Chapter 31: Devil's Trap — Part 1
[Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard — December 15, 2005, 11:47 AM]
Bobby's phone call came while they were still in Iowa, still recovering from the Azazel confrontation, still trying to process the revelation that the Spirit of Vengeance had a history with Hell's oldest demons.
"Singer Salvage." Bobby's voice, familiar and gruff.
"Bobby, it's Dean. We need—"
"Chrysanthemum."
Dean went pale. Sam sat up straighter, recognizing the code word they'd established years ago—the word that meant Bobby was compromised, that someone was listening, that everything was wrong.
"Bobby, what's—"
"Hello, boys." A woman's voice replaced Bobby's, smooth and amused and instantly recognizable. "And Spirit-Bearer. I know you're listening too. I have your surrogate daddy here, all tied up and bleeding. He's been remarkably stubborn—won't tell me anything useful—but I'm patient."
Meg.
Ethan's blood ran cold. The demon from Chicago, from the warehouse trap, from the plane before that. She'd escaped, regrouped, and now she had Bobby Singer as leverage.
"What do you want?" Dean's voice was steady despite the fear in his eyes.
"John Winchester. Bring him to Bobby's place—alone, unarmed, cooperative—and I'll let the old man live. Try anything clever, and I mail you pieces." A pause, almost theatrical. "You have six hours. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
[Motel Room — December 15, 2005, Noon]
The argument started immediately.
"I'm not surrendering to a demon," John said flatly. "That's suicide, and it's stupid."
"Bobby is going to DIE." Dean was pacing, hands clenched, barely containing his fury. "She'll kill him. She's not bluffing."
"Then we find another way. We don't hand them exactly what they want."
"What they want is YOU. The question is why."
Sam looked up from his laptop, expression troubled. "It's not Dad she wants. It's what Dad has." His eyes met John's. "The Colt. Azazel knows it can kill him. Meg's job is to get it back."
Ethan processed this, his exhausted mind struggling to find tactical options. The Spirit was still depleted from the Azazel fight—transformation possible but costly, sustained combat potentially impossible. They were going into a hostage situation with their primary weapon compromised.
"We give her John," Ethan said quietly.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"But not the gun." Ethan stood, crossing to the map Dean had spread across the table. "John walks in, surrenders, keeps Meg distracted. Meanwhile, Sam and I approach from separate angles—I'll handle any demon guards, Sam provides exorcism support. Dean holds the Colt as backup, hidden, ready to take the shot if Meg becomes corporeal."
"That's still handing my father to a demon," Dean said.
"It's giving her a target she thinks she wants while we set up the actual play." Ethan met John's eyes. "You've been hunting for twenty years. You know how to sell a surrender. Make her think she's won, buy us time to position."
John was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"It's not a bad plan. Risky as hell, but not bad." He looked at his sons. "If this goes wrong—"
"It won't," Dean interrupted.
"If it does," John continued firmly, "you get Bobby out. Whatever happens to me, you get him out. Understood?"
Dean's jaw tightened, but he nodded. Sam's expression was haunted, carrying the weight of everything Azazel had shown him, but he nodded too.
"Good." John stood, reaching for his jacket. "Then let's go save an old friend."
[Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard — December 15, 2005, 5:12 PM]
The salvage yard looked wrong in the fading afternoon light—too quiet, too still, none of the usual signs of Bobby's constant tinkering and research. The stacked cars cast long shadows, creating corridors of darkness that could hide anything.
Ethan's Sin Sense stretched outward, mapping the demonic presence. At least eight possessed humans scattered throughout the yard, forming a perimeter around the main house. Inside, two more—Meg and one other, probably a lieutenant. Bobby's soul burned bright with pain and defiance, alive but suffering.
"Eight outside, two inside," Ethan reported quietly. "Bobby's hurt but breathing."
"I'll draw the outer ones," Dean said. "Give you and Sam an opening."
"No. I'll draw them." Ethan let his eyes flicker orange, just enough to show the power waiting beneath his skin. "They know what I am. They'll focus on me—it's what Meg would order. You and Sam use the distraction to breach the house."
"What about Dad?"
"John goes in the front door, exactly like Meg demanded. Keeps her attention forward while you come in the back." Ethan's transformation began to trigger, fire licking along his forearms. "On my signal."
He stepped into the open.
