It was past two in the morning.

Late, or early depending on how one thought of it.

The moon hung large and silver in the dark starless sky. Shifting in and out of the clouds, as though playing a strange game of hide and seek with the earth below. Casting dark shadows that shifted and changed every second, making it look like the night itself moved. Breathed. Was alive.

The main street of the small West Virginia town was completely deserted now. Just past sundown the streets had been filled with groups of children and adults walking from house to house. Delighted laughter and chorus' of 'trick or treat' filling the air.

Now the streets were empty. Jack o' lanterns standing as silent guardians outside dark houses. Streams of toilet paper, courteous of a few rebellious teenagers, dangling from the skeletal limbs of trees, wafting slowly in the breeze. Even the tricksters had retired to their beds long ago. The only sound the soft rustling of brown dry leaves that still clung desperately to nearly bare tree limbs. As though refusing to acknowledge the approach of winter.

The peaceful silence of the night was broken suddenly by the shuffling sound of fast running steps. Harsh labored breathing. Somewhere in the distance a dog began to howl. The man with thin graying hair looked desperately over his shoulder. Nothing was there, only shadows, yet for some reason the man's eyes filled with terror and he ran faster.

The man headed straight for the dark church towering in the center of town like a giant stone gargoyle, dwarfing most of the other buildings. He ran up the old stone steps. Throwing open the wooden doors wide and stumbled inside. Still gasping and panting, clutching his chest, blood seeping though his fingers, as he ran straight for the alter.

A gust of wind from the still open door made a few of the candles go out and the man turned. Shadows danced wildly across the walls as though the very light was trying to flee from the figure that suddenly stood in the doorway of the church.

"You can not enter here! This is holy ground!" The man shouted defiantly, though the faint satisfaction and confidence on the man's face faltered immediately when the shadow in the doorway merely chuckled before stepping over the threshold.

"No! This is impossible! You can't be here!" He shouted again, desperately reaching behind him where a basin of holy water sat on the alter. He heaved the contents all over the approaching figure and only then did the other man stop. Looking down at the gleaming silver bowl coming to rest at his feet before he lifted his head once more. Shaking dark damp hair out of his eyes and grinning at the terrified man in front of him. His cold hazel eyes held no emotion at all.

"What did you think I was, hunter? A demon?" The young man chuckled, and the other man did not even have time to cry out in surprise before a flash of silver sliced through the air. Blood spraying bright red on the overhanging cross as the old man stumbled backwards, clutching at his throat and gurgling.

The young man watched dispassionately as the other figure flailed helplessly around on the floor for a few moments before growing still. Only then did he move to make sure the man was dead, wiping his blade off on the old man's clothes before he stood and turned away without another look back at the gruesome sight that would greet church goers in the morning.

He wasn't surprised to hear his cell phone ringing even before he'd made it to the church doors. The young man stood in the doorway as he answered.

"Yes, it is finished." He said calmly, listened for a few more moments, then nodded even though no one could see it. He shut off the phone and walked calmly out into the cool early November air.

***

John Winchester's knuckles were bone white where they clutched the steering wheel.

His breathing loud and far too labored in the closed confines of the truck's cabin. His rapid heartbeat pounding so hard in his ears he could barely hear the ringing through the cell phone pressed to his ear.

One ring... two... Pick up... pick up the phone damn it...

It wouldn't have surprised him if his son did not answer his phone. It was late. Very late. So late it was almost early. He wouldn't have been surprised if his son had already turned his cell phone off for the night. Or if he simply ignored the call all together. It wouldn't have been the first time. Probably would not be the last.

But this time was not like any other time. What if his son did not answer the phone for a reason other than the fact that he hated his father? What if he did not answer because John was too late... too late to warn him...

John Winchester thought he already knew every fear a man could possibly feel. As an ex-marine he knew the fear of going into battle. Fighting for his country. Watching friends and comrades die by his side, and having no choice but to continue fighting unless he was prepared to join them.

He'd thought, at the time, that was the worst fear he'd ever know in his life. Oh, how he had been wrong. So wrong. That fear had been nothing compared to years later. Waking up to the sound of his wife's screams. Feeling his blood turn to ice at the sound even as his heart pounded harder trying to force it through his veins as he ran.

Yet even that fear had not compared to seconds later hearing a second terrified scream. Not from wife. But his four year old son, Dean. Screaming as though the devil were after him. Joined soon by the wailing of his infant son, responding to his brother's terrified cries. But even that fear seemed pale by comparison to when he'd arrived in the nursery where the screams had come from, only to find it empty save for his wailing younger son in his crib. At least... so he had thought. Until he'd looked up and seen Mary...

John clenched the steering wheel tighter. Stepping on the gas harder. The dark landscape passing by in a blur outside the windows. He checked the rearview mirror. Still nothing. But that did not mean anything, he knew. A fourth ring from the cell phone clutched in his other hand. Damn it Sam! Pick up the phone!

Fear. He thought he knew what it felt like. He had lost half his family in a night of fire and blood. John knew he would never survive it if... if he was too late yet again...

Sam Winchester was grateful as hell that Halloween was over and done with. They'd pulled all the decorations down yesterday and if he'd had his choice, he'd have salted and burned the lot of them. It wasn’t just the costumes of witches, mummies, werewolves, and all the other monsters, it simply brought back too many bitter memories. Memories of “Yes sir! No sir!” while snapping to attention. Memories of running miles in the rain, of target practice with half-a-dozen types of guns, rifles, crossbows, throwing knives, and Molotov cocktails. Memories of hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting, and the never ending bootcamp that had been his life for just about as long as he could remember.

All of that had come to an abrupt end on the second of November when he was sixteen. The normal life everyone around him had was finally too much to bear and he wanted such a life more desperately than anything. What was the point of revenge against the creature that had killed his mother and brother? His father was convinced something supernatural had been behind the fire that had taken the lives of his wife and eldest son. John swore Mary was pinned to the ceiling of the nursery, her belly slit open, when he pulled Sam from the crib. Sam clutched to his chest, he'd screamed for Dean over and over, but soon was driven out by the fire that was too hot to be natural.

Something supernatural killed his mom and brother. Sam could accept that because he knew what crawled in the dark. He and his father had taken out dozens of evil sons-of-bitches, anything from ghosts to zombies to revenants to shapeshifters. Time and again, he knew he and his father had saved lives. To do so, he’d given up everything for the hunt. He'd given up his childhood, any friends he might have made, Sunday baseball games and picnics, rock concerts, even a normal father. He didn’t have a father. He had a fucking drill sergeant.

Six years ago he had decided it was his turn to be selfish. He wanted a life without a gun beside his bed, a knife under the mattress, and salt lining the windows and doors. The great John Winchester positively exploded when Sam announced his intentions to give up hunting, to stay in one school, and to go to college. Their ensuing argument had been spectacular and probably heard three towns away. It was the first time, ever, that John had hit him. Even after all this time, his father’s words still cut deep. He wasn’t betraying his family, dammit! He just didn’t want to wash any more graveyard dirt out of his clothes, or blood—be it his, his father’s, or whatever supernatural creature they’d killed that night. He was tired of stitching his father up, of explaining to school mates how he’d gotten the bruises or cuts or broken bones. Tired of lying to everyone. He just wanted to be normal.

He wanted to have real friends. He wanted to be in one place long enough to have a girlfriend, and go to dances and play a full season of sports in just one school instead of four. He didn’t want to spend any more weeks being homeschooled when they were moving too much to enroll him in school. He was done with it all. After his father hit him across the jaw, he’d told Sam to get out and never come back. And that’s just what Sam did. Sam stormed out of that motel room and never looked back.

Forged papers proved he was an emancipated teen. Forged papers got him into a good high school in the Midwest. He excelled at sports, he excelled at school work, he excelled at everything, and easily scored a full ride to Stanford. The law had always fascinated him, maybe because he and his father had broken more laws through the years than he could count. He now had four years of law school under his belt, had the most gorgeous girlfriend in the world whom he hoped would soon become his fiancé, and come nine a.m. this very morning was the interview that would set him on the road to success. He’d have his dog, white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a Mercedes for Jessica and a Porsche for himself. He grinned at the thought. Normal.

As he reviewed the law books, he nibbled on the cookies Jessica had made for him. He looked up and away from the book, reciting to himself the outcome of Dickensen versus Martins, when the calendar caught his eye. Midnight was long past. That meant it was the sixth anniversary of the start of his normal life. It was also the twenty-first anniversary of the fire that killed his mom and his older brother, Dean. He had often wondered what it would have been like to have an older brother. He wouldn’t have been alone all those years on the road with his father. He’d have had a friend. A best friend. He could have crawled into bed beside his big brother and Dean would have shushed him and held him and soothed away the terrible nightmares that plagued him. Nightmares of fire, smells of sulfur, creatures out of Giger-like artwork, and of watching a boy not unlike himself being whipped or beaten and Sam feeling every blow himself though there were no marks on him when he awoke.

