One Final Round

Tucumcari, New Mexico

Prologue, August, 1910

The full moon shone bright over the small town, which was situated under the Tucumcari Mountain. Coyotes howled the high pitched hunting calls across the desert surrounding the community. The town was silent, save for the saloon on the end of the main street, which was always bustling on payday. Workers from the Rock Island Pacific Railroad line were eager to shed some tension of a long work week. They saddled up to the bar throughout the day, virtually tossing their pay away to satiate their craving for the local rot-gut whiskey and eager camp-girls.

The bar was lined with sweat-stained shirts, and broad brimmed hats. Men and women alike were dressed in all manners of garb, from veritable rags to nicely presented evening attire. The patrons were a mish-mash of all the town had to offer. The barkeep surveyed the crowd and was pleased to think he would have a good take that night. Patrons mingled about the bar, laughing and joking about. A thick cloud of smoke hovered in the air, a brilliant blue veil amid the lights hanging from the high ceiling. Poker games were going on at several of the tables scattered about the rooms.

The barkeep observed the conversation of one of the tables, situated close to the door of the saloon. A young, skinny white man with a mustachio and bowler hat was telling railroad jokes between sips of his whiskey. “Two drunks were walking along one night, when they came to a staircase leading up a steep hill. The first drunk said he had never seen such small steps on a staircase. The second drunk replied he was more concerned by the low banister. Then a train hit them.” The young man laughed at his own joke, as the other at the table exchanged quizzical looks, while continuing on with their poker game. The barkeep was happy with bad jokes, so long as all the patrons behaved themselves. Tucumcari hadn’t earned the nickname “Six Shooter Siding” because of all the boy scouts roaming the streets.

At a table in the back corner of the bar was a group of patrons engaged in a high stakes game of poker. At least as high stakes as anyone in the town could afford. Sitting with his back to the corner was Freddie Douglas. He was a well-dressed man, wearing a black suit, which was complete with a bow tie. He had a leather belt around his waist, which housed a nicely work Schofield pistol. He was a prominent figure among the town, since his grandfather had been sent to the area and settled the camo for the railroad company. While not wealthy, his forefathers had been paid handsomely for their service to the company. Now, with his grandfather and father dead, Freddie spent his days working a desk job for the rail company, and his nights gambling with the rail workers.

Two Indians, one Chinese man, and two white rail workers occupied the rest of the seats at the table. Of all the things Freddie Douglas was, h was not racist. He would happily take anyone’s money. He seemed to have an uncanny knack for poker, and seldom lost when he started playing. He had been accused of cheating on several occasions, but nobody had ever challenged his practice, nor had anyone ever been able to prove him a cheater. He was simply that lucky. Lucky to the point of being able to build his house entirely from money he had won playing poker in this very bar, in this very chair. He was such a fixture to the establishment that nobody even sat in the seat.

 Sitting directly behind him was a thin black woman, dressed in an elegantly made blue dress. Her black hair was short, and her eyes shone of the most piercing green. Abdalla Abdu was born in Louisiana, to the descendants of freed slaves. She was taken from her family eighteen years before, when Freddie Douglas’ grandfather had established a work camp in central Louisiana. She had been with the family ever since, working as a house maid until becoming romantically involved with Freddie. It was a union which was not accepted, either in the Douglas family or outside the Douglas family. Still, Freddie and Abdalla were loyal to each other, and rarely did they go anywhere apart. She often waited patiently while Freddie gambled in the bar.

Outside the bar, the night air was hot and filled with the smell of dust. As the night wore on you could hear the laughter from the bar getting louder. At the foot of the foot of the Tucumcari Mountain a dark shadow could be seen riding his horse toward the town. The moon was brilliant silver, and its radiance was almost comparable to the sun. As the lone figure rode closer to town he could easily see the streets were empty. He took his time as he approached. He had robbed a man at the center of town two weeks prior, killing the man and his nine year old son, and was certain he would get a unfavorable welcome if he was recognized. He took the money from the dead man, and a watch from the dead boy, and rode to a nearby camp to hide out.

He was recognized by a ranch hand who knew him as the man who killed a rancher and his family nearby. This caused the man to make a quick escape, leaving his stolen money and freshly bought bottle of whiskey in the room he had been renting. He stole the first horse he could find, which is reason enough to be hanged and rode as fast as he could into the desert of New Mexico. His name is Benjamin Gille, and after a week in the August heat of the New Mexico desert he was desperate. He had no money, no food, no whiskey, and no choice. He made his way across the desert plain toward the small work town, hoping to find a wat to beg, borrow, or steal a means to stay alive before anyone recognized him.

As he approached the outskirts of town his mind turned to a robbery he had committed in Albuquerque, and a  silver tongue pencil-pusher he had played poker with before his hurried departure from the town. He had robbed a general store, making off with a new Smith & Wesson pistol, complete with belt and bullets. He also took nearly two hundred dollars from the store owner, killing him, his wife, and two others in the process. He had planned to get away from Albuquerque and double his money at the poker table. Instead, he found himself locked in a poker game with Freddie Douglas, who utterly destroyed any hopes he had of doubling his profits. Benjamin tried to accuse Freddie of cheating him out of his hard-stolen funds, but was simply too drunk to stand and draw his pistol. He woke the next morning in a puddle of donkey urine, behind the bar.

The memories alone fueled his anger at being in such a desperate situation. He tied his horse on the post outside the bar and mounted the porch, taking one last look around the street to be certain he was not being watched. He could tell by the now slurred speech and boisterous laughter that everyone had three sheets sailing in the wind. He approached the bat-wing doors and entered the bar. The only person on the porch was Juan Ramirez, who lingered around the outside of the bar. He earned pennies from the drunken patrons for bringing them their horses. He went unnoticed by Benjamin Gille, but Juan easily recognized him. Knowing bad things were about to happen, he ran to the Sheriff’s office as fast as his nine year old legs could carry him.

Benjamin stood for a moment in the doorway, surveying the scene. He eyed the remaining people, still drinking and gambling, to see if his quarry was anywhere to be seen. Within seconds he saw Freddie and slowly weaved his way through the crowd, scowling at a drunken rail worker who all but fell into his arms. He made it to Freddie’s table, already planning how he wanted to handle the encounter.

“Seems we have to talk about the money you owe me.” said Benjamin, his voice raspy from his long desert trek.

Freddie looked up from his cards “I’m sorry, do I know you?” genuinely confused by the remark.

“Nobody cheats me and gets to think they’re going to get away with it.” growled Benjamin.

“I’m sorry again, but I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.” Freddie replied, with growing amusement in his voice.

Benjamin became agitated “You think it’s so damned funny? How’s you like if I beat that smirk off your face?”

Freddie became alert, as he was no stranger to being accused of cheating at cards. “I think you need to calm down before you get in a spot you can’t get out of.”

Benjamin bared his teeth “That would be something, since that’s exactly the spot you’re in now. I’m going to give you one last chance to give me back my money.”

By this point the barkeep had heard the angry voices, and recognized Benjamin Gille. He started prompting his patrons to leave, in the hopes of avoiding another killing like had happened just a week before. The young guy with the mustachio and bad jokes staggered to the door saying “This place has such a lousy atmosphere. I think I’ll go drink on the moon.” Meanwhile, the occupants of Freddie’s poker table sat silent, not sure to run or duck. One of the white gamblers in the group pissed his pants, and the Indians sat like statues. Abdalla sat behind Freddie, wide-eyed and quiet as death.

Freddie cocked his head “Just how do you figure I owe you anything, my good man?”

“You cheated me in a poker game, then dumped me out back in a puddle of donkey piss” snarled Benjamin.

A look of recognition came across Freddie’s face, as he simultaneously remembered exactly who was facing him and burst out laughing. “Ah, yes. I remember you now.”

The snicker caused Benjamin to become enraged. He slammed his fist on the table angrily, causing all the other occupants to scatter. Now he faced Freddie alone, with only Abdalla sitting like a statue in the corner of the room. “You think that’s so damned funny?” his desperation taking over his mind and body. He began to tremble as the smell of whiskey reached his nose.

“Why, yes. I really do find that funny.” replied Freddie, not willing to show the mounting fear her was now feeling.

