, and pulled himself into a crouch. With his finger poised on the trigger, he sprang up from the floor and fired.

The shtriga emitted a high-pitched, inhuman scream as the iron bullet exploded through the top of its head. Dusty rag-like pieces stuck to the wall behind it. The body fell on top of Samuel.

“Ahhhhh!” Samuel coughed as he sat up. “What the hell did you do?”

“Used you as bait. Had to,” Sam replied.

He stood up and threw the monster’s body off Samuel’s legs.

“You what?”

“I used you as bait. Had to slow down your heart rate to make you weaker, so it would be attracted to you.” Sam put the shotgun away.

“Not only did you kill the damn thing, but you almost killed me in the process!” Samuel spluttered, glaring at his grandson.

“I just wanted to kill it. I knew it would go after you. You weren’t in any danger.”

“Fathers?” Beverly stood in curlers and a bathrobe at the doorway to the room.

Sam shoved past her.

“All set here. The souls of your residents are all saved.”

“But what is that?” Beverly asked, pointing at the splattered body of the shtriga.

“Dead cat,” Samuel said, flashing her a cursory smile. “Sorry about that. The church will cover the clean-up costs. Thanks for letting us stay.”

Samuel moved past her and followed Sam out the door.

Sam thought about how many miles he had traveled with Dean. Thousands, millions. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All Sam wanted was to get to Salem and take out as many witches as Samuel told him to.

It made perfect sense to him that witches would be creating monsters. It seemed like there were a lot more of them around these days. Old Sam would have wanted to know why there were more monsters. New Sam just liked hunting them. Old Sam wouldn’t have almost killed his grandfather to gank a monster. New Sam, it didn’t faze him much. According to his grandfather, he had messed up. He moved on. He didn’t feel guilty about it like old Sam would have.

Sam did remember having that feeling, guilt. A sick aching in his stomach, a flutter in his heart that would make him tremble and go weak. Guilt was an awful feeling, and being with Dean those past couple of years he had felt it
constantly.
Now, Sam didn’t have that feeling any longer. He was free. Free to run after something, kill it and then move on. He was no longer tied to the push and pull of his mind and heart, weighing whether what he was doing was right or wrong. Instinct was the only feeling that was driving him.