A brother. They’d have picked on each other, Sam was certain. Rolled in the dirt as they wrestled. Dunked each other in the pool. Thrown popcorn at each other. Dean would have helped him learn how to shoot a gun and helped him be better fighter. He’d have been the protector of his little brother. Sam blinked back his sudden tears. How could your heart ache for someone dead, someone you'd never even known? Sometimes he wondered if his father had been right. Had he betrayed his brother by walking away from hunting? A part of him wept for the brother he'd lost while another part, just like his father, begged for revenge against whatever had taken that special soul away from him.

The sudden vibrating rattle of the cell phone lying on the kitchen table startled him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock. Who would be calling him at this time of the night? He'd wanted to stay up a bit and review his books, readying himself for the upcoming interview. Jessica had given up on him by midnight and long since gone to bed.

He pushed himself up from the couch and the books scattered around him. He cursed when he heard three books cascade from the cushions to the floor, thumping loudly. Jessica was a light sleeper and he really hoped she hadn't heard that. Or the loud annoying chatter of the phone bouncing on the wooden table. Walking around the couch and heading into the kitchen, he tripped over his boots and stumbled, nearly going to his knees. Dammit! The phone was already on its fourth "ring" when he got to it. He probably should have just let it go to voice mail. It was most likely Mike begging for cab money to get his ass home from wherever he'd ended up, or more likely from whomever's place he’d ended up. It certainly wasn't the first time Mike had called in the middle of the night for money for a ride home from some girl’s place. If Mike wasn't his freaking best friend at college…

Sam didn't even bother to look at the caller ID. He swore he was going to throttle his friend. Mike knew he had that big interview in the morning! Sam just wanted to answer the phone to shut it up, hoping Jessica had slept through the cacophony of noise that all seemed so loud to his ears.

"Mike, I swear to God you are a pain in my ass. This better be good, like you're lying in a ditch somewhere with two broken legs," Sam growled softly. "Because if you're not, you will be."

John Winchester didn’t panic. He never acted irrationally or jumped to conclusions. In his line of ‘work’ that was a good way to get killed, after all. If there was one lesson he’d drilled into his son’s head above all others, that was it. Know your enemy. Don’t plow ahead into the unknown. Consider the consequences before you act.

It seemed he should have paid more attention to his own lessons. Especially when right at this moment John felt as close to panicking as he’d felt in years. Was ready to drive clear across the country, without stopping, from the east coast straight to the west if his son did not pick up the phone right the fuck now, damn the consequences, just to make sure his son was still alive…

When the line on the other end finally connected, the older man’s relief was so great he felt more than a little light headed and he had to concentrate hard to keep the truck from swerving. Though, he admitted, that feeling could also have something to do with the bright red stain soaking through his flannel shirt at his stomach.

The was wound deep, but not the worst he’d ever received. All things considered, it was probably lucky he’d gotten away with only that. It would need stitches, and he should definitely be applying pressure to it right now to stop the bleeding. But since he needed one hand on the wheel and the other on his phone that was a little impossible right now.

It would have to be a short conversation, the first they’d had in years, and maybe the last he would ever have with his son. Hell, it might even be very short once Sam actually realized who he was talking too. It was obvious by his ‘greeting’ that his son didn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t have even answered the phone if he did. He could only pray that Sam would listen to him now, would listen to his warning, though the young man had stopped listening to him long before he left all those years ago.

“Sam… don’t hang up. Please.” John was a little surprised just how weak, strained with pain, his own voice sounded. Maybe the wound was worse than he thought, but he couldn’t really care about that right now. He didn’t know how much time he had, either before Sam ended the call or before the thing hunting him caught up with him, and he had to warn his son. “Listen to me. You’re in danger…”

“Sam…don’t hang up. Please.”

Sam’s father was on the other end of the phone. That fact alone stunned him almost beyond hearing the pleading words. Through the years John had tried getting in touch with Sam every so often, but Sam had stubbornly ignored his calls. During their final fight John had told him in no uncertain terms to get out and Sam was determined not to let the man drag him back into any reconciliation that would only last a few days, maybe a week at best before he knew, just knew, they’d be at each other’s throats again. John had called often right after Sam left but if Sam saw the number was his father’s—basically any number he didn’t recognize on the caller ID--he’d ignore the call and let it go to voice mail. He’d listen to his father’s message, hear his father’s voice, and find some strange sort of mix between fury and solace in it. If he didn’t actually speak with his father, he couldn’t fight with his father. After al lthis time, he couldn’t say he wasn’t still furious with his father, but he had, he admitted reluctantly been debating if he should invite John to his wedding. He had finally come to the conclusion he should. He loved his father, really he did, but they just didn’t look at the world the same way. Even so, when he and Jessica had the kids they were talking about having, he did want his kids to at least meet their grandfather, even if John was a stubborn ass of a man.

It had been a few years since his father had tried to contact him and now and again Sam would call Bobby Singer or Pastor Jim, friends of his father, and get an update on John just to confirm his father was still alive. He imagined John would be shocked to learn of that and even more shocked to see the picture of John and Mary that Sam kept in the bedroom, the husband and wife together, looking so happy. His mother looked radiant and it was the only real image that Sam ever had of her in him mind. Beside his parent’s picture sat a picture of his father and Dean. Dean was probably about three, in swimming trunks with dripping wet hair, and his father had him by the waist, obviously tickling him. Both had the biggest shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. Dean’s birthmark, a brown splotch on his shoulder that reminded Sam of angel wings, was readily visible. Sam had a similar one in nearly the same place, just like his dad and brother.

“Listen to me,” John begged.

Sam couldn’t ever recall hearing his father’s voice so shaky, maybe even weak, and the pain he heard in his father’s voice suddenly scared Sam. Although he could hear the worry, the pain he heard in that voice was physical pain. His father was hurt.

“You’re in danger.”

“Dad?” Sam finally managed to get out. “Are you okay? What’s happened? What do you mean I’m in danger?”

Sam’s mind whirled. His father never acted on impulse, never jumped to irrational conclusions. If his father said Sam was in danger, Sam knew at the visceral level he was. If Sam was in danger—his frozen limbs suddenly moved into action and “Oh, God,” whispered from lips.

He pulled the cell phone away from his ear as he took the stairs two at a time, running to his and Jessica’s bedroom, fear wrapping cold bony fingers tightly around his heart. In his stocking feet, he slid to a stop in the doorway. The nightlight near the bed spilled pale light throughout the room. Jessica was in bed, sprawled on her back her golden hair fanned like a halo about her beautiful face. Sam felt his breath rush out of his lungs when he saw her eyelids flutter open. “You ever coming to bed?” she mumbled.

“Soon,” he told her, giving her a brief if tremulous smile. “Go back to sleep.”

She uh-hummed him and snuggled deeper under the covers. “Hurry,” she mumbled before drifting back to her dreams.

Sam walked back down the creaking stairs, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he thought it could break his ribs with just a little more force. “Dad? You still there?” Sam asked, bringing the cell phone back to his ear.

A part of his mind was already thinking about the extra salt he had squirreled away in the attic, the knife he had in the closet, and the gun beside his bed. It was like he was a kid again and all the training his father had drilled into him burst to the surface in the onslaught of adrenaline.

Calm down, he told himself. He needed to hear his father out. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a senseless, ridiculous fear of his father’s. A nightmare maybe. Or maybe it was John’s underhanded way of trying to reconnect with his son. If it was, it’d be the last time.

“I’m listening.” He collapsed onto the couch, shoving the law books aside and reaching around the arm of the couch for the boots he’d tripped over, instinctively preparing himself for whatever danger his father thought he might be in.

John only had a moment to feel relief that his son had finally answered the phone. Relief washing over him so great that his son was all right he had to grip the steering wheel tighter to keep from swerving.

He wasn’t too late. Not this time.

And Sam hadn’t simply hung up on him when he’d heard his voice. In fact, John imagined he might have even heard concern in the younger man’s voice when he asked what happened. But the elder man had little time to consider that his son might not hate him as much as he feared, much less answer Sam’s question, when he heard the younger man’s frightened whisper and his heart nearly stopped.

“Sam? Sam! Damn it!”

For a few seconds feeling that sense of panic building inside of him again, that maybe he was too late after all. Again. That he would be forced once more to listen to his son’s screams before he died and once more he would be powerless to stop it.

“Sam!”

Hearing the soft sound of voices on the other end of the line John relaxed only the slightest amount. Trying to will his heart to stop beating so hard and fast. It would only make the bleeding worse.

“Yes. I’m here.” The elder man replied feeling something between a mixture of intense relief hearing his son’s voice again and irritation for Sam scaring him so in the first place. But his son was listening. That was almost more than he could have hoped for right now, given their past. He had the chance to warn his son.

“I can’t explain everything. There isn’t any time, Sam. I’ve been hunting something. Something that has been tracking down and killing other hunters. Its killed at least twenty that I know of. Tonight I found it, or it found me more likely.” John paused so he could stifle a groan of pain. Glancing briefly down at the wound before turning his attention back to the road and his son. Blinking to clear his vision. “I got away, barely, but not before…”

The older man paused again as he remembered the shock and fear he’d felt when the demon… that’s what it had to be, but it was unlike any demon he’d ever seen before… when the demon had said his son’s name. Letting him know that once it was done with him it would be going for Sam next. Then John had managed to surprise it with a shot gun full of rock salt. That surprise, however brief, had been the only reason he’d gotten away.

