TWO

Dean Winchester stared calmly across the table at the man with the white goatee.

They were the only two players remaining in an all-night poker game, and Dean had a substantial pile of chips in front of him. White Goatee only had one hundred-dollars’ worth left, and he was contemplating his cards nervously while puffing on his twelfth cigar of the night. That he did so while sitting under the red NO SMOKING sign had been a source of amusement when the game started, but now it was just tiresome.

Dean doubted he’d ever get the smell of cheap cigar out of his leather jacket, but that was the price he had to pay. Well that and the game’s 600-dollar buy-in, which Dean had been forced to borrow from Bobby Singer. He and his brother Sam had been reduced to an almost penniless state, which meant that they needed a big score in order to keep doing things like eating and putting gas in Dean’s 1967 Chevrolet Impala. After all, starving to death or being stuck on the road without gas were extra inconveniences when you were trying to prevent the Apocalypse.

White Goatee stared at Dean’s four up cards: a two of hearts, three of clubs, four of hearts, and a six of spades. As for him, he had three aces showing, as well as a four of diamonds. Dean had consistently matched his opponent’s bets, never raising him. He could afford to be magnanimous, given his monster pile of chips and the fact that White Goatee was on his last legs.

I really ought to learn this guy’s name, Dean mused.

Then he thought about it.

Nah. Why bother?

The problem for White Goatee was that he couldn’t be sure if Dean was betting for the fun of it or not. After all, Dean was able to match all bets, even with a crap hand. His up cards indicated a likely straight, or maybe two pair or three of a kind.

On the other hand, White Goatee could easily have a full house, or even four aces. Not likely, though, judging from his expression.

What worried White Goatee, Dean figured, was that his pile of chips had been slowly but surely increasing all night and into the morning. That wasn’t an accident. The other five players had all dropped out, with most of their money now represented by clay disks that were either stacked in front of Dean or in the middle of the table.

In many ways, he felt ridiculous playing poker when the world was about to end, but they had to get cash somehow. Besides, he felt even more ridiculous thinking so matter-of-factly about the end of the world.

Yet it was true, and there was no escaping it. Sam had been manipulated by a demon named Ruby into freeing Lucifer from his prison. The angels and the demons were squaring off, and humanity was going to pay the price.

The angels insisted that Dean was the vessel for the Archangel Michael, while the demons were just as insistent that Sam was destined to become the vessel for Lucifer. They had been told that this was inevitable, and that they should accept their fates.

Both brothers declined to accept a damned thing. So to speak.

They had no idea how they were going to triumph, but they also knew that they’d find a way, or go down fighting.

First things first, though.

“C’mon, Colonel Sanders,” Dean said, breaking the silence and making everyone in the room jump. “Bet or fold.”

White Goatee sighed.

“Ain’t got me no choice, do I?” He pushed all his chips in. “Hunnert.”

Dean tossed in two fifty-dollar chips.

“Call.”

Grinning, White Goatee flipped over the ace of hearts he had in the hole alongside the three he had up.

“Quads.”

Letting out a long breath, Dean first flipped over the six of hearts. Then he flipped over the four of hearts.

Thinking Dean only had two pair—sixes and fours— White Goatee started to make a grab for the chips.

Then Dean flipped over his third hole card: the five of hearts.

Which gave him the two, three, four, five, and six of hearts: a straight flush, which was the only hand that could beat four of a kind.

He grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

“Oh, hell, no!” White Goatee yelled.

Behind Dean, three men laughed. One was the bartender, who also ran the game. The other two were the only players who’d stuck around after they had lost all their money, curious to see how the rest of the game would go.

The bartender could afford to laugh, since one hundred dollars of everyone’s buy-in went straight to him, in return for the use of the hall. Once Dean paid Bobby back, that left him with three grand in his pocket. And as likely as not, Bobby would let him keep the 600.

Or perhaps not. Bobby hadn’t exactly been in as charitable a mood lately. Being stuck in a wheelchair will do that to you.

“A pleasure, gentlemen,” Dean said as he pushed his chair back. He stepped over to the bar to collect his winnings, and to reclaim his cell phone.

Scowling, White Goatee just slumped in his seat.

“The pleasure’s all yours, boy,” he growled.

Chuckling, the bartender counted out a stack of bills.

“Don’t mind Hal, son,” he said when he was done. “He just ain’t used to losin’.”

“Not surprised,” Dean commented, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He’s good.” Then he broke into a grin again. “But I’m better.”

The two remaining players both rolled their eyes. One of them spoke up.

“Come on back next time you’re in town. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we’d appreciate a rematch.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean replied cheerfully. Then he headed for the exit, ignoring the daggers that Hal was staring at him from under the cloud of cigar smoke.

Opening the door, Dean winced as the rising sun caught him right in the eyes. For some reason, he had thought the sun wouldn’t be up for at least another hour yet.

Walking out into the parking lot, he reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out his cell phone, turning it back on. There were two messages waiting for him, and he put the phone to his ear to listen.

One was a how’re-you-doing from Ellen Harvelle, who’d been fanatical about checking in with the Winchesters ever since the mess in River Pass.

The other was Sam, letting him know that the omen they had thought was manifesting in East Brady, Pennsylvania, had turned out to be just a crazy old person with an arson fetish.

By the time Dean finished listening to the messages, he had arrived at the Impala, parked between an SUV and a pickup. Putting the phone away, he hopped in and started the car, checked the rearview mirror—

—and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Castiel’s stubble-covered face and blank expression, suddenly there in the passenger seat.

“Hello, Dean.”

“What the hell, Cass?!”

“Sam and Bobby told me that you were here. Bobby did not wish me to remain in his house.”

Backing the Impala out of the space, Dean peered over his shoulder.

