WOW: Eighteen. Sam's had to face some horrific foes in his time. This one is far more terrifying than the rest of them put together.

Disclaimer: Checked the cupboards, down the back of the sofa; nope, don't own them.


Sam felt sick.

His heart raced, a cold sweat glistened across his furrowed brow.

Slippery palms gripped the steering wheel as he thought numbly of the dire fate awaiting him.

He'd never been so scared.

He turned slowly into the parking lot, pulling up outside the motel and stared forlornly through the grubby window of room eighteen.

What a crappy place to die!

Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he switched on the defcon one puppydog face hoping he could, perhaps, engender a shred of mercy?

No chance.

Not when he had to tell Dean he'd scratched the Impala.