“It's coming for you, Sam. It knows where you are. You have to leave, call Bobby, find some other hunters to help you, it’s too strong to fight alone. I’m in West Virginia now, I’ll try to keep it busy for as long as I can…”

“You’re hurt,” Sam said, knowing his father had to be badly hurt for Sam to be able to hear it in John’s voice, for John to hint at it and then not admit to it. “I can tell, Dad, so don’t even try to tell me you’re not.”

Sam raked his fingers through his hair as his mind chewed through options. He’d be damned if he was going to let his father sacrifice himself. Sam hadn’t hunted in six years. Sure, he’d kept himself in shape, but he knew he didn’t have the finely-honed edge his father did, an edge John would have no matter how badly hurt. If that thing could get the drop on his father, it wasn’t just good, it was damned good. He had a feeling he'd need his father to help him survive whatever it was. Okay, maybe he wanted his father by him to help him fight whatever it was.

“I know Bobby’s is about about fifteen hours from West Virginia, but do you think you can get there? If you can lead it to Bobby’s, Bobby and I will come up with some sort of trap.” Sam knew his voice sounded as worried as he felt. His dad was hurt, whatever was hunting him was good enough to catch him off guard, and Sam was asking his father to stay one step ahead of it for half a day.

Sam didn’t like the hesitation he heard in his father’s voice confirming that he could. “Don’t lie to me! If you can’t get that far, we’ll get to you.”

When his father’s voice came back stronger Sam almost smiled. Stubborn ass of a man. His father would find a way to make it there no matter how badly he was hurt. “Okay. Then I’ll meet you at Bobby’s. We’ll be ready for it. I’ll call you when I get there. If you’re too bad and you don’t think you can get there, call me. I’ll come in with enough back up to take down the gates of Hell. Dad…” Sam choked, wondering if it would be the last time he talked to his dad. “…be careful. I …want to see you again.”

That was as close to an “I love you” as Sam was able to manage. He hoped it was enough that his dad understood.

You’re hurt.

John managed a tight smile despite the situation when his son cut him off before he could even try to deny it. Some things never changed it seemed, no matter how much else did. It didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want the boy worrying over him right now when he should be concentrating on getting to safety. On finding some help to take down the son of a bitch hunting them…

The worry in his son’s voice when he suggested his plan made the older man’s throat feel tight with emotion. He almost told Sam no. That he wasn’t going to try to lead it anywhere, except away from his son. But then again, if Sam went to Bobby’s then all John had to do was not lead it there. His friend’s home was virtually a fortress against the supernatural. Sam wouldn’t be safer anywhere else.

“I can make it.” He said, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt for lying to his son. But if he told him the truth the fool boy might try coming to find him instead of going to Bobby’s. He probably wouldn’t make the fifteen hour drive anyway…

The younger man’s harsh response took him aback a little, and he wasn’t exactly sure what made him change his mind. If it was the confidence in his son’s voice that hadn’t been there the last time they’d spoken or fact that Sam actually cared enough to want him to make it through this alive…

“I’ll make it.” John Winchester repeated, and this time he meant it. Come hell or high water, he’d get there somehow. Maybe between the three of them, with a plan, they’d actually have a chance at taking the fucker down.

Be careful. I …want to see you again.

Again, the elder man had to swallow down the emotion that welled up in his throat hearing the way his son’s voice broke over his words. He normally didn’t let himself get so emotional and blamed it on blood loss. John blinked back the sting in his eyes.

“I’ll see you in fifteen hours. Be careful, son.” He said and hung up the phone. Tossing it down onto the seat next to him and then quickly unbuttoned his bloody flannel shirt. Shrugging it off, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out in pain at the movement, and pressed the bunched up material hard against his stomach to staunch the flow of blood.

It would have to do for now. Until he could find a gas station or rest stop, someplace he could quickly dress the wound. Stitching it up would have to wait. He couldn’t risk staying in one place that long. John stepped harder on the gas, trying to put more distance between himself and what was hunting him. But even as he checked the rearview mirror and again saw nothing, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end like he was being watched. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was leading them into a trap, not the other way around.

Swallowing back his fear when John ended the call, Sam knew he had to move fast. He couldn’t afford to let emotions get in the way. His father was counting on him. On him. John was going to drive, injured, some eleven to twelve hundred miles, a deadly beast on his ass, and he was trusting Sam having that magic bullet ready when he got there. Sam wouldn’t let him down. Just couldn’t. He wouldn’t lose his dad, not to a god-damned supernatural creature. He’d lost his mom and brother. He refused to lose his dad, too.

Quickly he scrolled through his phone book until he found Bobby’s number. While he was telling Bobby what little he knew, he sat at his laptop and booked the earliest flight he could to South Dakota then put in an order for a cab to pick him up in an hour. He shot off an email to the law firm he was supposed to interview with, explaining that his father had been gravely injured and he couldn’t make the interview. Fuck. Just fuck. Maybe they’d give him another chance after this…whatever the hell it was…was dead and he could safely return to Jessica and his normal life once again.

If it was after Sam—dammit he’d gotten out of hunting! Why’d it want him dead?-- Jessica had to get out of town tonight and stay out of town. How the hell was he going to explain this to her? “Jess, I’ve got some creature out of one of my nightmares gunning for me. Yeah, monsters are real by the way. You need to go into hiding until I kill it. Oh, and salt your windows and doors while you’re at it, just in case. Keep some holy water and iron on hand, and don’t forget a silver knife. too.” Yeahhhhh. Right.

Cursing under his breath at the fucked up turn his previously wonderful life had taken, Sam yanked his old empty military green duffel out of the back of the closet, scattering shoes and umbrellas and hats in the process. Reaching inside the bag he confirmed the wickedly curved knife inscribed with runes that Bobby had given him long ago was still snuggly in its concealed pocket. From the laundry room he grabbed a few days worth of clean clothes that he hadn’t gotten around to carrying upstairs yet, then turned back to the closet, digging through the boxes on the top shelf. He pulled a wooden box down and opened it, carelessly tossing aside the school research notes he’d placed inside, knowing Jessica would never go through them and discover the false bottom. After wiggling free the board, he scooped out a few rosaries, some holy water, and other tools of the trade that he threw into his duffel, mindful of what he’d be able to carry in his luggage, hating that he was going to have to check it in. That sucked out loud. He slipped his laptop into its case, set everything by the door, and tossed his winter coat on top of them. November in South Dakota was probably going to be fucking freezing.

Now to go wake Jessica, help her throw a few items into a suitcase, pray she didn’t ask too many questions, and get her to go over to Mike’s for the night. He could trust Mike to make certain she was on her way to her family the next day and make sure she didn’t return to the house for any last minute items. After a moment of consideration, he decided he’d get Mike to go with her. Mike wasn’t half bad with a knife, having trained in knife fighting at his dojo. He could give Mike his silver knife for added protection.

Sam was headed for the stairs when the electricity began to flicker. The hum of the refridgerator stuttered, the microwave and VCR both chirped in protest and the lights began to flash on and off. He heard the whump-whoosh, like a gas bar-b-que when it was first lit. The hint of sulfur tickled his nose, followed by the hint of smoke. And Jessica’s sudden scream followed.

“Jessica!” The words ripped from his throat as he shot up the stairs. The orange glow that lit the hallway from their bedroom wasn’t the soft inviting nightlight’s or the romantic candles Jessica sometimes lit for them. He froze at the doorway. Amid the hungry flames a man stood in the room, a long black coat hanging on his tall frame. The dark-haired man turned and gave Sam a lazy smile. His eyes glowed bile yellow and he tossed something toward Sam.

“You might need this, Sammy.” He laughed softly.

Out of instinct Sam caught the object and when he looked back up, a fountain of flame burned where the man had stood moments before. Sam’s gaze frantically scoured the room, looking for Jessica. He shuddered as his dreams came back to him. The dreams he simply thought revolved around the fact it was approaching the anniversary of his mother’s death. His breath locked in his chest as he slowly lifted his head, his hazel eyes going to the ceiling, terrified of what—who he might see.

Jessica’s belly was slit open, blood dripping from the wound, the liquid hissing as it hit the flames below. She softly cried out to him a final time before the flames consumed her. Sam screamed her name again but waves of unnatural heat rolling out of the room beat him back. Tears rolled down his face, her name on his lips, as as he stumbled down the stairs.

He screamed his fury at the heavens. Fire had stolen all those whom he loved; first his mother and brother were taken, then he lost his father to the obsession of finding the one who’d started that fire, and now the woman he loved was burned to ash. His eyes dropped to the object the yellow-eyed man had tossed at him. His gun. The Colt his dad had given him when he was nine, the Colt he kept hidden in the nightstand beside his bed, loaded with blessed silver bullets.

Staring at the gun, he sank to his knees, time stopping for him as he was lost in the reflections made in its gleaming dark metal. He was only vaguely aware of the roar of the spreading fire and the approaching wail of sirens. It would be so terribly easy. Put the muzzle in his mouth, the bitter taste of gun oil on his tongue, and simply pull the trigger.