“How many times do I have to remind you about personal space, Cass, huh?”

But despite the moment of panic he’d experienced, Dean found it difficult to be angry with Castiel—an angel who had rebelled against his fellows, convinced that they weren’t truly following the wishes of God.

The angels had killed Castiel for his actions, but then for no discernable reason, he was resurrected. Cass believed that God had done it; the other angels figured it to be Lucifer’s doing, in an attempt to sow the seeds of discord within the heavenly host.

Dean didn’t give a crap about any of that—he just wanted the angels and demons gone.

Cass had become the Winchesters’ friend and ally, and while he had lost some of his abilities—such as healing others—he still had enough angel mojo left to be a big help to Sam and Dean when they needed him.

“I need you and Sam to go to San Francisco,” Castiel continued without acknowledging Dean’s question, as Dean pulled onto the back road on which the bar sat. “The Heart of the Dragon has risen again.”

“Uh, okay,” Dean replied as he turned onto the empty road. “And that means what, exactly? There’s gonna be a dragon in San Francisco?”

“No. But a spirit is returning to this plane—one the demon hordes will be able to use in their war with the angels. There have already been deaths.”

“Okay, then.” That wasn’t much more than he’d started with.

“I know it’s a long way, but this is important, Dean.”

Dean sighed.

“I have to talk to Sam and Bobby first, Cass.”

“Sam already knows, he’s been researching all night.”

“Glad you’re giving us an option,” Dean responded angrily. He squeezed the steering wheel and let out another deep sigh. “All right, all right, let me gas up the Impala and we’ll leave—”

“I can simply send you there,” Castiel suggested.

“No,” Dean said emphatically.

“It’s 1,500 miles from here to San Francisco, Dean. It will take you a day just to drive....”

“I’ve told you before, Cass, when you do that, it turns my sphincter inside out.” He felt queasy just at the thought.

“No, I’ll pass.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Very well, then. Sam has been researching the two previous manifestations of the Heart of the Dragon.”

Dean made a right turn, putting the Singer Salvage Yard in sight. Bobby’s not gonna like seeing Cass here, he thought grimly. And as if the angel had read his mind, he saw Castiel flinch slightly.

“You okay, Cass?”

Castiel swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Bobby is not comfortable with my being in his home. He’s still very... angry about his condition, and my inability to heal him. I don’t think he wants me back there.”

“Cass, I’m sure he’ll get used to—”

“I will leave you to it, then,” Castiel interrupted, and then disappeared.

Suddenly wishing he had something to drink, Dean shook his head and kept driving. One moment Castiel was there, the next he wasn’t. No matter how many times he saw it, he still found it disturbing. No way was he going to actually go through it himself, not unless it was a dire emergency. Getting Dean away from Zachariah—that had qualified.

This didn’t.

He pulled into the driveway, parking the Impala next to a junker Bobby had been working on prior to his recent injury, which had gone untouched ever since. It was still an open question as to whether or not he would ever walk again. While it was still possible to run a salvage yard from a wheelchair, Dean knew Bobby wasn’t happy about it.

Can’t exactly blame him.

Of course, if the four of them couldn’t stop the world from going down in flames, it wasn’t going to matter a whole helluva lot, either.

Inside, Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of coffee next to him. Glancing at the coffeemaker on the counter, Dean saw that a fresh batch had just been made, the pot almost full.

“Hey,” Sam said, without even looking up from the reams of paper he was going through, all probably fresh from Bobby’s laser printer. “How’d it go?”

“Well, gas, food, and lodging won’t be a problem for a while,” he replied, stepping over to the counter. “Cass filled me in on the ‘Frisco thing.”

Nodding, Sam looked up now.

“Yeah, based on what he told me, I’ve been checking it out. This spirit appeared in December 1969 and again in December 1989.”

“Every twenty years, huh? So no surprise that it’s back now,” Dean said, grabbing a mug from Bobby’s dry-rack and pouring himself some coffee. “Cass said it wasn’t really a dragon.”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Sam said, handing over some of the papers. “We’ve got bodies sliced open and burned to a crisp.”

“Yeah, but dragons?” Dean asked, taking the papers.

“I mean, c’mon. That’s straight out of a fairy tale.”

“Dean, you’ve been to Hell, I started the Apocalypse, and we’re supposed to be possessed by an archangel and the devil. Now you’re being skeptical?”

“Yeah, well.... ” Dean glanced down at the printout at the top of the stack.

Then he did a double take.

“Sonofabitch....”

Sam frowned.

“What?”

Dean shoved the printout under his brother’s nose. It was a copy of a December 1969 article from the San Francisco Chronicle, complete with the original photographs. He jabbed a finger at someone in one of the crowd shots.

“Look at that guy.”

Sam squinted.

“I don’t—” Then he peered closer. “Sorry, I’m not recognizing him.”

“Oh. No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Dean took the printout back and started to read. The story was about the death of a young couple near the Winterland Ballroom—the site, Dean knew, of some great concerts in the 1960s and ’70s. And the person he’d pointed at was a bald man with a heavy scowl.

Dean had seen that face at two junctures in his life. Once was when he was a young child, and pictures of him had adorned the wall of their house in Lawrence, Kansas. Those pictures were lost when the house caught fire during the demon Azazel’s attack in 1983. Dean and Sam’s mother Mary was killed in the process. Sam, who was only six months old at the time, wouldn’t have remembered those photos.

The second time had come a year ago, when Castiel had sent Dean back in time to 1973 and he’d met Samuel and Deanna Campbell and their daughter Mary; his grandparents and his mother—who, to Dean’s abject shock, were also hunters. The elder Campbells were killed by Azazel in ’73.

The bald man was Samuel Campbell—his grandfather. And apparently, on one of the Campbell family hunts, they had gone after the Heart of the Dragon....