“From the looks of this table it seems you’ll be able to pay me back with interest.” said Benjamin, locking eyes with Freddie. Benjamin was on the very edge of sanity.

“Now, I think you’re trying to be the joker. I’m sure as hell not paying you anything. Let alone” Freddie was cut short by the bark of Benjamin’s Smith & Wesson pistol. The slug made a very neat hole in Freddie’s chest. He never saw it coming. Abdalla heard the crack of plaster, as the bullet struck the wall directly next to her. Benjamin, with one sleek step, was now next to Freddie, his gun pressed against the man’s forehead.

“See you in hell, Freddie Douglas.” The second shot made another perfect hole through Freddie. The shot was redundant, as Freddie was already dead, his heart cut in two by the first shot. He then turned his gun to Abdalla, aiming it directly between her eyes. Almost as in a trance, Benjamin picked up Freddie’s glass of beer, draining it with one draft. He then picked up two shots of whiskey and downed them, never breaking eye contact with her. It was almost as if he was possessed by some unseen demon. The scuffling and clamber of escaping bar-goers broke his trance. Benjamin grabbed a hand full of cash ran off without another word. He could feel his nerves were calmed by the fresh alcohol in his blood.

Abdalla slipped off her chair and grasped the lifeless body lying on the floor in front of her. The couple had never displayed their feelings for each other in public, until this very moment. They had shared so much, for so many years. Now, in the pulling of a trigger, all she ever knew or cared about was lost. She shuddered and sobbed over Freddie’s chest, a mix of rage and despair flooding her mind.

Outside the bar, Benjamin burst through the bat-wing doors. He glanced about quickly, seeing the bar patrons bolting off, as fast as their drunken gates would allow them to go. He turned to go to his horse and found it was not tied where he had left it. He launched himself off the porch of the bar and frantically searched the street for another horse. It was only then he saw the shadows atop the hardware store across the street. He turned to run and found two more figures down the street, the glint of rifle barrels reflecting the moon’s beams. He turned and saw another figure advancing from the other direction. He was surrounded. He turned to run back in the bar, only to fell the skull wrenching crack of a shotgun stock across his face. He saw a bright flash of light that accompanied the ringing in his head, and then all fell silent as he lost consciousness. Juan Ramirez watched from under the porch of the building next door, jingling the twenty five cents he had just earned for moving Benjamin Gille’s horse.

Benjamin woke to muffled voices. These voices became clearer as the fog cleared in his head. He could tell it was just breaking dawn, and there was a crowd gathered around him. “Are you Benjamin Gille?” demanded one of the voices.

“What the hell’s it matter to you if I am?” rasped Benjamin.

“After last night it really doesn’t.” replied the man. “It’d just be nice to know we got the right name on the gravestone.”

“I’ll make sure to get the grave digger to spell it right when he plants your sorry ass.” quipped Benjamin, certain he would find a way to overpower the man.

“You’re awful cocky for a guy with a rope around his neck.” replied the man, which Benjamin could now see wore the gold star of a Sheriff Deputy.

The man nodded to two other fellows, who hauled Benjamin to his feet. He could now see he was on a wagon, with a noose firmly affixed around his gaunt neck. “Any last words?” Demanded the Deputy.

“You ain’t gonna scare me with this. You can’t do anything without a trial. Nice try, John Law.” sneered Benjamin.

The Deputy walked around Benjamin, so he was in the front of the wagon with his partners. Now, standing to Benjamin’s back he leaned close and explained “The Sheriff’s away, and he left me in charge. Our town’s folks are tired of the likes of you. You’ve already been tried and convicted, it’s just lucky for you to wake up in time for the execution.” In one slick motion the Deputy drew his pistol and fired a shot into the ground at the spectator’s feet. The two horses attached to the front of the wagon leapt forward with incredible ferocity. The man with the mustachio and bad jokes was walking around the corner of a building, firmly in the grips of a colossal hangover, when the horses barreled past, knocking him on his back.

The rope pulled tightly around Benjamin’s neck, causing his feet to be jerked away from the stable platform of the wagon. The three Deputies had jumped off the wagon and joined the crowd to watch Benjamin Gille swinging at the end of his rope. The whole town had an air of satisfaction as the branch creaked with the strain of Benjamin’s weight. Benjamin felt the pain of the stress on his vertebra, followed by the anxiety caused when a human can’t draw in breath. The sun was above the horizon and he could see the faces of the town’s folk. He felt pressure build in his eyes and temples. As he began to lose consciousness, he noticed a lone figure, slender and regal, standing at the back of the crowd. He could see the stains on her cheeks, the result of a night crying. He realized it was the woman sitting behind Freddie Douglas.

“I should’ve killed that bitch when I had the chance.” he said to himself as his eyes went dim, and he slipped away from life.

But Abdalla Abdu was no ordinary woman. Her grandmother was a slave, who was born and grew up in the delta region of Louisiana. There she had learned the art of voodoo, and taught her granddaughter so well. While the other town’s people saw a horrible man swinging from a rope, Abdalla saw his very soul fall from his corpse to the ground below. She uttered a chant under her breath as the body rhythmically swung on its rope. Her spelled worked, as the soul was drawn and trapped in a doll, she had hidden in the folds of her dress.  She lingered to observe the scene, as the Deputies cut down the body and placed it in a pine box. She followed, as the box was loaded on a cart and driven to the cemetery.

Abdu found a bluff to the west of the cemetery, where she could watch the workmen lay the pine box in a shallow grave. She sat and reflected on her time with Freddie, and lamented that she lost him so suddenly. She thought about the possessed look in the eyes of the man who killed the only person she had left to care about. If she could not have the love she wanted in life, she resolved to have the revenge all of Benjamin’s victims deserved. She no longer cared who got hurt, she was determined to use a forbidden spell to torture Benjamin’s soul.

After nightfall, she watched the torches fade in the distance. She could hear the low commotion of the barroom regulars, sharing an uncomfortable evening of drinking. She left the bluff, and proceeded to the freshly covered grave. As she passed the gates to the cemetery, she snapped a branch off a mesquite tree. She approached the grave and knelt next to it, slowing drawing the spell in the fresh dirt. She layer the stick aside and produced a flask of gun powder from her purse. She filled the lines in the dirt with gunpowder. Then she placed a leather bag of offerings on the design. She began to chant as she drew the doll from her purse, Benjamin’s soul still trapped inside. The final ingredient was a bottle of whiskey, which she had taken from the bar, after deciding to cast this evil spell.

She continued her chant, falling deeper into a trance. She uncorked the bottle and soaked the doll with the liquid, then took a large mouthful and sprayed it on the grave. She remembered Benjamin wanting a drink so bad, so she would make sure he would always be wanting a drink. She chanted slowly, praying and calling for the soul of Benjamin to want a drink, until the day he could find a person who could either outdrink or outshoot him.  She struck a match, which she drew from the pocket of her petticoat, and set aflame all the ingredients laid on top of the grave. The bag of offerings instantly flared in a breath of flame, as did the doll, releasing Benjamin Gille’s soul through the dirt, and back into his body.

Benjamin woke in a terror. He remembered some horrible dream about being hung by the local town’s people. He started kicking and found he was in a very small area. He kicked for all he was worth, and found he could break through the space he was confined in. He choked away the dirt as he smashed his way to freedom. As his mind cleared, he began to actually remember what had happened to him. He was alone in the cemetery, the silver of the New Mexico moon shining down on him. He didn’t know how he had gotten out of the shallow grave, but he knew what he had to do. He began to walk away from town. He figured he could reach San Juan in a few days. There, he could have a few drinks.

Cleveland, Ohio

Present Day

Sam snuck carefully around a high stack of pallets in the Bain and Company warehouse. His Beretta was drawn and at the ready, unsure of what he was facing. He had racked his brain on this case. He and Dean had followed a trail of bodes to this warehouse, yet they were still no closer to solving any of the mysteries. All of the victims were killed at night, and all of them were stripped down to smooth, white bones. Sam kept mulling the details over as he moved down the aisle of pallets. What kind of creature could do something like this? They had found a crate, filled with artifacts from a black market antiquities dealer in Egypt. Sam was almost certain it was the shipment that brought the monster in.