You might need this, Sammy. The words whispered mockingly in his mind.

With a shout of denial he threw the gun violently from him; it skittered across the floor to secrete itself beneath the old couch. Jessica wouldn’t want him to die, not like that. And his father was counting on him.

Tears continued to spill down his face as much from the smoke as from the swelling loss inside him. The acrid smoke brought on a hacking cough and the heat was beginning to build. He’d no idea how long he’d been there, just staring at the gun. He heard the front door crash open. Half-blinded by the smoke, he crawled his way toward the muffled sounds of fire-fighters. He hadn’t gone far when gloved hands grabbed him and hauled him outside into the fresh air. Sobbing, collapsing into the damp grass, Jessica’s name and “I’m sorry” were the only words escaping him until the medics guided Sam to the back of the ambulance and put him on oxygen. He stared almost blankly at the burning house they’d been renting and ignored the medic’s questions, lost in himself as his dreams of a normal life disappeared in a black column of smoke that poured out of the breached roof like an exorcised demon.

John Winchester pulled his truck into the parking lot of a rest stop off of the highway a little after dawn. It wasn't much, but it had a gas station and a small diner. The latter of which didn't really interest him, though he decided the bathrooms in there were probably marginally cleaner than some random 7-11, and he needed some place to tend to his wounds. The last thing he needed to worry about was an infection of some kind, so hopefully it would have to do.

He grabbed his jacket and put it on, zipping it up to cover the blood stained white undershirt he was wearing, and got out of the truck with a groan. The bleeding had nearly stopped by now from the pressure he'd been applying to the wound, which was a good thing, considering if it hadn't then he'd probably be dead by now. He was still a little unsteady and weak from blood loss as he grabbed a bag from the back of the truck containing first aid supplies and a change of clothes, and went inside the diner.

John knew he looked like hell but thankfully none of the patrons or the waitress paid him any mind as he made his way immediately to the back of the diner. Making sure the men's bathroom was empty before he locked the door. Setting the bag down on the sink as he pulled off his jacket and then his shirt with a sharp wince of pain. Examining the long deep slash across his stomach.

If the knife had cut any deeper his intestines would have probably been spilling out right now. John made a face at that gruesome thought as he grabbed a stack of paper towels and started cleaning the wound. Wishing he had the time to stitch it up properly, but right now he simply didn't. If it wasn't literally a matter of life and death, he probably wouldn't have stopped at all until he reached Bobby's but if he didn't stop the bleeding now then he wasn't going to make it, period.

So he cleaned the wound as best he could with the supplies he had. Gritting his teeth at the burn of the antiseptics, then wrapping bandages around his stomach as tightly as he could to keep pressure on it. He quickly changed out of his dirty and blood stained clothes into clean ones, and took a dose of antibiotics and painkillers. Nothing that would leave him groggy but would at least would take the edge off the pain for a while.

Stuffing the supplies and dirty clothing back into the bag John took a moment to get out his phone and sent a text to both Sam and Bobby. Giving them an update of where he was and an estimate of when he'd be there. Not wasting any more time John grabbed the bag, unlocked the door, and stepped out of the bathroom. Intending to stop briefly at the gas station to fill up the truck's tank before he got back on the road. Instead he found himself frozen in place when the sickly coppery stench of blood slapped him in the face.

The hunter dropped the bag, grabbing his gun out of the back of his jeans, as he slowly walked around the corner. Feeling his stomach clench even before he saw the sight of every single person in the diner now lying in a pool of their own blood. Mere minutes ago they'd been alive. How the hell could this have happened in the short time he'd been in the bathroom? How could he have not heard it happening?

He barely had time to think the question, much less come up with an answer, because the window behind him suddenly shattered inward and a crushing force hit him squarely in the chest as he turned. Knocking him back across the floor, his gun skidding away from him, as all the air was slammed out of his body. An invisible crushing weight pressing down on him, claws digging deep rents into his shoulders and he would have cried out in spite of himself if he could have drawn air into his lungs. The stench of sulfur in his face overwhelming. The vicious demonic growl from the creature he couldn't see confirming, as though there were any doubt before, what his death would be.

Hellhound…

"No. Not yet. After all, we need him alive." John recognized the irritatingly calm, cocky, tone from last night even before the figure of a young man dressed in black entered his line of vision. His vision that was beginning to grow dark around the edges at the moment because of lack of oxygen. The demon with glowing green eyes grinned down at him, the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness, "For now."

He was still numb when he got off the plane, paid for the car rental, and pointed it towards Bobby’s. He’d tried to call Mike while he was sitting at the airport waiting on his plane to tell him about Jessica, about his dad…and about the pain of the gaping wound in his chest that Jessica's sudden death had left.

When Mike didn’t answer, Sam felt fear coil in his gut. Since the middle of October Sam had been having dreams, not just of Jessica’s death, but of Mike’s as well. Even though dawn was a good few hours away Sam called Jeff, Mike's room-mate. Mike usually called Jeff and let him know if he was coming home that night or not, so Jeff knew if he could have his girlfriend over to stay for the evening. Sam was surprised when Jeff answered almost immediately and by the slur to his words. Jeff didn’t drink, but there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that Jeff was drunk. Sam had closed his eyes then, knowing the truth before Jeff told him. Mike had been killed by a drunk driver the previous evening as he walked across Tenth Street. At least, the driver didn’t remember anything, so surely he was drunk. Not possessed or anything supernatural like that. Just because witnesses saw black smoke pour from the car right after the accident yet there was no sign of fire, no, the driver wasn’t possessed. A demon hadn't run his best friend down. Sam wasn’t able to say anything to Jeff beyond a simple thanks. The wound in his chest widened that much more.

The two people who’d meant the most to him in Palo Alto were gone. Would he soon hear about the deaths of other friends? There wasn’t any way to warn them, not so as they’d believe him at any rate. The only way to save them was to take out whatever was hunting his dad. That yellow-eyed bastard was surely behind it. That demon—Sam was certain that’s what it had to be—had killed his Jessica. Probably killed Mike, too. For those reasons alone he was willing to take up hunting again, if only long enough to put that demon back in hell.

The only thing that helped him make the drive to Bobby’s was knowing that his father was still okay and still ahead of what was hunting him. The text message he received from John was concise, as if he would expect anything less of his dad, but it bolstered him. John was making good time and in a small handful of hours Sam would see his father for the first time in six years. Sure, they would probably be butting heads in a matter of a few days, but that was fine so long as his dad was safe.

When Sam pulled into Bobby’s junkyard, he saw the ’67 Impala sitting out front, gleaming in the morning sunlight as though it was ready to prowl the roads again. A smile tugged at Sam’s lips. His dad had left him a message a few years back that the Impala was at Bobby's and was his when he was ready for a car. Sam told Bobby he didn’t want it, it wasn’t really practical for him while he was in college, and that Bobby could sell it. Instead Bobby hung on to it, keeping it in good running condition. Jessica would think he was…no, Jessica was dead. She wouldn’t think anything anymore, not ever again. Sam felt his throat close and choked back his sob. He had to stay focused on the living. He would mourn her later, in his own way.

Bobby’s old dog, Rumsfeld, lay sprawled across the hood of Bobby’s tow truck. Rumsfeld gave a half-hearted bark at Sam’s arrival, then laid his head back down on the hood, soaking up the warm sunshine. Sam zipped up his coat as he got out of the rental, his breath fogging the air in front of him. It was cold, but not really much colder that it had been in San Francisco. Shouldering his duffel and laptop, Sam grimaced when he caught the lingering smell of smoke and charred wood. His bags, his coat, hell, even his own hair stank of it. Being beside the front door had spared his things of any damage. Sam even forced himself to fish the Colt .45 from beneath the singed and water-logged couch.

“It’s good to see you, Boy!” Bobby practically rushed out of the house. He hugged Sam enthusiastically before pulling back and asked, “Don’t you Winchesters know how to visit without it being an emergency?”

Sam dredged up a smile. “Good to see you too, Bobby. Heard anything from Dad?”

“Text message earlier. Nothing since. Wish that fool would have given you a clue what we was facing.”

“Demon,” Sam said simply as he followed Bobby into the house.

“You sure about that?” Bobby said and waved Sam to set his stuff down by the kitchen table.

“Pretty sure,” Sam said, gratefully accepting the coffee Bobby offered him after he’d placed his bags on the floor. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep. He’d dozed off on the plane and had nightmares so bad that one of the flight attendants had to shake him awake. He’d seen Jessica burning. Mike bloodied and broken. His Dad torn to shreds by hellhounds, and that boy he’d dreamt about since he could first recall his dreams. That boy that had long since become a man. He’d dreamed about him less frequently now, but when he did, he still felt every cut of the whip, every blow of the fist, every slice of the knife, and the overwhelming guilt of failure. When the attendant woke Sam, he’d all but panicked, convinced his dream was true and that his father was dead. When he’d left the plane and turned on the phone, ready to call his father, he discovered John’s text message waiting for him. He’d nearly collapsed then and there in relief.

