Disclaimer: I own them… and pigs fly… I don't really.

Author's Note: So, this is the sequel to A Psychic's Touch. You probably don't need to read it to understand this one, though it might get a tiny little confusing in some parts. Hope you like it!

INTO HELL'S FIRES

Chapter 1: Ambush

"Dean, duck!" Sam shouted, whirling as he felt the revenge-driven spirit sneak up on them. He pulled the shotgun up and as soon as Dean's head was out of the line of fire, he pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud in the silent cemetery, creating an unearthly roar in the mist-shrouded valley somewhere behind a ranch in New Jersey. But the rock salt hit its mark and the spirit disappeared in a shriek that promised pain.

Dean stood up slowly, shaking a little – the rock salt had whizzed not an inch over his head – and turned to his little brother.

"Nice shooting," he muttered, not mentioning the fact that Sam had felt the spirit before it had appeared. Sam, too, shrugged it off for now, though it was one of those scary things that had been happening to him since they had left Bloomsfeld five weeks ago. His psychic abilities, there the target for a demon wanting revenge for their father's act, had been growing. And he didn't know how to control it. Accept it? Well, he was getting there. Control it? He wished.

Dean was rubbing his hair, though even his dirty hand didn't seem to mess it up. Then he took a deep breath.

"Come on, Haley Joel. We gotta find this grave before it comes back."

Sam ignored the jibe and turned back to the path, pointing his flashlight with one hand. The other kept a tight hold on the shotgun.

They walked in silence for the next few minutes. Dean followed Sam, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. Sam led, going by the map in his head created from the directions Joe Holdon, the man who owned the property, had given him. He didn't look around nearly as much, but instead allowed himself to feel what was happening. It wasn't something he did often. In actual fact, he had no control over when it happened. It was just their luck that it was happening now, and not when they were in some busy street where every second person was thinking bad thoughts about every first person. Not that he could actually read their minds, but they still had a tinge of darkness to them that seemed to infuse him as well, making him grumpy and irritable, unable to stand being around anyone else. Just one of the side effects of him being possessed by a psychic demon he supposed.

He shuddered, thinking about what had happened five weeks ago. That had been the scariest thing of his life. As well as the most horrible. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he allowed himself to let go of his thoughts, he could remember the demon, that evil being filling every fibre of his mind, of his soul, just filling and filling him, taking over completely. It had all turned out fine in the end, of course. But the demon had left a mark on him, a mark that he couldn't scrub off, couldn't even see, no matter how hard he tried.

Dean's soft voice broke into his thoughts, for which he was grateful. "Sammy, keep moving buddy."

He knew Dean knew, but they both pretended ignorance. Oh, his brother didn't know the details, but Dean knew Sam well enough to know when something was wrong. And he was always there to pull Sam out of his own thoughts. Sam knew this, and he could never ever express his gratitude in mere words.

Five quiet minutes later they reached the small cemetery. Dean dumped the duffel bag on the ground, but kept a hold on the shotgun. He turned to Sam.

"So, anyone up for a little digging?" he asked hopefully. Sam sighed and held out a hand resignedly.

"I'll take the first go." Of course Dean only had one shovel. "But you're doing some as well."

He took the tool from his older brother's hand and laid the gun on the ground. Giving a deep sigh he stepped forward and began digging.

Ten minutes later he was working up a light sweat and had removed his jacket. The rhythm was thoughtless by then. Down, push, step, lift, throw. A few times he aimed the dirt at Dean, who scowled as he moved out of the way of the shower of turf.

Half an hour later he was maybe a foot down and he handed the shovel to Dean, who copied Sam and sighed deeply. This was always the worst part. The digging. It was messy, cold and just a pain in the ass.

In this fashion they slowly deepened the hole. Every half hour they changed so the other could rest, and they moved through the dirt quickly. Still, the moon was a lot higher when they finally struck wood.

Dean looked up at Sam from the five-foot deep hole. He was grinning. "Showtime. You right to take the ghost? I mean, I'm already down here."

Sam nodded, picking up the shotgun and loading it with a quick action. It would be his job to distract the spirit once it showed up. That it would show up, they didn't doubt. For some reason ghosts didn't like their bodies being burned. Sam thought it was something to do with being sent back to wherever they came from. He wouldn't want to go there either. But he didn't belong there. They did.

He nodded, tensing slightly with apprehension. "Ready."

Dean nodded back and swung hard with the shovel. The noise of it hitting the coffin was drowned out by an angry shriek. Sam turned, tense. The ghost was here, and he didn't need psychic abilities to know that.

He began to walk away from the grave, turning slowly. He couldn't feel it yet. Well, not enough to know exactly where it was. But it was here. He could have told that just from the second shriek that echoed across the valley.