 As his thoughts wondered, he heard a slight scrape from around the corner at the end of the row. HE moved stealth fully to the end of the row. Then with lightning speed he swung around the corner, coming face to face with the barrel of Dean’s 1911. Dean was equally as shocked to find the barrel of Sam’s Beretta pressed lightly against his forehead. “A little jumpy?” Dean asked, his usual playful grin showing through.

“Yeah, I am a little jumpy.” an exasperated Sam replied. “We still don’t have any idea what we’re dealing with here.”

“Relax, judging by the hairs we found at the last warehouse it won’t be too hard to spot.” replied Dean.

“Alright, so if you got this all under control what’s our next move? We’ve covered the whole warehouse.” Sam asked, becoming more agitated at not knowing what was going on.

Dean thought about the situation for a minute. “We’re dealing with an animal, and animals have to eat. We know what this think likes to eat, so let’s go to where the food is and wait.”

Sam, the shock growing on his face, replied “You were there for the part where this thing eats people? You’re actually saying we use one of the guards as bait?”

“Sammy, I don’t really see where we have a whole lot more options. Besides, I’ll be there. What could possibly go wrong?” Dean replied.

Sam eyed Dean quizzically as he thought this over. “The lore says this thing comes from the Middle East. It was a creature made by magic to guard the tombs of kings from grave robbers. The Arabic name is Kabus, which translates to nightmare. We’ve got two more hours of dark, and nothing else to go on. Dammit, I guess you’re right.”

Dean gave a sideways smirk “I knew you’d see things my way.”

Sam shot Dean a sideways glance “Don’t get too use to it.”

They moved along the rows of pallets and fixtures in the warehouse. They steered their way towards a light on the far end of the warehouse, where they also heard the crackle of a guard’s radio. As they approached the area where they thought the guard would be they heard a quick, muffled shriek, followed by the sickening thud of a body falling to the hard concrete floor. Dean was in the lead, followed closely by Sam. They rounded the corner of the row of pallets and stopped short in their tracks. There, before them, was the lone night guard lying on the floor in a pool of blood. What was even more shocking was what was responsible for the killing.

“Can you believe this?” whispered Sam, as he and Dean slipped out of sight by a single pallet.

Both hunters were shocked to see the thing killing people at night was not one large beats, but a dozen small ones. Each one stood about a foot tall, and was covered with a mat of long, thick fur. The creatures were brown, and had no sign of arms. They were brown, with black, leathery legs which sported three razor-sharp toes. In the furry face was coal-black eyes and a large mouth filled with small serrated teeth. They didn’t howl or growl, but made a trilling noise, not unlike a pigeon. In under a minute these little creatures had reduced the guard to a small pile of polished white bones. All things considered, Dean actually thought the little guys were kinda cute.

“So what the hell do we do now?” asked Sam.

“I have no idea. We’ll never be able to shoot them all before they scatter.” replied Dean.

Sam watched on, as the Nightmares continued to pick the bones clean. “We still have two pieces of bait. We can go with your idea.”

Dean looked at Sam, puzzle in his eyes. “We don’t have any” He stopped, realizing what his brother was suggesting.

Dean nodded, as Sam gave him a knowing smile. “Okay, now we have to figure out where we can get them all at once.” Dean said, as he turned and surveyed the warehouse.

“There’s an empty shipping crate on the other side of the warehouse.” Sam reported, pointing down one of the aisles of pallets.

“Great, we can lead them there, but then” Dean stopped in mid-question as he realized the Nightmares had heard them. Dean mused the little guys must have incredible hearing. In the blink of an eye all twelve of the Nightmares were running in the brother’s direction. “I’ll get them in the crate, don’t let them eat me.” Dean shouted, as he jammed his gun in his waistband and took off in the direction Sam had shown him. He managed to get the Nightmares full attention and had them in hot pursuit. One of the creatures was a bit faster the rest and managed to jump at Dean, trying to get a bite on Dean’s arm. Dean reacted quickly and drew his pistol back out. The Nightmare flew at Dean, biting hold of the barrel of Dean’s pistol. Without a second though Dean pulled the trigger, sending blood splattering behind him.

“Damn!” shouted Sam, as he swung into action, trying to figure out a way to keep his brother from being eaten alive in the next sixty seconds. He could see all of the Nightmares following Dean. Sam ducked down an adjacent aisle and headed towards the forklift he had passed earlier. Luckily it was close and he was able to climb in and get the machine started. He jammed it in gear and sped off in the direction of his brother and the twelve flesh eating monsters.

Dean heard the lift come to life as he sprinted down the aisle. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the Nightmares had gained ground on him. “Damn, these little bastards are fast.” he thought as he searched for a way to avoid them getting a bite of him. He jumped on top of a low pallet and vaulted onto a yet higher one. Still moving as fast as he could he looked again and saw the Nightmares couldn’t climb the pallets. Dean was relieved to finally catch a break in this chase. He kept moving towards the lift, which Sam had steered in his direction.

As Sam snaked his way through the maze of crates he saw Dean appear on top some containers, two aisles away from him. He guessed the location of the Nightmares based on the direction Dean was running. “Seriously, now what the hell do we do?” Sam wondered as he tried to maneuver closer to Dean. He could see Dean moving closer to the end of the Aisle, and knew his brother would soon be cornered. Sam knew he couldn’t shoot all of the Nightmares, and he was sure he was very short on time. He elected to handle them in true Winchester fashion.

He rounded another corner, nearly laying the lift on its side. Now he was in a position to run straight at Dean. He guessed the spot the Nightmares would be in and screamed for Dean to jump on the roof of the lift. Dean heard him and lunged off the row of shipping containers, just as the lift crashed into the aisle of wood. The impact sent the stack of containers toppling over. The Nightmares, barely able to stop in their tracks, looked up at the falling containers, their expressions similar to the way a deer looks at an oncoming tanker. With a jarring crack, the Nightmares were smashed beneath two tons of wood and cargo.

Dean looked down at Sam through the mesh roof of the lift. Saw returned his gaze. “Good idea.” said Dean, wincing in pain as he tried to get off the roof of the lift.

“Yeah, not too bad for a fifteen second brainstorming.” Sam said, happy to see Dean in one piece.

“Did we get them?” asked Dean, pistol in hand as he cautiously approaching the heap of containers.

Sam edged closer to examine the scene. “Yeah, I think we did.” He said in a hushed voice. He bent down and could see the Nightmares had run as a pack and were crushed by a contained which fell on all of them. “One shot, eleven kills.”

“Great, let’s get the hell out of here then. We’ve got a matter of seconds before we have all kinds of company coming in.” Dean said, starting to edge towards the exit.

“Wait” Sam said, “I want to take a look at that crate.”

“Come one, Sammy. We don’t have time for a field trip here.” Dean prompted, concern on his face.

“Dean, we have to make sure we got them all.” Sam said, heading in the direction of the crate they had found earlier.

“Dammit, he’s right.” Dean said

“Told you not to get used to it” Sam said over his shoulder, as he headed towards the crate from Egypt.

“Fine, gloat later. Let’s do this and get going.” Dean demanded, knowing they were out of time.    

Sam got to the crate, and found the lid ajar. It was just as they had found it when they entered the warehouse. They deaths in the industrial park where the warehouse was located all had the same MO. Sam and Dean had been able to rail the murder sand eventually saw a pattern which led them to this corner of the warehouse. As soon as they broke in the found the crate. They were able to tell it was exactly what they were looking for by the blood stains and fur around the opening. When they got to the warehouse they elected to leave the crate and check out the area. Now, Sam had a precious moment to look in the crate and make sure the Nightmares wouldn’t return.

He slid the door of the container open and was immediately struck by the odor coming from inside the crate. It seemed the Nightmares didn’t take long to digest all those security guards they had been eating over the past three weeks. Sam shone his flashlight around the inside of the crate and saw broken furniture and several chests. He saw one book, which was in relatively good order. He grabbed it and tucked it under his arm, hoping it could give him some idea of what the Nightmares were and where they came from. As he was about to withdrawal from the container her noticed a baseball sized orb, which seemed to be made of brown leather lying on the floor of the container. As he picked it up to examine it Dean’s steely fingers grabbed his elbow and began dragging him out of the container.