“Then we plan for demons and everything that might go with them,” Bobby said, walking to his desk where he began sorting through the piles of books he’d already laid out as he’d tried to figure out what he needed to prepare his house for.

Sam sighed heavily, sipping from the mug of hot black coffee. He was exhausted. He would be able to rest soon, though. When his father was here and safe, and they trapped and killed the yellow-eyed bastard that was after him. After them.

Sam extracted his cell phone from his pocket. He had told John he’d call him when he reached Bobby’s. Maybe a part of him still felt nervous and needed to reassure himself that his dad was okay. That dream had seemed so real. Too real. Sam glanced at the clock. John ought to be about five or six hours out. On the second ring, he heard the other end answer and felt a swell of relief. His dad was fine.

When John Winchester regained consciousness he was a little surprised to be waking up at all.

Not that he didn’t feel like… well… like he’d nearly been gutted like a fish and almost ripped apart by a rabid hellhound, but he was still alive. For now. Of course, at the moment it remained to be seen if that was a good thing or not.

We need him alive. That’s what the demon had said. But why? He couldn’t help but think. It had killed at least twenty hunters that John knew about. Why did it need him alive? Only one reason came to mind and it chilled his blood to the core to even think it.

Sam.

John bit off a groan at the throbbing pain in his skull as he looked up where his arms were secured above his head to a large rusted pipe of some kind. The ropes so tight they nearly cut off the circulation to his hands completely.

Blinking sweat and blood out of his eyes he looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He had no idea, he could be anywhere, he didn’t even know how long he’d been unconscious. But from what he could make out he seemed like some kind of old factory. Maybe a paper mill, long abandoned of course.

John heard a low growl from the shadows and froze. He couldn’t see anything moving but he could hear it. The claws scraping against the cold cement floor. Circling him slowly. The hellhound…

“Wakey, wakey.” The now familiar voice came from his right and John’s head snapped towards the demon, his eyes narrowed, and his face set in defiance as it stepped from the shadows where it had probably been waiting all this time. Watching him. It chuckled as it approached him and crouched in front of him. “And here I was afraid you’d miss all the fun.”

“What do you want?” John demanded and the demon shook his head, tsking.

“Don’t ask stupid questions you already know the answer to. That’s just boring.” It said, grinning and John felt his heart beat speed up despite how he tried to keep his turmoil off his face. The demon’s grin only widened however, as though reading his thoughts.

“That’s right, little Sammy. I’m hoping he’ll be more fun. I have to admit, after all I heard of the great ‘John Winchester’ I expected more of a challenge.” It said with a shrug as it stood, and before John could say anything it added, “Don’t speak.” And… John couldn’t. He just couldn’t. What the fuck?

“Well, at least it should be fun pealing the skin off your bones bit by bit while little Sammy watches.” The demon taunted him with a wicked grin, and still John couldn’t say anything. Not even to tell the demon to go to hell. Sam would never fall for this kind of trap. His son was smarter than that. He knew that John wouldn’t want himself used as bait…

“Oh, he’ll come for you all right, old man. There’s nothing a son wouldn’t do for his father.” The demon said, smiling knowingly as though it had just read his thoughts. Maybe it had…

That was when John heard a cell phone ring and he paled when he realized it was his own.

“Right on time.” The demon said with a small laugh as it fished the phone out of its coat pocket and answered, and John could only listen in growing horror. “Hello Sammy. I’m sorry, but Daddy can’t come to the phone right now.”

Sam felt his breath catch in his chest when he heard the stranger’s voice answer his father’s phone. His father had been captured, or worse. His mind raced with questions and fears. He took little solace that the voice he heard was not the same as the yellow eyed demon that had killed Jessica. That alone brought new questions into his head. If it wasn’t the yellow-eyed demon after his father and him, who was it?

“Is he still alive?” Sam asked, startled by the cold tone he heard in his own voice. He had expected his voice to be shaky, maybe even frightened. Hearing his own voice so strong somehow calmed him. His father’s fate was the most important of the questions in his mind, even though he already knew the answer. The demon—at least he assumed it was a demon—wouldn’t kill John. He’d keep John alive as bait for Sam.

At Sam’s icy voice and the question he asked, Bobby all but knocked over the stack of books he was going through in his rush to get to Sam’s side. His eyes wide with concern, he stood waiting fearfully to learn John’s fate.

“Hmmm…” The Demon hummed, almost to himself, before a rather twisted smile broke out on its face, making John tense involuntarily. The older man only able to watch as it pulled out a knife and advanced towards him.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” It asked, bringing the phone close to John’s mouth, at the same time thrusting the knife deeply into his forearm. Whatever invisible gag the demon had placed upon John suddenly vanishing and he couldn’t stop the loud cry of pain ripping from his lips as the demon sliced him from his elbow nearly to his wrist.

“Sam, don’t…!” John managed to get out before he was silenced once more.

Still grinning, the demon brought the phone back to his ear.

“Satisfied?”

Sam’s grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles were white as his face. “Dad…” he whispered, feeling the tears sting his eyes. The horror inside him faded when he heard the demon’s cocky question of whether or not he was “satisfied.”

“Yeah,” Sam said hoarsely, his mouth sudden dry. He gave Bobby as reassuring look as he could, considering. Based on how pale Bobby had gone, Bobby had heard his father’s cry of pain across the phone.

Sam’s voice regained its calm, cold tone. “You’ve got my attention. It’s pointless for me to ask what you want so let’s skip the games, shall we? I want my father released alive, all parts intact, and no question that he’s going to recover from whatever you’ve already done to him. That also means you don’t give him any new injuries.” Sam’s mind flashed to his nightmare of John being torn apart by hellhounds and knew beyond any doubt that such a future might still be his father’s fate. “Not you, not your pets, not your cronies. In exchange, you get me.”

The demon laughed. Clearly amused, and John’s hands clenched into fists. Feeling blood dripping heavily down his arm and the elder man grit his teeth, even though the bastard was keeping him from speaking, or making any other kind of sound, for that matter.

“My, aren’t we a demanding little bitch?” It said, watching John closely as he said it.

Don’t, Sam. Whatever you’re doing, don’t… John prayed, though he had a feeling that even if he could somehow tell Sam, his son wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. This bastard seemed to know all their weak spots. It had known the mere mention of Sam and he would have contacted his son, trying to warn him. Now it was using him as bait…

But if it had already known where to find Sam, then why would it have gone through all this trouble in the first place to bring the younger man here, just to kill him… Unless, for some reason, it didn’t want Sam dead…

“How about this, Sammy? You’ve got six hours to find your father. After that, I take off a limb every ten minutes you’re late. You’d be surprised how many pieces you can cut off a man, how long it can take. How ‘intact’ your father is when you find him, will be completely up to you. See you soon, Sam.” The demon said, and hung up the phone. John couldn’t help but pale at the threat. No, not a threat, a promise.

“God Dammit!” Sam exploded, barely restraining himself from launching the cell phone into the nearest wall.

“Sam?” Bobby asked, afraid of the answer. John was alive. He’d heard that for himself in his good friend’s scream. Sam had offered himself up, for which Bobby was ready to slap the boy upside the head for. Apparently, the demon had refused. But what had it told him?

“It caught him Bobby. I’ve got six hours to find him before the bastard starts dismembering him a piece at a time every fucking ten minutes.” In the face of the sudden adrenaline pumping through him, Sam’s exhaustion washed away like a sand castle facing the incoming tide. “I shouldn’t have asked Dad to stay ahead of it. I should have met him somewhere along the way. I knew he was hurt—“

Bobby gripped Sam’s arm. “Easy, Boy. We’ll find him. We’ll save him. This isn’t your fault.”

Sam’s hazel eyes fairly blazed. “It wants me, Bobby. Of course it’s my fault. It had my girlfriend and best friend killed, and now it’s holding Dad, probably torturing him, because of me.”

Bobby’s brow lifted in momentary surprise at the news of Jessica’s death. He knew Sam was planning to ask her to marry him sometime in the upcoming holidays. His face drew into a scowl. “Are you some kinda idjet? It wants you both. Like as not wants you there to watch as it kills your dad, or the other way ‘round. Either way, you’re both gonna end up dead if we don’t take this careful. You get on my computer, get the cell phone company to turn on the GPS in your dad’s phone, find out where he is, and I’ll get Jim Murphy on the line. If you’ve got six hours to get to him, I’d bet my two front teeth that demon’s a good seven hours away, so we gotta move. Ain’t got time for self-pity and recriminations, right or wrong.”

Sam clenched his jaw and nodded mutely. Bobby was right. They had to play this smart and they probably needed to be on the road in a matter of minutes if they had a prayer of reaching his father in time.

The demon laughed in amusement as it tossed John’s cell phone into his lap. The irony not lost on the hunter. So close, yet utterly useless with his arms tied securely above his head. Just like he was to his son. John Winchester had hunted a lot of things in his life, but until this moment he’d truly only felt hate towards one of them. The thing that had killed his wife and four year old son.

Now…

“Smile, John, little Sammy is on his way. I told you, there’s nothing a good son won’t do for his father.” It said, chuckling again at the death glare he was receiving from the hunter.