"Sam, you got it covered?" Dean asked as he jumped out of the grave. Sam didn't have time to answer. In that moment the ghost appeared, headed right for Dean as he bent to get the can of salt from the duffel bag. Sam brought the gun up and took aim. A second later he pulled the trigger.

Dean swore as he stood up straight, jumping from the shock. "Damn, Sammy! Don't do that!"

Sam smirked. "Sorry, next time I'll let the nasty ghost get you."

Dean frowned, but did so away from Sam's vision. Ever since Bloomsfeld Sam had changed. And not just with his shining. He was more arrogant, more aggressive, more forceful. Yet at times Dean would watch Sam. And his little brother would never realize, he was so deep in thought. And judging by the scared, dazed look in his eyes, Sam wasn't thinking about lollipops and candy canes. Even worse, he refused to talk about it when Dean tentatively asked, but was always so relieved when he was pulled from those deep memories.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the ghost until it was right on top of him again. He jumped once more as the shotgun went off and the ghost shrieked in anger.

"Dammit Sam, stop doing that. Get it before it actually gets anywhere near me!"

Sam just saluted before bringing the shotgun up to his shoulder, ready for the ghost. Dean shook his head and grabbed the can. He stood, unscrewing the lid and pouring the salt over the bones as he walked around the grave. When he had returned to the duffel bag he dropped the salt and grabbed the can of gasoline.

Sam turned in a circle a few feet from the grave, shotgun up. He could feel the ghost, circling around him. It had decided its attention would be better served getting rid of this annoying human being shooting at it. Ghosts seemed to have a one-track mind about these things.

His aim followed the invisible being, but he wasn't going to shoot before it physically appeared. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dean pouring gasoline over the edge of the grave. And then a quick motion caught his attention.

Sam turned in time to see a shadow skirting around the edge of the ring of light. He frowned, wondering what was stalking them. And missed the ghost's next attack because of it.

He went flying backwards as the ghost struck, jarring his elbow as he landed. He managed, somehow, to keep a hold of the gun, and struggle to his feet. He had to switch hands, dropping the torch and taking a hold of the gun in his left.

He swirled to shoot the ghost as it came at him again. This time the ghost backed off with a further screech, and Sam followed its movement. But only for a moment.

"Sam!"

Dean yelled it, and Sam spun, wondering what was causing the anxiety in his brother's voice. What it was… was nothing Sam was prepared for.

Three human shapes were attacking Dean, grabbing a hold of him and trying to drag him away from the grave. The grave that wasn't burning.

Sam spun once, shooting at the ghost as it tried to sneak up on him again, before turning back and running towards Dean as the older hunter shouted again.

Sam stopped about twenty feet away, taking aim. He pulled the trigger, knowing instinctively that he wouldn't hit Dean with the salt. He didn't either. The rock salt hit the people dragging Dean away. Only, it didn't do anything. Nothing injurious anyway. Instead, the people snarled and snapped their heads around; in the light of the dropped torches, Sam could just see their eyes. Their fully black eyes.

"Demons?" he whispered in shock. He was so surprised, he didn't feel the ghost appear near him.

He sailed through the air, landing hard on his front. His arm broke his fall, and rolled over, groaning. He almost rolled over into empty space.

He struggled for a moment, rolling back the way he had come. Then he felt the ghost coming and took aim. With an empty hand.

Swearing, he got to his hands and knees, looking wildly around for the lighter. He saw it, just a few feet away.

He scrabbled forward as fast as he could, fully aware of the angry spirit bearing down on him. And of Dean's frantic struggle with the three… demons. His hand closed on the lighter.

He tossed in the flame just as the ghost reached him. Not yet dead, it flung him a fair distance. Thankfully it was towards where the demons were still struggling to grab Dean. Or, more precisely, it was on top of where the demons were still struggling to grab Dean.

As the ghost shrieked one last time, a few bodies broke his fall, and Sam stood up swinging. He untangled himself from them, finding Dean and pulling him away from the demons.

"About time, Sam," Dean half-joked. He had a small gash on his hairline but otherwise seemed fine.

Sam grinned at him. "Sorry. Just getting rid of the ghost. Guy's gotta have priorities."

Any conversation after that was hard, as the demons attacked. Sam backed off as the smaller one came at him, fists flying faster than he could see. He defended as well as he could, but the attack was too quick, and he couldn't help but move backwards. And, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other two demons overpowering Dean.

Sam struggled as hard as he could, but it wasn't enough. Dean yelled out one last time, and the younger Winchester turned to see his older brother fall. He cried out, something angry and incoherent, before the smaller demon attacking him lashed out. Not with hands, or with feet, but with his powers. As air assaulted him, Sam flew backwards. He only had the chance to realize the demon had been toying with him before he hit something hard and darkness swallowed all thoughts.