“I hear sirens, we have to go!” Dean said, as the pair headed for the door.

“Find anything? Dean asked

“I hope I found some answers.” Sam replied, as the pair broke through the tree line and found Baby on the back road, adjacent to the warehouse. They could see the lights and hear the sirens blaring as they jumped in and fired up the car. With a grace that would make any drag racer proud, Dean tore out from the roadside hideaway and disappeared into the night.

Sam and Dean stopped for gas shortly after daybreak. They grabbed some convenience store snacks and took a moment to breath in the parking lot behind the gas station. Sam had placed the peculiar leather ball on the dashboard and was examining the book he had taken from the crate.

“Anything good?” Dean asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s all in hieroglyphs.” Sam replied. “I’m going to have to find someone to translate it when we get back to the bunker.”

“Maybe Cas can help.” Suggested Dean.

“Yeah, maybe. It’ll just have” Sam stopped in mid-sentence as he realized the leather ball was vibrating on the dashboard.

Dean followed Sam’s gaze, but the brown leather ball had burst open before he could react. There, laying on the dashboard of the car was a newborn Nightmare. Acting out of pure reflex, Sam used the convenience store bag and scooped the little creature up. His first instinct was to throw it on the ground and stomp on it, but Dean stopped.

“Wait.” he shouted. “I want to see it.”

Sam wasn’t sure if this was one of Dean’s best ideas, but he had learned to trust his brother’s judgement. He gave the bag over to Dean.

Dean looked into the bag, the baby Nightmare trilling as it munched on the egg it had just hatched from. “It’s cute.” Dean proclaimed.

“Cute?!?!?” demanded Sam. “What the hell do you mean cute?”

“You know, cute. Like a puppy.” replied Dean

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” moaned Sam, rubbing the fatigue from his forehead.

“Can we keep it?” Dean asked, looking up sharply from the bag.

“What? Wait? No! We are not keeping that thing.” Sam stated.

“Come on, Sammy. Didn’t you always want a dog too?” asked Dean, smiling from ear to ear.

“A dog? Dean, are you running a high fever? That’s not a dog.” Sam said.

“We need to give it a name.” Dean was jubilant.

“There’s no names. We’re not keeping it.” Sam was getting worried about Dean’s sanity by now.

“It’s cute. I think I’m going to name it” Dean stopped to think for a moment. “Cuddles, we can name it cuddles.”

“Cuddles? Cuddles the Nightmare? Hell, no Dean. We are no keeping it.” Sam was adamant, but Dean had already gotten out of the car and headed back into the store to get more snacks for his new pet. He also got a box and some towels. He left Sam drive Baby back to the bunker, while he held Cuddles the Nightmare’s box on his lap.

They got Cuddles back to the bunker. Castiel, eyeing Dean in disbelief, was able to translate the book Sam had gotten from the shipping container. He told them the Nightmares were creatures created by magic to guard the tombs of ancient kings. Their eggs could live forever, but the creature began to age once hatched. If hatched in darkness, they sought revenge and blood, but were fairly docile when hatched in the light of the sun. Dean was thrilled “I always wanted a pet.” he said, beaming.

A Drinking Game

Winchester, Virginia

It was a night like most any other at Smoke’s Bar. The dingy space was lined with a crowd of people, bent on drinking their day away. The dim lights cast long shadows as the regulars mingled about. The two Cherry Master machines beeped and whirred as a pair of older ladies sunk more money into them, always hoping to get a return on their investment. There was a thick cloud of smoke hanging in the air, which gave a blue tint to the otherwise colorless setting. Several of the tables were occupied by any combination of groups or couples, leisurely engaged in conversation. The bar was lines with the same mix of folk. Young to old, weak to strong, smart to dumb, they all came to Smokes.

The only real commotion in the space came from the end of the bar furthest from the door. There, Ted Claven and his three loyal followers made boisterous cheers at the television, for which they had hijacked the remote for. Justin, Arnold, and Mike had followed him around since high school, as he was the biggest and strongest it was only natural he would lead the group on their conquest of the small town. “I wouldn’t case that chic out the sack for eating crackers” remarked one pf the group as the camera showed a close up of the cheerleader’s half time show. The group of men laughed at their own joke as several of the people in the bar rolled their eyes in disgust. Everyone else was simply waiting and praying for the little band to get bored and go somewhere else.

It was a pretty average Wednesday inside Smoke’s Bar, but outside was an entirely different story. A tall, slender figure approached the bar, his long hair wafting in the cool northern Virginia night breeze. His face was gaunt, with sunken eyes and lips paler than they ought to be. His cheek bones protruded, accenting his dark eyes, which were as ark as coal. His long coat was dusty and stained, and his hat was broad. His cloths were old and faded, making him look like he had just stepped out of an old western movie. Under his log coat was an antique Smith and Wesson pistol, riding in a weathered holster. The stranger’s stride was slow and steady, rather like he had all eternity to walk a single mile.

It was a night like most any other for the man. Guided by some unknown and very mysterious force, he approached the bar with a single though on his mind. He was bent on getting a few drinks in him, or dying trying. Actually, he could only hope he would die trying. It seemed like an eternity since he’d had any rest, yet every so many nights he would find himself in another bar, fighting the same old fight. He didn’t know who he would be facing, but the pull to his bar on this night was too much to ignore. Every other night was the same thing, and every other day was the same dreary trek. Still, the slender man approached the door, and entered the bar like he was possessed.

He stood two steps inside the door and surveyed the scene, the same as he’d done on many nights over the past one hundred years. His eyes settled on the group of men at the opposite end of the bar. He focused on the biggest of the group, for that was the one who he could see more clearly than anyone else in the bar, almost like the person was glowing ever so slightly in a room which was just a bit darker than it should be. He’s wondered why he saw people like this, and where all his other powers came from, but he never was able to figure it out. Brushing his hand against the grip of his pistol, making sure it was holstered just right, he strolled towards the big man.

As he walked across the bar he felt his mind slip into a trance. He could hear a chanting in his head, though he never could remember or understand the words. Nevertheless, the clocks seemed to turn slower, and the people around him phased out. The chanting continued as all the bar regulars stopped and simply froze in a trance, their eyes staring off into nothing. Every regular had frozen, except Ted Claven, who had turned his attention to the newcomer. “Care for a shot or two of whiskey?” asked Benjamin Gille.

Ted was clearly confused. “What the hell happened to all of them?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be just fine.” replied Benjamin, giving a sinister grin. “Now, how about we have some shots?”

“No, I think I’m good, Mister.” stammered Ted, fear beginning to show on his face.

“You know, I like you, Ted” Benjamin leered. He was always amazed how he could know so much about people he had never seen before.

“How the hell do you know my name?” asked Ted, visibly shaken now.

Benjamin began “I know everything about you, Teddy-boy. I know about you and your little posse here beating that kid to death in the mountains. I know about you making one of your past associates drink himself into a six month nap. That girl behind the bleachers, I know about her too.” Benjamin was elated to watch the color drain from Ted’s face.

“How, I mean, how do you know?” Ted managed.

“Let’s just say, I got a special friend. Let’s just say, you’re my kind of dude.” Benjamin said, tipping his hat. “You can just think of me as the man you gotta pay your dues to for all the fun times you’ve had.”

“I don’t get it.” Replied Ted, more bewildered than ever.

“It’s pretty simple, really.” Benjamin stated, matter of factly. He turned his head to the frozen bartender, and without a word he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured two shots and continued to stare off in his former zombie-like state. “You gotta match me, drink for drink. If not, then you gotta beat me in a gun fight.”

Ted began to laugh “Man, I think you lost something upstairs.”

Benjamin’s expression immediately turned to anger. “This ain’t no laughin matter, boy! You match me drink for drink or catch a bullet. Now, make up that stupid mind of yours before I do it for ya.”

“So, what if I can outdrink you?” asked Ted, suddenly interested in this little game.

“Then you walk away, and you never have to be bothered by e again.” replied Benjamin, tipping his broad hat.