“Watch him.” The demon told the hellhound and turned his back on John. Walking away, and taking out its own cell phone. The line ringing twice before picking up.

“Everything is going according to plan. Sam Winchester is on his way as we speak. He’ll be yours before the day is over.”

“Good. You’ve done well. Don’t fail me, Dean.” His father answered, before the line went dead and a chill crawled up the young man’s spine at the unspoken threat. No. He would not fail. He knew well the price of failure.

Sam Winchester would accept the deal, or he would die. Either way, the boy would watch as he stripped the skin from his father’s bones slowly while he was still alive. Dean put away his phone and turned back to the bound hunter with a wide grin. Approaching the man slowly with the knife in his hand.

“Well, we’ve got some time before your son makes his grand entrance. Why don’t we have some fun?”

Sam followed Bobby outside with a load of supplies. He froze when Bobby headed toward the Impala.

After setting the stack of books on the floorboards of the back seat, Bobby moved out of Sam’s way only to find the young man immobile, staring at the car.

“Don’t just stand there gaping," Bobby snapped. “We’re taking your car. My car ‘t’ain’t big enough to take what we need and give me room to work. And we’re gonna need the back seat to put your Dad in.”

“Right, Bobby,” Sam answered, quickly moving forward to the car. After setting the supplies in back, Sam let his hand run alont the leather of the seat, somewhere deep inside of him it feeling so right at the thought of being back in the Impala. Winchester luck sucked out loud, but the Impala, it had never let them down. It was one thing that Sam had been able to count on as always being there, as always being a safe retreat, of being his home.

“Nice to see you again, girl,” Sam whispered to the car, taking an extra moment to breathe in the scent of the old car, to practically reach out with his mind and run ethereal fingers across her black hood. He had missed her. He hadn’t realized until just now, how much he’d missed the old car. A last smile given to the car, he turned back to the task at hand.

It took them nearly twenty five minutes to get the location of the cell phone, get Pastor Jim Murphy caught up on events, gather what Bobby thought they might need, and hit the road.

The sound of the engine, the sound of that engine, brought forth a swell of emotions in Sam. Sprawled in the back seat with his stuffed tiger clutched loosely to him, Sam lulled asleep as his father softly sang along with the rock and roll playing on the radio. Glaring out the passenger’s side window as they drove away from yet another temporary home where Sam had just begun making friends and feeling something close to normal. Barely a teenager, terror gripping Sam as he drove his badly injured father over hilly country roads, praying he’d reach a hospital in time and that his dad wasn’t going to die. Watching his father take the air filter and distributor cap off the engine so he could get to the carburetor and adjust the choke while lecturing Sam about the finer qualiteies of car repair. Moments of happiness sandwiched between anger and frustration and fear. He squeezed the steering wheel just a little. As weird as it was, he knew he belonged in this car and this car was the home he’d never realized he’d had and always dreamed about. No, it wasn’t normal, but what part of his life had ever been normal?

“Need more coffee?” Bobby asked, startling Sam out of his thoughts. Bobby reached over the front seat and knocked a thermos into Sam’s shoulder before dropping it onto the seat beside him.

“Only if you’ve got a bottle I can piss in so we don’t have to stop,” Sam answered. He’d already finished off one thermos of Bobby’s thick as oil and twice as strong black coffee. At this point he’d been up for something like thirty hours. He’d pulled all nighters numerous times through his years at college. Between Bobby’s coffee and the trickle of constant adrenaline into his system, he was definitely awake. When he crashed, he was going to crash hard, like twenty hours of sleep hard, but that promise of sleep was a good couple hours off. If he was still alive in a couple hours. No, he berated himself, that wasn’t the way to think. He could hear his father’s voice tell him, “If you think you’ve lost the battle before it’s even begun, then you have.” They were going to win this one. They had to. The alternative was too painful to bear, especially right after the loss of Jessica and Mike.

Sam glanced at the mile marker. It was a few more hours to Carrollton Creek, Iowa, where the demon was holding his father. He’d been pushing the car hard at any opportunity, trying to make certain they reached the place in time, before demon-guy started playing carve the Thanksgiving Day turkey with his father. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Bobby hunched over, reading or mixing something, he couldn’t really tell.

“How’s it going?” Sam asked. He gave a sigh and grabbed the thermos sitting beside him. More coffee probably wasn’t a bed idea. Bobby had made Sam eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich earlier, which in retrospect was a good thing even if Sam hadn’t been hungry. He needed something in his stomach to keep the battery acid coffee from eating its way through his stomach wall.

Bobby gave a snort. “You ever try mixing exact components together in a car that’s moving ninety miles an hour?”

Sam gave a soft laugh. “Not for about seven years.”

Bobby glanced up, meeting Sam’s gaze in the rear view mirror and grinned. “Yeah, I s’pose you have. I’ve about got our hex bags finished so that demon won’t see us until we’re smack dab in front of him. Super Soakers filled with—“

“What?” Sam interrupted. “Super Soakers? As in water guns?”

“Yeah. These are the battery operated type, and hold about half a gallon of holy water. These babies reach a good thirty feet. Don’t know ‘bout you, but I like hitting demons from that far away with holy water instead of having to stare ‘em in the face fores I do it. Jim’s bringing the silver buckshot to nail any hellhounds with and make them visible. Once they’re visible, we’ll have about twenty seconds to fill ‘em full of cold iron. They go back invisible and the iron won’t do a damned thing to ‘em. Got the blanket with the devil’s trap printed on it that we can toss over him if nothing else. Got us each a tranq gun. Gunshot to the chest might not put a demon down, but tranqs are tranqs. Least ways, it slows them down long enough to get hold of ‘em. You want this one that’s got your dad captured, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam said grimly. “I’ve got to know if it’s the yellow eyed one that killed Jessica. If it isn’t, who’s the boss? The one we’re after or yellow eyes, or some other demon? How many are under this one’s orders? Are they going after more of my friends? How many are going after other hunters? We need intel, Bobby.”

“Once we get it?”

“Send that son-of-a-bitch straight back to Hell. You’ve got the exorcism rituals?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods, Boy? Course I got ‘em. But don’t tell me that genius brain of yours has forgotten them?” Bobby scoffed.

“It’s been six years. To the day. Twenty-two years since Mom and Dean died, six years since I left, half a day since Jessica died.” Sam snapped. Seeing Bobby’s pained expression, Sam winced. He wasn’t angry at Bobby. He was tired, scared, angry, hungry, and hurting so badly on the inside that he wasn’t sure he’d find a way to love ever again. “Sorry, Bobby. I just want to make sure I don’t screw it up if I end up doing the ritual.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Bobby said softly. He leaned forward and dropped a leather thong over Sam’s head that had a bag hanging on it. “Hex bag so’s they don’t see us coming, and with it a bit of something in it that will keep you from being possessed. That hex bag is strong enough it oughtta keep any demon from even catching a whiff of you or your thoughts.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Hesitantly, Sam said, “Whatever happens, I want to tell you—“

“Don’t be giving that final “I love you” speech.” Bobby’s voice turned gruff. “You’re like the nephew I never had. Like as want to cuff you upside the head as give you a bear hug. This ain’t the final battle. We’re walking out of this with you and your dad both alive and kicking. And that demon bastard in chains.” Bobby gave a sudden grin. “And with one of these 'round his neck.” Bobby held up a leather thong with a black leather pouch, silver runes stitched all over it.

“What’s that?” Sam asked, accepting being brought up short on what he wanted to say to Bobby. Bobby knew how he felt. He’d called him Uncle Bobby for about as long as he could remember, and that spoke volumes. Taking another swig of coffee, Sam grimaced at its bite. He was going to have to eat another sandwich soon or the demon would hear him coming because he was moaning in pain from too much strong coffee and no food in his stomach.

“Well, it’s something I’ve been working on for awhile. Ain’t been field tested yet, though. Figured now was as good a test as any.”

“What’s it do? What’s it supposed to do, at least?”

Bobby leaned forward so he was right beside Sam, holding the bag up so Sam could see it better. “It’ll keep a demon locked in its body, keep it from using that psychic mumbo-jumbo crap, and acts like a hex bag so other demons can’t find it. Can’t stop it from casting spells, but no spell should be able to touch the bag itself. Once on, it won’t come off without a pretty elaborate removal ritual and seeing as how demons aren’t real keen on cleansing rituals to remove curses and all, pretty unlikely it’ll be able to get it off.”

“That’s impressive. If it works.”

“It oughtta be. Been working on it for fifteen years,” Bobby settled back into the seat. “Some of the stuff in the bag has a limited shelf life. After, I dunno, a few weeks, maybe a couple months, it might peter out. The hex bag part will still work, but not so sure about the other stuff. Don’t figure we’ll need it more than a couple days, anyhow. With one of these things on a demon’s neck, it’ll be a helluva lot easier to relocate a demon if you have to. Sometimes where you catch one ain’t always convenient for holding one.”

Sam thought for a minute. “Fifteen years ago, that would be about the time of that demon possession out at Big Bend.”