The demons noticed immediately. Eight pairs of black eyes turned toward him, eight bodies moving with predatory coordination. Ethan let his transformation complete—skull emerging through burning flesh, chains manifesting in spirals of Hellfire—and charged directly into their midst.
The fight was brutal but brief. These were lower-level demons, cannon fodder Meg had recruited for numbers rather than strength. Ethan's chains whipped through them, Hellfire searing possessed flesh, the hosts collapsing as demonic smoke was expelled or destroyed. Three tried to flee; Ethan's chains caught them, dragged them back, ended them.
But the cost was higher than expected. His depleted reserves screamed at him, the Spirit struggling to maintain combat effectiveness. By the time the last demon fell, Ethan's transformation was flickering, Hellfire guttering like a candle in the wind.
TOO MUCH. TOO SOON. WE NEED REST.
"Rest later. Bobby now."
He staggered toward the house, forcing his body to move despite the exhaustion, the pain, the overwhelming sense of depletion. Inside, he could hear voices—Meg's mocking laughter, John's steady defiance, the sounds of Sam beginning an exorcism.
Then a gunshot.
Bobby was on the floor, blood spreading from his shoulder, alive but barely conscious. Meg stood over him, the Colt in her hand—somehow taken from Dean, somehow stolen in the chaos.
"Did you really think I couldn't smell it?" Meg's smile was cold, triumphant. "The gun that can kill anything, carried by a Winchester who thinks he's clever. I could sense it the moment you entered the yard."
Dean was pinned against the wall, held by invisible force. Sam's exorcism had stopped mid-word, his throat gripped by the other demon in the room. John stood frozen, clearly debating whether to attack and risk Bobby's life.
Ethan's transformation failed completely. Flesh crawled back over bone, fire guttering to nothing, the Spirit retreating to conserve whatever energy remained.
"Spirit-Bearer." Meg turned to face him, eyes bright with malicious pleasure. "You look tired. Did fighting my little army take something out of you? Poor baby."
"Give me... the gun."
"No. I don't think I will." Meg raised the Colt, examining it with something approaching reverence. "Do you know how long my master has been looking for this? How many centuries he's feared the one weapon that could end him? And now I'm going to hand it to him personally."
She vanished. Black smoke, sulfur smell, and she was simply gone—leaving behind the released hosts, the wounded hunters, and the terrible reality of failure.
The Colt was gone.
Bobby grabbed Dean's collar with his uninjured hand, blood loss making him weak but stubbornness keeping him conscious.
"Don't you DARE apologize," Bobby growled. "She played us all. Now stop moping and go get that gun back."
"Bobby—"
"I've survived worse than a shoulder wound. Ellen's on her way to patch me up." Bobby's grip tightened. "You four are the only ones who can catch her before she reaches Azazel. So move your asses."
John was already at the map table, spreading charts and notes with bloody fingers. "She'll take the most direct route to wherever Azazel is waiting. If we can track the demon activity, find the pattern—"
"Jefferson City," Sam said quietly. Everyone turned to look at him. "I... I saw it. When Azazel touched me. He has a building there, an old factory. That's where he's been operating from."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Sam's voice carried the weight of unwanted knowledge, the burden of visions he'd never asked for. "That's where Meg's going. That's where we'll find them both."
Ethan forced himself upright, every muscle screaming, the Spirit whispering warnings about overexertion. "Then we go. Now. Before she has time to fortify."
"You can barely stand," Dean observed.
"I'll manage."
"Will you?" Dean's expression was complicated—worry mixed with frustration, concern tangled with the urgency of their mission. "Because if you collapse in the middle of the fight—"
"Then you leave me and get the gun." Ethan met his eyes. "This is bigger than me. Bigger than any of us. Azazel with the Colt is the worst possible outcome. We stop that, no matter what it costs."
John nodded slowly—approval, respect, the acknowledgment of one soldier to another. "You heard him. We roll in thirty minutes. Pack everything—silver, salt, holy water, iron. If it kills demons, we're bringing it."
Dean started gathering weapons. Sam began loading the Impala. Ethan sat on Bobby's couch and tried to convince his body that it wasn't about to fail completely.
The Spirit hummed weakly in his chest—exhausted, depleted, but willing.
ONE MORE FIGHT. THEN REST.
"One more fight," Ethan agreed. "Make it count."
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