Ted chuckled, “You do realize you wouldn’t be the first dude I put under the barstool? Ain’t nobody in this town can beat me in a drinking game.”

Benjamin let out an evil laugh, “My dear lad, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The pair took up the shot glasses and downed the first round of Jack Daniels. The entranced bartender was the only other one I the bar who moved, as he refilled the glasses. Round after round, the pair drank until the bottle was empty. Benjamin focused on the bartender, who began filling the shot glasses from a different bottle. By the time the second bottle was nearly empty, Ted was beginning to sway on his barstool.

“Bet you didn’t think I could hold this much booze.” slurred Ted.

Benjamin was beginning to get a bit unsteady too, “I sure didn’t. You’re a real champ.”

“That’ssss right, I’m a real champ” Ted uttered, downing yet another glass of whiskey. He tried to rise from his stool and instantly fell backwards. His system was overloaded, with more alcohol in his blood than there was oxygen.

Benjamin stood over Ted, “Looks like it’s time for you to cave in.” Ted looked up, unable to answer.

“I’m sorry it ended up this way for you. I’m drawn to the worst of the worst, but that don’t mean I’m too happy to see this every knight.” Benjamin said, as he watched Ted slip into unconsciousness, and then death.

Benjamin took a moment and surveyed the still frozen patrons in the bar. He wondered what power he had, and how he used it. He reflected on his plight for the past one hundred and seven years. He remembered ever man and woman, like poor Ted, whom he had faced in that time. Some chose to drink, some tried to fight. In the end, they all ended up on their backs. Benjamin had walked out of many such bars, always unnoticed. He always felt a pull in a direction, as some unseen force was guiding his path. He never understood what force that was, but he was sure it wasn’t in the good graces of the Church. He would move on to the next place, see the aura of his next contender, and repeat the process time and time again.

Benjamin left the bar, releasing the other bar-goers from his spell. They slowly began to reanimate. They began to move, and slowly resumed their conversations. As Ted’s little group of friends came back to their senses they realized Ted was not where he ought to be. Justin, the Lieutenant of the group was the first to register Ted laying on the floor. “Dude, what the hell you doing down there?”

“Yeah, no laying down on a mission, bro.” chided Arnold, the group beginning to realize the gravity of the situation.

“Ted? Hey, Ted.” Justin knelt down, placing his fingers on Ted’s neck. “Someone call 911!”

“Oh my God! How did that happen?” asked the bartender, as he fumbled for the telephone. He was alarmed and genuinely bewildered about how one of his regulars was in such a state on the floor.

The other patrons had begun to realize the commotion. None of them remembered Ted falling to the floor, let alone witnessing him drink enough to be knocked flat. As far as any of them knew he was joking with his friends, then he was on the floor, a waxy color on his face and blue lips.  All of his friends had sobered quickly as the crowded around the lifeless form, trying desperately to get Ted to respond. The mood was spoiled, the night took a drastic turn, and nobody knew how.

The paramedics arrived, followed by the Winchester Police Department. They conducted their usual investigation, asking all the normal questions. People drinking in the bar were questioned and released through the hours of the night. Those who remembered the gaunt stranger couldn’t give any real details about him. Nobody could shed any light on how the healthy, young man died on the barroom floor. At least, nobody in the bar knew. Across the street, in a shopping center parking lot, was a red, Chevrolet Blazer. The big eight cylinder engine gently rumbled and Noel Ryan watched the scene come to an end. He had been too late again. For all his trying, for all his obsessing he had never been able to get close enough to stop the killing. Noel swore under his breath, and slipped on the road. It was back to the drawing board, trying again to predict where this ghoul would strike next.

I’m Too Old for This

Statesboro, South Carolina

Noel Ryan, like most hunters, had been living the life since he was in grade school. His Uncle was a hunter, who began taking him on missions in spite of the danger. His first mission was tracking a werewolf along the coast of Massachusetts. It was a young female, who used her desirable human form to lure prey away from town, where she could feed on them freely. During that first mission he saw the beast get the upper hand on his Uncle. He found a piece of pipe in the barn they had tracked the werewolf to, using it to smack her so hard across the face it knocked out several of her teeth, giving his Uncle the opportunity to regain his footing and make the kill. Noel had been hooked in the life ever since.

He sat in the den of his Statesboro farm house, idly twirling the long tooth from that first hunt between his fingers. He eyes fixed on the wall where he had spent the last forty years tracking the ghoul. There was a map of the North American continent, full of pins, where victims had fallen to the barroom floors. Beside the map there was a filing cabinet full of newspaper articles, a grim catalogue of the list of fallen barroom heroes. There were three pictures tacked to the wall, documenting the few times Noel had gotten close enough to even see the ghoul. Thirty-nine thousand, one-hundred and sixteen days had left nine thousand, seven-hundred, and sixty-three dead on the floor.

“I’m getting too old for this crap.” Noel said to himself, as he studied a lifetime of work. He realized he had committed one of the most deadly sins. At sixty-five years old, Noel realized he should have called in help a long time ago. How many lives could have been saved if he wasn’t so prideful? He was finally ready to admit he couldn’t cover all the turf he needed to by himself. The ghoul was predictable, but not quite predictable enough. He lit a cigarette and sipped at the scotch which had been sitting on his desk. He resolved it was time to act. He picked up the phone and made the call he now realized he should’ve made a long time ago.

“Hello” said the deep voice on the other end of the line.

“Sammy, it’s Noel. Been a while. How you boys been.” he greeted Sam.

“I’d be better if I wasn’t worrying about Dean’s new pet.” Sam replied, obviously annoyed with his brother.

“Well, that sounds like an interesting story,” Noel cocked an eyebrow. “But, it will have to wait for another time. I need some help on something.”

“Noel Ryan needs help?” Sam said, allowing his surprise to show.

“Yeah, well, this is something I should’ve done a long time ago.” replied Noel, with no small degree of chagrin. “Can you boys come to my place so we can talk about this?”

Dean walked into the study, Cuddles the Nightmare perched on his shoulder. “Who’s that?” he mouthed as he took a seat.

“It’s Noel Ryan.” Sam informed him, covering the receiver of the phone.

Dean beckoned for the phone, Sam giving it over. “Noel, what’s up, you old warhorse?”

“Dean, good to hear from ya.” Noel was genuinely happy to hear Dean’s voice. Dean put the phone on speaker.

Noel began, “I’ve been trailing this case for a long time. A really long time, and I need some help. I just can’t get the break I need to nail the bastard.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, “We’ll get on the road first thing in the morning.” Sam stated.

“Perfect. I’ll see you soon then.” Noel said, ending the call.

Dean’s sleek Impala was pulling up to Noel’s house just before dark on the next day. The old man met the brothers on his porch. “The Winchester boys, at long last.” smiled Noel, shaking their hands. “Come on in, we can talk.”

Noel settled in his den chair. Sam and Dean looked around the room, wondering at the long, and successful career Noel had. Noel began, “If you look at this board, you can see all the places I think this thing has struck.” Sam and Dean turned their attention to the board on the wall.

“That’s one hell of a body count.” observed Sam.

“Yeah, how long has this thing been in business?” asked Dean.

Noel explained, “His name was Benjamin Gille. Whenever he was born, he became something else around 1910. I tracked him back to a small town in New Mexico. Seems he killed a man and earned himself a little curse.”

“What kind of curse?” asked Sam, intensely interested.

Noel recited the history, “It seems he killed a man in a saloon. The last thing he did before he left the bar was drink the dead man’s last beer and whiskey. He had the gun on his prey’s girlfriend, but left her live for some reason.”

Dean chuckled, “This guy sounds like a real charmer.”

“Not exactly.” Noel observed, “He was notorious for being the worst of the worst. He was caught as soon as he left the bar that night. The hung him at daybreak. Seems the woman he left live made a deal with Kalfu”

“Kalfu? What’s Kalfu?” asked Dean.

“Kalfu was the Voodoo God of the Moon, and ruler of the night. He was in charge of charms, bad luck, black magic, and injustice.” Sam interjected.

Dean shrugged, “He sounds like a real charmer too.”