Bobby chuckled. “And what a clusterfuck that one was. We were doing good until that damned thunderstorm rolled in. Decided then and there us hunters needed some way of keeping a demon under control while on the move that didn’t involve tossing it in a trunk with devil’s traps on it. This probably ain’t perfect, but oughtta come close. How we doing on time?”

Sam glanced at his watch and felt his stomach clench. “It’s going to be close.”

John had quickly learned a new meaning pain over the next four hours.

That was how long the bastard had ‘played’ with him until the demon had finally gotten bored listening to his screams. Listening to him choke on his own blood. Giving him a chance to rest until his son arrived. At least he assumed that’s what the bastard had said at that point the elder man had barely been able to remember his own name, much less understand what the demon was saying to him before he’d finally passed out.

He was awake now though, much to his regret. The demon had left him hanging, like a piece of meat, from the old rusty chains attached to the ceiling and John almost laughed at the irony of that. Considering he was sure that’s about what he resembled right now.

Cold dry blood covered him from nearly head to toe. Sticky and wet beneath his feet that barely touched the floor, leaving all the weight on his bound arms, though that discomfort was almost laughable considering what else had been done to him.

The demon had started ‘slow’, using a short cropped whip on him till his back was a bloody mess. Then to keep him from bleeding to death while he worked, he’d cauterized the wounds by heating the blade of his knife and pressing it against his flesh. The smell still churned his stomach, even now, hours later.

At least John could only assume it was hours later. He had no idea at this point. It hadn’t been six hours yet, he knew that much. Since the demon hadn’t yet begun dismembering him. Given how much fun it had before, he had a feeling the bastard wouldn’t have hesitated starting in on him again once the six hour mark rolled around. Even if he was still unconscious.

The hellhound prowled around him, growling hungrily. The smell of his blood must be driving the creature insane, but it still obeyed and left him alone. For now. John couldn’t help but wonder if once the demon started cutting pieces off of him if he’d give it to his pet to eat. Maybe he was losing his mind a little, since he found that idea morbidly funny.

There was no sign of its master though, and that made John very nervous.

On one side of the paper mill were residences, on the other side train tracks, with more residences past the parking lot. Some sort of city building sat across from truck loading docks, and outside the other end of the mill trees with a small creek meandering to the river offered some measure of cover. Jim had circled the building at a distance, but had been able to confirm the black truck in the parking lot was John’s. Jim had identified a door near the end of the building furthest from the parking lot as a potential good entry point. Disturbingly, there were no signs of guards anywhere. There was no one watching the mill either, as best as the three hunters could tell.

They made their way to the door and got inside with little problem. Not far in they found a demon guard and tranqed him, gagged and bound him, and encircled him with salt. They didn’t want the demon alerting its boss they were there. Two more guards later, they found John hanging from chains, barely recognizable beneath the blood that coated him and gathered in a dark pool beneath his feet. They couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

Sam glanced at his watch. He had less than five minutes before the six hours were up. So where the hell was the demon?

The three hunters had pounded out a few possible scenarios and responses to said scenarios. With no demon present, John was obviously bait to draw Sam out. They could try to wait for the demon to start in on John, but that would put the demon at John’s side and they wanted to avoid that.

Sam gave a nod to Bobby and tucked the tranquilizer gun in the back waistband of his jeans. It was Sam’s job to draw the demon out. If the demon sent a hellhound to attack Sam, Sam had a silver knife drawn and a second in a wrist sheath, considering a gun to be dicey protection against an invisible beast that could be on him in a matter of moments. He had a gun in his chest holster, loaded with cold iron bullets. None of it might do any good if the demon used his psychic powers to toss Sam about and pin him to something, even if just to the floor. With that in mind, he carried a super soaker in his other hand. They’d modified Bobby’s binding bag idea and filled it with a mixture of the spell components in a solution of mineral oil so it would stick to the demon. If Sam could nail him with it, it ought to reduce the demon’s psychic capabilities, maybe even suspend them briefly. Odds were the demon would figure it was holy water and some level of threat so Sam didn’t know if he’d even have a chance to try it out.

Sam walked between the large machinery and approached his father’s too still form. Bobby had warned Sam it was possible his father was possessed and to be careful, not to trust John until they could be certain he wasn’t. As Sam drew nearer to his father, he heard the scrape of claws on concrete and the low growl of a hellhound. Sam slowed, listening for it moving toward him. About fifteen feet away from where his father hung, the smell of burned flesh hit Sam square in the face and brought up brutal memories of the all too recent fire. Sam shuddered and had to swallow back his bile. Now was not the time to end up on all fours heaving his guts out.

“Dad?” Sam called out, watching the shadows for the demon, listening to the growl of the hellhound, and praying his dad gave him a response.

John lifted his head slowly when he heard the sound of his son’s voice. Blinking the sting of blood and sweat out of his eyes and barely managing to focus on Sam in the dim light. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if what he could see, what he had heard, was real or only his imagination. A hallucination, or trick of some kind.

“Sam?” The elder man whispered hoarsely disbelief coloring his voice, barely above a whisper. His throat still raw from his constant screams earlier.

It had been six years since he’d last seen his son. Since he’d last spoke to him face to face. Sam had barely been a man when he’d left the hunt, left him. Left because his son hated him so much.

He’d begun to think he’d never see or speak to Sam ever again. Having lost count how many times he’d fallen asleep after a bottle of jack thinking over and over on the mistakes he’d made. On how he’d lost both of his boys. Now that he was looking at his son again, here, now, the only thing he could wish was that Sam hated him enough that he’d never come for him.

“Sam… Get out…” The words were barely out of his mouth before he felt his bones starting to twist painfully under an invisible pressure that made him scream. So loud he’d barely heard the roar of the hellhound that followed as it launched itself at his son.

His father was moving, was lifting his head. Thank God. Sam had to strain to hear his father’s words, then suddenly his father was screaming but John’s screams were almost lost in the hellhound’s roar.

Sam dropped the water gun and braced himself for the hellhound’s attack. To dodge meant he wouldn’t know where the creature was. He had to accept that he was going to take damage in order to kill it. The hellhound’s paws hit his chest with enough force to knock Sam to the ground and it’s right paw dug bloody furrows down Sam’s chest. Sam cried out as he shoved the silver blade deeply into the hellhound. The howl of pain from the hound was deafening. Black spiderwebs radiated out and away from the blade the the visage of the drooling vicious dog blinked in and out of view. Sam kept his left arm up, his hand barely holding back the hellhound’s slavering mouth from ripping out his throat. He pulled free the gun from its holster and fired off a half dozen bullets into the beast’s broad chest. The hellhound roared its agony before the red light faded from its demonic eyes. Sam shoved the hellhound off him, slid the gun back into its holster, and extracted the knife from the hellhounds’s dead body. Blood soaked his chest and tears of pain trickled from his eyes. He hoped this would be over before the adrenaline left his system. When it did, he was going to be in agony from the clawing.

He reached for the water gun, hearing his father still moaning in pain. “Too afraid to face me, Demon? Have to send your bitch to try to take me down?” he sneered.

A low chuckle broke from the darkest shadows from one of the catwalks above as the demon finally showed itself. Stepping into the light and offering up a small amount of applause as though it were enjoying the show.

“Hardly, hunter.” He replied. Grinning devilishly as the gun Sam was reaching for flew half way across the room by itself. At the same time several old rusted machines around the room began to tremble and groan in protest.

In a scream of twisting metal they suddenly flew across the room towards the doorway that Sam had entered through. Crashing into the wall in an unmovable heap and cutting the younger man off from the other hunters. From beyond the room they were in more vicious demonic howls could be heard and the demon grinned wider.

“That should keep your friends busy for a while, don’t you think?” It asked in amusement as it jumped down from above, landing in a crouch behind John and standing slowly. The demon’s eyes flickering briefly towards the bound hunter and the elder man convulsed and moaned louder in pain.

“I have to admit, I was looking forward to taking your father apart piece by piece. But… it’ll be even more fun with you here to watch, Sammy boy.”

A combination of fear and fury began to swell in Sam, fear for himself, fear for his father and friends, and fury against the son-of-a-bitch who threatened them all. That smirk, those intense eyes, the sheer arrogance of his swagger notched the fury up to a maelstrom of emotions.

When the demon stepped fully into the light, when Sam got a good look at the demon's face, the storm of anger building all but withered and he audibly gasped, nearly dropping his knife in his shock. It was him. The boy—the man--from his dreams. Sam stared in shock, the man tangible and real before him. The man who wasn't a demon, but a human, Sam was all but certain. The person who Sam had comforted all their lives after the boy suffered beatings or a long round of torture for reasons unknown to Sam. Little more than a ghost to the boy, only a bare light touch was ever possible between them. Frustratingly they couldn't even talk to one another. Sam was able to offer only his presence as comfort, though he could lightly stroke the boy's tear-streaked face and tell him silently that it was okay, that it was going to be okay, and that he wasn't alone. When Sam had been young, he had kissed the boy who was a bit older than himself, as young children are prone to do. As they grew older, the boy still begged for the feather kisses from him, finding comfort in the light brush of their lips. Sam had obliged in the innocent kisses, having little other way to communicate his care other than through his presence. He had always felt he and the dream-boy were kindred spirits, but he'd never really believed the boy was anything more than some sort of extension of his own sub-conscious. Not until now.