“I found the journal of the woman who cast the spell.” Noel began, “It seems Kalfu is the dark version of Legba, or God of the Sun. Apparently, when she cast the spell she thought it was to Legba, hoping he’d avenge her loss. Turns out her sacrifice went to Kalfu, who used her to set a ghoul loose on the Earth.”

“How did you learn all this?” Sam asked.

“I was working a case about forty years ago” Noel began.

“Wait, you’ve been tracking this thing for forty years?” Dean interrupted.

“Yeah, well I did say I should’ve made this call a long time ago.” Noel conceded. “Anyway, I was working a case in Texas about forty years ago, when I heard about a strange death in a local bar. I got to poking around and found out there had been a number of deaths like this one.”

“So you managed to find a pattern?” Sam asked.

“I did.” Noel confirmed. “About every four days, someone dies in a bar, about thirty miles apart.” He shrugged, “I’m not sure what drives him or how that pattern came to be.”

“If you have a pattern how come you never got him?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, if it’s that predictable it should’ve been pretty easy to hunt down.” Sam agreed.

“You’d think so.” Noel began to lay out his speculation, “I think the ghoul uses some kind of magic to go under the radar. He’s seldom been seen, and when he is seen there’s never anyone who can remember him clearly.”

Noel looked from Dean to Sam and back, “Hell, I’ve had a few drinks with him for all I know.”

“What do you think he wants?” Sam asked, drawing himself deeper into the mystery.

Noel went to the file cabinet and produced an old, stained journal. “This is the journal of Abdu Abdalla, the girlfriend of the guy Benjamin Gille shot that night. Her story is in here. She practiced Voodoo, which is where she learned the spell she used to curse Gille.”

Sam took the journal and thumbed through the pages. Noel continued, “Abdu learned Voodoo from her grandmother, but her grandmother died before she could teach her granddaughter everything she needed to know. Abdu sacrificed to the wrong Voodoo God and lost control of the curse.”

Dean was listening intently, “That really doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“Not at all.” Noel confirmed, “The ghoul she created is cursed to relive that night until someone beats him. If someone can outdrink or out draw him the curse is broken. If not, Kalfu gets the poor suckers soul. At least, that’s what I gather from what he told Abdu on the night she killed herself.”

“The night she killed herself?” Sam asked, suspecting something worse under the surface.

Noel added, “There’s more. The ghoul came to visit Abdu about two years after she cursed him. Her sister was with her and lived to tell the tale. The sister and this journal are how I learned all I know.” He gave Sam and Dean a second to think about this. “The ghoul told Abdu he seeks the worst in the area. He said he can see their spirit glowing, and that’s how he knows who his prey is.”

“Let me guess,” Dean interrupted, “He saw her glow on that night.”

“He did.” Noel said, “He said he was drawn to the evil she stood for. He told her he could see the glow of her spirit, and she had to fulfill the curse. She chose to outdrink him, with a bottle of cyanide.”

“Wait, wait, wait, you’re telling me we have an alcoholic, gun slinging living dead guy on our hands?” Dean asked, clearly bewildered.

“This is weird, even for us.” Sam conceded.

There was a moment of silence, broken only when Dean asked, “Okay, so what do we have to do?”

Noel explained, “I’ve tracked him to Winchester, Virginia. I know the direction he was heading and that he will strike in about twenty-four hours, thirty miles away from his last hit.” Noel pointed to the pictures on the wall. “This is what he looks like.”

“So, we jump on his trail, keep an eye out for him, and chase him down as quick as we can.” Sam said.

Noel conceded, “It does seem that simple, but his movements aren’t that precise. He can hit any place in that area, there’s nothing specific that I can tell he’s looking for. I had hoped with more sets of eyes and some younger guns there’d be a better chance of nailing him.”

Noel, Sam, and Dean exchanged glances. Dean said, “Alright then, so we’re going drinking with a Voodoo ghoul. Let’s not waste any time getting on this one.” Noel and Sam eyed the now smiling Dean with amazement. Sam was sure Dean was a little too eager to take this assignment. 

Making New Friends

Roanoke, Virginia

One month later

Sam and Dean were learning what it was like to look for a needle in a stack of needles. The ghoul’s pattern showed he had struck six more times, since they first met with Noel. Yet, there were a total of twenty-nine deaths in or near bars in the towns they have visited between Roanoke and Winchester, Virginia. Still, they pressed on. The brothers broke out their suits and FBI badges, and visited every Sheriff office and morgue for a hundred and fifty miles. The found three victims with severe alcohol poisoning, and no shortage of people who had been shot. They were still no closer to an answer.

“Does this guy ever break his pattern?” Dean asked during one of his four phone calls he made daily to Noel.

“Not that I’ve ever seen. It’s purely a matter of being in the right place at the right time.” Noel reported, equally as frustrated as Dean.

Sam was sitting in the Impala with Dean, as Dean finished the call. Sam was furiously researching the case, desperate to get any scrap of information he could. “I just can’t find anything useful. This thing seems to be one-of-a-kind.”

“Swell.” Dean was rubbing his forehead in aspiration. “There’s got to be something we’re missing.”

Sam had stopped typing on his laptop. He stared out the window, deep in contemplation. “Maybe we’re going after this thing from the wrong end.”

Dean thought about the remark, “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

Sam explained, “We’ve been tracking after this thing, trying to figure out what he’s going to do based on what he’s done.”

Dean asked, “Okay, so how are we supposed to get out in front of him?”

“Think about it for a minute.” Sam explained, “Here we are, both of us are veterans of hell and have hunted all of our lives. He goes after the worst and I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t set off his alarm.”

Dean was eyeing Sam wearily, “So you think if we hang around in bars where this guy is headed he’ll come to us?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” Sam said, a wry smile on his face.

A knowing smile came across Dean’s face, “So this has gone from a hunt to a college road trip?”

“That’s what it’s starting to look like.” Sam said.

“You really never did this in collage?” Dean asked with a playful smile.

“No, I was seriously too preoccupied in collage.” Sam assured him.

“That’s a shame. What a wasted opportunity.” Dean shook his head.

Sam shrugged, “I had an issue with flunking out.”

Dean pondered this, “Hell, you might as well have went on a road trip since you didn’t finish anyways.”

Sam looked at Dean from the corner of his eye. There were times Sam had to fight really hard not to nail his brother in the face. Dean was oblivious as usual. “So, you got a place picked out?”

“Macon, Georgia. It’s probably the best bet we can get, and it’s a couple stops ahead of him so we’ll have time to get ready.” Sam said, easily letting Dean’s insult slip away.

“Alright, Macon, Georgia it is.” Dean fired up his beloved Baby and sped off to the south.

Even Dean’s credit card scam was taxed to its limits over the next two weeks. The brothers tried feverishly to predict the ghoul’s next target. They went from bar to bar, to town, to bar with no luck. The only success was Dean occasionally getting a phone number from a waitress or barmaid. It was all Sam could do on some days to keep his brother focused. Phone calls with Noel proved useless, and soon the old man had bowed out of the hunt, sure the Winchesters were on the right path, but equally as certain he was too old to be part of the plan. The brothers would have to make new friends on their own to help their case along.

They promised they’d bring the ghoul down, and that was good enough for Noel. Dean asked Castiel to feed and pet Cuddles, and the brothers committed to the hunt. The brothers had to leave the hunt a few times to take on the occasional case, but otherwise stayed on the trail. They knew a life was lost every four days. They saw the direction the line of bodies was pointing in and they broke their own pattern. Instead of staying close to the ghoul they jumped a few stops ahead. When they got to what they hoped was a future target they found an abandoned house to squat in and scouted out the roughest drinking establishment they could find. They were rolling the dice with people’s lives and neither brother was happy about the situation. Their only option was to hang out, have some drinks at their chosen bar, and wait. 

The Final Round

Macon, Georgia

Sam and Dean were pushed to the edge of sanity. They had watched the trail of bodies head directly towards them, and could only sit and wait. They were sure they were in the right place and picked the absolute right bar. Dean had been in two fights, and was close to being barred from the place. That was saying a lot for the Wings Café. It was a place the local Sheriff called a “den of evil.” Sam researched the ghoul daily, almost wearing out the keys on his laptop. Dean scouted the bar at all hours of the day. He had never spent time in this town and used the case as a chance to see something new.

Sam waited for Dean to pick up the phone, “Dean, where are you?”

Dean sounded his normal carefree self, “Sammy, I found this place across town that has the best hot wings.”

“Is it every day you think with your stomach?” Sam asked, a bit exasperated with Dean’s carefree nature.

“Nope, sometimes I think with other parts of my” he began.

Sam interrupted, “That’s good enough, I really don’t need to know more.”

“What ya got?” asked Dean, while munching on a hot wing.

“Mostly what we knew before. This thing strikes about every four days, and about thirty miles apart. It only kills at night, and nobody has gotten a good look at it.” Sam recapped his work.

“So, you still thinking we’re in the right place?” asked Dean, his voice again muffled by more chicken.

“I got a good feeling about it. Tonight’s the night too. If we don’t get him tonight we’re back to square one.” Sam informed Dean.

Dean contemplated, “Damn, it’s no wonder Noel got so wrapped up in this for so long.”

“I know, right.” Sam agreed. “You may as well come back and get some rest. We’re going to need to be on our game tonight.”

“Okay, I’m going to look at this place that sells pie, then I’ll be back.” Dean said. Sam shook his head as Dean ended the call.

Dean returned to their hideaway shortly thereafter. The brothers took the afternoon and rested. It was October in middle Georgia, and the weather was perfect for an afternoon nap. After a few hours they began to get themselves together for a night on the town. The made a call to Noel, who wished them luck. They set out to the Wings Café, parking Baby out of sight by an abandoned CVS Pharmacy. It was a few minutes before sunset, and the bar hadn’t begun to fill up yet. The entered at different times, the duo had been careful to make sure to not communicate when they were working the bar. They took their usual places in the bar, and the stage was finally set. It was a night like the others they had seen in this particular place. They simply had to sit and wait.

Through the trees to the north of the bar was a slight cracking of twigs, being stepped on as a lone figure slowly made his way towards the bar. He was moving with the normal pull towards a location, but something felt different on this night. He barely understood how the magic worked, and was even more confused by the sudden change. The sensation almost felt like he was being warned about the challenge to come. Despite any feelings of warning, he was driven by the same force that moved him along for the past century. As he broke the tree line he could hear the distant thumping of sound systems in the parked cars.

Cars were among the many things he watched develop, that he never really understood. It seemed walking the Earth was part of the curse, as every horse he tried to steal died suddenly. Likewise, ever car her tried to master broke suddenly. Of the several times he tried, he was never successful. Cars, telephones, televisions, radio, nothing was permitted. The past one-hundred and seven years were an endless stream of walking, drinking, and killing. He never ate, he never slept, and he had known nothing else. Now, his restless sojourn drew him to the building with a large set of blue wings on the sign. The magic that protected him worked without thought or effort. As people hanging around the parking lot looked at him they fell silent and immediately forgot about his presence.

He approached the door and pushed his way into the smoky bar. The crowd was small, as it was a week night. He stroked the grip of his Smith and Wesson pistol, making sure the weapon was situated just perfectly. He looked around the bar, and saw the customary purple haze that seemed to stand out in the crowd. He walked across the floor, his gate regal and ominous as he approached the bar. He came close to the chosen contender and addressed the bartender. “One shot of whiskey for myself, and one for my new friend.”

Dean looked up from his beer, and felt a jolt of adrenaline as he immediately recognized the apparition next to him. He was a ghostly pale man, whose skin looked more like it was carved from wax rather than made of flesh. He wore a black suit with a long, dirty overcoat. His broad hat was weathered and his eyes were sunken in his skull. He had a defined bruise around his neck, which still had the details of the rope which had drawn tight so many years ago. It was then Dean realized everyone in the bar had stopped what they were doing. Everyone else had gone silent and still, their own faces pale like they had been made into some form of zombie. Sam was the only one who still could move, as he slowly crossed the bar to join Dean. “Benjamin Gille, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

The bartender had moved slowly to pour two shots of whiskey, as Sam arrived at Dean’s side. “To what do I owe the honor of having you buy me a drink?” Dean asked

“It ain’t no honor.” Benjamin replied, his voice thick and raspy. “You’ve been chosen. You either match me drink for drink or shoot me before I shoot you.”

“I’m not so sure you can work that old revolver fast enough, and I hate the idea of not giving you a fair fight.” taunted Dean.

Sam grabbed Dean by the arm, “What the hell are you doing?” He was clearly alarmed.

“I don’t know why the hell you’re still yackin, but you’re not involved here.” Benjamin demanded, clearly confused that Sam had not fallen under his spell. The best Sam could guess was the tattoo on his chest had somehow blocked whatever magic kept Benjamin going.

Dean pressed a hand to the Sam’s chest, “Relax, I have a plan.”

Sam, looking suddenly angry, said “A plan? When were you going to let me in on this?”

Dean half turned to Sam, “As soon as I figured it out I was going to tell you.”

Sam pressed, “When, exactly, was that going to be?”

Dean smirked, “I tell you all about it when I have it figured out.” as he turned back to Benjamin.

Benjamin was expressionless at the exchange, “What’s it going to be, boy?”

Dean eyed Benjamin, “What happens if you win?” he asked.

Benjamin issued a wicked laugh, “then everything that’s not of this plain comes with me.”

“Ah, well that doesn’t sound fun.” Dean chided. “So, what happens if I win?” he asked.

Benjamin got a look on his face that could only be described as hope. “Then I can finally rot.” he said, a tired tone in his voice.

Dean took a moment and thought about this. Sam was on edge, and Dean could feel the waves of tension he was putting out. Dean knew he had to keep his cool, or he’d be on the defense before the battle even had a chance to start. His eyes traveled from the shot of whiskey the listless bartender had poured to meet Benjamin’s cold as death stare. Dean didn’t really have a plan. He never could’ve guessed how to handle this. Thinking things over only led him to believe he only had one choice if there was any hope of stopping this ghoul. He picked up the shot glass and down the shot of whiskey in one easy movement. “Don’t make too much dust when you hit the floor.”

Benjamin gave an evil grin, “Don’t choke on that confidence.” he downed his shot. The challenge had been accepted.

“Dean, if you survive this, you, and me, and Cuddles are going to have a very long talk when we get back to the bunker.” Sam scolded, literally beside himself.

“Relax, Sammy. I got this.” Dean said in a jovial manner.

By the time Dean turned his attention back to Benjamin the bartender had already produced another round of whiskey. “You know I’ve never been beat?” asked Benjamin.

“Neither have I.” Dean stated.

Then the battle began. Dean seemed overly confident, while Sam was a wreck. He reflected back on all the hunts he and Dean had been on and wondered how they ended up in a drinking match with a ghoul. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected. He watched restlessly as Dean and Benjamin downed round after round after round. He even went so far as to throw peanut shells at the bartender to see if he could get a response. He was amazed to see there was nothing he could do to rouse the bartender, or anybody else.

Midnight had come and gone, and the match was still going on. Sam could see Dean and Benjamin starting to get sloppy at about the same rate. All he had left was to sit silently and wait for one of the contenders to fold. Dean on the other hand seemed to be in fine spirits. Though his eyes were glazed and his stance unsteady, he was visibly adamant to defeat his competition. Still, there’s few souls out there, alive or dead, who can drink that long and not break into conversation. Dean downed a shot of Cabo Wabo and asked, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Benjamin looked at him, “You know, in over a century I don’t think anyone ever has.”

Dean squared off with Benjamin, “Didn’t you ever want to stop? Didn’t you ever want to have something normal instead of being a bandit?”

Benjamin gave a low chuckle, “I never even thought about it before I got this damn curse. I figured I’d die long before this. Nowadays, I want nothing more than to die.” His face looked even wearier.

Dean said, “Why not try to break the curse yourself?”

Benjamin said, “It doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried to resist. I’ve tried to break it. Whatever it is won’t let me go.” He reached to his belt and drew his pistol. “The only one on this Earth this gun won’t kill is me. Lord knows, I’ve tried. It misfires every time.”

“Well, you’re just a cheery guy when someone gets to drinking with you.” Dean said, laughing at his own joke.

Benjamin took a moment and burst into laughter along with Dean. This caused Dean to laugh even harder at the raspy croaks which passed as Benjamin’s laugh. In turn, Benjamin being a drunken ghoul, laughed even harder at some unknown inside joke. Sam was ready to faint by this point. He was utterly flabbergasted to watch his brother turn into a barroom brother with a ghoul set on the Earth by a devious Voodoo God. He’d been under enough stress, but this was almost enough to push him over the edge. After the laughter, there was an awful period where Dean and Benjamin were actually trading war-stories.

“I never thought I’d feel bad for a ghoul.” Dean said in an amused tone.

Benjamin eyed him and smirked. “I want you to do something for me.” He laid his pistol down on the bar between Dean and himself.

Dean eyed the revolver, admittedly confused. “What’s that?”

“I killed three people to get this gun.” Benjamin began. “It took a century and a whole lot of killing to learn my lesson, but I learned my lesson well.” He looked almost sad now. “If you manage to beat me, I want you to take this gun. Do whatever with it, but make sure it never hurts nobody else.”

Dean nodded, “You got my word.” He picked up his shot and downed it. He could feel himself beginning to fade, and wondered what shape Benjamin was really in. For the first time he considered he may have bitten off more than he could chew. Sam, rattled to the core by his brother having a dialogue like this, found the juke box and found some songs by Metallica. He needed a way to rally Dean. Dean regained his composure as “No Leaf Clover” played through the speakers of the juke box. There was no turning back, and he refused to surrender.

Dean resolved to push on until he had nothing left. “Let’s finish this.”

Benjamin picked up a fresh shot and nodded, “Let’s do that.”

Dean and Benjamin engage in light conversation for a good while longer. All the while they had shot after shot. Sam watched in horror as both men became increasingly incoherent. The hour approached two in the morning, and both Dean and Benjamin were slumped over the bar. They each picked up a shot of scotch the mindless bartender placed before them. With obvious physical labor they each raised an arm and downed the drink. Dean needed to hold on to the bar to keep to his seat. Benjamin, on the other hand, had a bewildered look on his face. He swayed on his barstool and looked around the room, then let his gaze fall on Dean. Sam watched in amazement as Benjamin gave his brother a smile of sincere gratitude, just before he went limp and fell off his stool.

Dean gripped fast to his place at the bar while Sam bolted to Benjamin. He tried to check his pulse, but only found the waxen skin to be cold to the touch. Benjamin Gille laid on the floor of the bar, his eyes closed and a peaceful smile on his face. Dean, desperately clinging to consciousness, managed to ask “Did I win?”

“Yeah, you won.” Sam said, a flood of relief in his voice.

“Good.” Dean stammered, “I’d hate to have to go hang out with his old boss, whats-his-name.”

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough.” Sam said as he pulled Dean’s arm over his shoulder. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here before all these people start coming around.”

“Ah, come on, Sammy. Jus one more.” Dean slurred as Sam began dragging him towards the door. Dean clutched Benjamin’s pistol as Dean ushered him along.

“Wait, stop.” Dean said, as he and Sam approached Baby.

“What, Dean?” Sam said, anxious to get away.

Dean uttered a drunken chuckle, “I think you better drive. I’ve been drinking.” Then he fell to the ground at Sam’s feet.

Sam poured his sleeping brother into the passenger seat of Baby. He took the wheel and tore away from the bar in a blur. As the people in the bar came out of their trance they found the body of Benjamin lying on the floor. The normal police investigation turned up nothing. He had no wallet, identification, or finger prints on file. The coroner determined the death to be the result of massive alcohol poisoning. Nobody in the bar remembered anything about the man, and all the security cameras had been shut off. From his throne near the cemetery where Abdu Abdalla is buried, Kalfu wept black tears. They dripped from his cheeks and fell in his gunpowder laced rum. He couldn’t believe his champion ghoul had fallen to the Winchesters. He swore he would have retribution.

Epilogue

Sam sat in front of his laptop at the briefing tables in the library area of the bunker, his hone pressed to his ear. “That’s it. It was nothing short of incredible the way Dean found to beat him.” Sam finished his report to Noel.

“I can’t believe it myself.” Noel conceded from the other end of the line. “I’m in you guys’ debt. I never would’ve thought of that, or survive if I did.”

“Yeah, I was worried about Dean. He’s been down for a few days, recuperating.” Sam said, still worried about Dean.

“Simply amazing, I really can’t thank you two enough.” Noel had a different tone in his voice, almost like a weight had been taken off his chest.

“So, forty years of hunting this thing down is over with. What’s next for you?” Sam asked, expecting he knew the answer.

Noel sounded almost cheerful, “Sammy, I’m going to do what few hunters get to do. I think I’m going to retire. I bought a place, years back, in Pennsylvania. I think I’m going to pack up and move there. The fishing is excellent.”

“That sounds great. You’re definitely one of the very few.” Sam smiled, genuinely happy for the old man..

“On that note, I’m going to get to packing. I’m not much for long goodbyes. Thanks again, Sam” Noel said, happier than he’d been in decades.

“Give us a call if you ever need anything.” Sam offered, as he ended the call. He could hear Cuddles trilling from Castiel’s shoulder from down the hallway as he ended the call.

“Sam, I really don’t know what to do with this furry thing.” complained Castiel, as he tried to teach Cuddles to take food without biting someone’s hand off.

“I’m sorry Cas, I’m not sure when Dean is going to be out of bed.” advised Sam.

“What happened to him that necessitates him staying in bed for three days?” Castiel asked, becoming notably distressed. Cuddles trilled from his spot on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Let’s just say it was a battle of epic, if not unusual circumstances.” Sam awkwardly reported.

They heard a hustle from the hallway, and watched as Dean emerged into the kitchen. “Why are you guys talking so loud?” he asked in a muffled voice.

“You look terrible!” exclaimed Castiel.

Dean looked up from the cup of coffee Sam had put in front of him. “Believe you me, Cas, I feel all that much worse than I really look.” his voice was gravely and low.

“Are you ready to assume responsibility for your pet?” asked Castiel. “I think I’ve done quite enough with him.”

Sam interjected, seeing Dean’s still shaky condition. “Cas, let’s give Dean another day or two. He’s really been through a tough battle.”

Castiel surveyed Dean, slouched over his coffee. “I guess Cuddles isn’t such a bad pet. I’ll keep him in order until Dean has recovered.” To Sam and Dean’s amusement he Castiel had begun stroking Cuddles fur, almost by habit. It was plain Cuddles was use to this. Castiel realized the amusement in their faces and excused himself to take Cuddles off to chase mice in the lower levels of the bunker.

Sam examined Dean, who had produced Benjamin’s pistol from a rolled rag in his hand. Dean had laid the pistol on the table in front of him and was observing it intently. “You okay?” Sam asked.

Dean never took his eyes off the gun, “Something’s been mothering me.”

Sam took a place on the other side of the table, “About Benjamin?”

“It’s almost like all the people he killed had a mark. He said he could see them.” Dean looked up from the gun. “I can’t shake the feeling that we didn’t pick that time and place to meet up with him. I feel more like the time and place picked us.”

Sam was uncertain of what Dean was trying to say. “It’s not likely. We had his pattern pretty well figured out.”

“No, there’s a lot more to it.” Dean couldn’t quite figure out how to say what he felt. “It just seems like we’re the ones who are cursed. That our curse is what drew his curse.”

“Aren’t you just the ball of joy when you’re hungover?” Sam said, after he let Dean’s speculation sink in.

“Yeah, I sure feel like a ball of something.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going back to bed and never drinking again.” He left his half-drank coffee and shuffled back the hallway to his room.

Benjamin Gille was buried in a simple pine box. No friends or family were ever found to claim the body, and his head stone simply read John Doe. The Coroner ruled the death accidental and no other questions were asked. Dean locked the cursed man’s revolver in his safe, and went to sleep off the worst hangover in human history. Noel Ryan moved north and spent his days shad fishing on the Delaware River. Cuddles and Castiel chased mice in the bunker’s basement, while Sam searched the web looking for their next case. Mary called to check in on the boys from a case she was working with Jody. All was right with the world, at least for now.