"My God, it's you," Sam whispered, slowly approaching the man, heedless of the danger, the moans from his father a vague and distant thing outside his intense focus on the black-clad youth. He wanted nothing more to touch the man, to reassure himself he wasn't going bum-fuck crazy.

The power that had been threatening to twist his bones apart still inside his body abruptly faded and the sudden unexpected relief almost made the elder hunter pass out again. Fear for his son however kept him from doing so, and John forced himself to open his eyes. Forced himself to focus, to see what the hell was happening.

Hearing his son gasp, seeing the shock on Sam's face as his son stared at the demon was surprising enough. But when John managed to turn his head just enough. Catching sight of the demon from the corner of his eye and watching as the overly pleased smirk vanished from its face entirely to be replaced by a frown of confusion that matched his son's John didn't know what the hell to think.

The feeling was mutual.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Dean could only stare at the young man in front of him as the hatred in the hunter's expression suddenly vanished and was replaced by an expression he simply couldn't define. Hatred he could understand. This… he didn't know what this was.

A memory long buried. A dream… already half forgotten even as he woke. Feelings he didn't know the names of because he'd never felt them outside of those brief glimpses while he slept yet making him wish he never had to wake up.

It's you…

Sam stepped forward, and whatever spell that had been woven broke. Dean's eyes narrowing in fury as he threw up a hand between them and sent a raw burst of power at the younger man that hit him with enough force to knock him on his back several feet away.

His father had given him an order, and he would obey. Sam Winchester was one of his father's children. One of Azazel's chosen. It was time for him to wake up to his potential. It was time for him to tap into the power that his father had given him. Then the boy would swear obedience to his father or he would die. Dean would not fail.

"Not smart, Sammy boy." Dean admonished, the smirk firmly back in place, wearing it like armor as he slid his own knife from the sheath at his hip. "Get up. Or are you going to let your father die like you let everyone else around you?"

The sudden psychic blow tore Sam free of his shock as it threw him to the ground. Sliding across the concrete floor on his back, the tranquilizer gun dug painfully into his spine. Groaning, Sam shifted himself off his back and onto all fours as his head rang painfully. The threat to his father, the accusation of his failure to Jessica, Mike, and even his mother and brother, cut through his haze, all rational thought evaporating in an instant as every fiber of his being filled with rage. His gaze cut to the smirking man and Sam’s face reflected nothing but wrath. Yanking his handgun free of its holster he fired several shots at the man.

The man laughed and brushed the bullets aside with a wave. Taking a step closer to Sam’s father, Sam watched in horror as the man buried the blade in John’s thigh and pulled the blade toward the floor. John’s scream cut Sam to his very core. No, his father would not die! No matter what it took, he’d save his father!

“Stop it you son-of-a-bitch!” Sam seethed. Tossing the useless gun aside, Sam reached down to the floor for the water gun, not even realizing it was a good ten feet away. It didn’t matter. It was suddenly in his hand.

Hazel eyes turned steel grey as he charged the man hurting his father; Sam squeezed the trigger and the infused mineral oil spewed toward the man. Berating Sam for thinking holy water would work on him, the man flicked his hand as if to deflect the water. Sam focused all his will, refusing to let that happen. He couln't afford to let that happen. The stream of liquid hit the green eyed man full in the face. Sam's attention shifted to the knife in the man's hand that was still buried in his father's thigh. The knife flew out of the man's grasp to clatter several feet away on the ground. Sam continued to charge, the water pistol dropped as Sam drew his spare blade from its sheath; murder was in his eyes.

Everything had been going according to plan, and then all of a sudden, everything was not. It was his own fault really. Dean should have learned by now. Never underestimate an opponent.

The bullets the young man had fired at him were nothing more than annoyances. Like flies, easily swatted aside, and Dean couldn’t help feeling a flash of disappointment. He’d expected much more from the Winchester boy. But if he needed another push…

The scream of pain John Winchester made when he jammed his knife deeply into the elder man’s leg was satisfying, but not as satisfying as the look of horror that passed over the boy’s face. Hatred and fear blending together and that was when Dean felt it. The power deeply buried inside the younger man stirring, fighting to break free.

Yes…

He grinned as the young hunter’s toy slid across the floor of its own violation right into Sam’s hand. That was more like it. However he could only laugh when the younger man actually fired at him with the holy water pistol. That had always been a hunters biggest mistake. Assuming he was nothing more than a common demon. He was anything but, and such simple tricks wouldn’t do him any kind of harm. The only reason he bothered trying to deflect it at all was because he didn’t feel like getting wet.

But that was when everything changed. When the Winchester boy somehow managed to counteract his power, something he shouldn’t have been able to do, not with so little practice using his own powers. Causing the water to hit him square in the face, making him sputter in annoyance. One second he was wiping at his face with his free hand realizing the oily substance wasn’t water at all, and the next his knife was torn from his grasp.

With a growl he easily deflected the younger man charging at him, jumping back and twisting out of the reach of the knife the young hunter tried to plunge in his chest. Yet when he tried to summon his power to throw him back again, he couldn’t.

No…

“What have you done!” Dean yelled, his eyes widening with horror and understanding, but his fear had nothing to do with the young man, or even the hunters within the structure. Vicious howls erupted throughout the complex in unison. The hellhounds were no longer in his control and they were coming straight for the smell of blood.

Sam was all but beyond rational thought.

"I've castrated you." Sam growled, pleased by the horror he saw on the man's face and, realizing the man was momentarily distracted, knew this was his one chance. That mineral oil infusion wouldn’t last long. Sam covered the distance between them with a few long strides. He punched the man across the jaw hard enough to throw him back a good couple feet and the man stumbled and fell. For as hard as he'd hit the man, Sam should have felt it in his knuckles, but he didn't. It was as if he hadn't even touched him.

When the man started to push himself up, Sam snarled as he approached him, "You stay down."

The man's arms seem to give out and he collapsed back to the floor, his look a strange combination of terror and rage. Sam slammed his booted foot into the man's ribcage, eliciting a pain-filled grunt. Extracting the black rune bag from his pocket, Sam put the thong it hung from over the man's head, rolled the man onto his stomach and cuffed his arms behind him. He kicked the man in the ribs a second time.

Groans from his father pulled his attention away from the man he wanted to beat to a bloody pulp and brought his focus to his badly injured dad. Rivulets of blood trickled down John's leg. Poorly cauterized slashes covered his back, his arms, his legs, even his face. No part of him seemed untouched and dried blood coated him. How was his father even still alive? Because the man had been careful not to kill John, not until he could kill John in front of his son.

Sam tried to figure out a way to lower his father to the ground. How the hell had his father been hung from the pipes in the first place? There was no winch to raise or lower him, no ropes, no ladders, or anything usable anywhere in view. Sam had to find a way to get his father down, had to get him to a hospital, and quickly.
Wrapping his arms around his father's hips, Sam thought if he could lift his father enough maybe the chains would come free of the pipes. It was a false hope he feared but he had to do something. As soon as his father was in his arms, the chains seem to come loose by themselves. Sam told himself it must have been tension that kept them hooked. John screamed as Sam gently laid his father on the concrete. Tears streamed down his face, brought on by causing his father more pain. "I'm sorry, Dad," Sam whispered.

Sam swiveled his head to face the man when the man kept demanding something of Sam, something about the baying of dogs Sam heard growing closer.

Dean was more than familiar with pain. All his life he'd endured horrible beatings, sometimes for no other purpose than to train him to become accustomed to it. Teaching him how to endure and function through any type of pain he might endure. His entire body a network of scars, resulting from this training. So the powerful unrestrained psychic blow that knocked him onto back, splitting open his cheek and lip, did not even daze him, only enraged him, when it might have knocked someone else unconscious.

"You fool!" He growled in rage when the younger man managed to pin him to the ground with his powers. His words cutting off with a grunt, gritting his teeth at the vicious kicks to his ribs, feeling at least one snap under the powerful blows.

This shouldn't be happening. The Winchester boy was wielding his powers like a blunt instrument. On pure instinct, and he seemed to have no idea what he was doing. He shouldn't have had the power to match Dean. Not yet at least. Instead the boy had somehow rendered him helpless by whatever spell he'd blasted him with, and now they were all going to die because of it!

Dean could feel the hellhounds coming closer. He could feel their rage. Their hunger. He could feel them but he couldn't touch their minds. He couldn't control them. Couldn't turn them back. Couldn't send them back to hell.

He looked towards the two men, the Winchester boy lowering his bloody father to the ground. The fool covering himself with the other man's blood. He had no idea. No fucking idea, and the stupid boy wasn't even listening to him!

"Winchester! God damn it, Winchester! The hellhounds! I can't control them! They're coming and I can't turn them back! They'll tear us all apart! Let me go me or we're all going to die!"

Sam heard the not-demon’s pleas, his orders, as the words tried to percolate through to Sam’s consciousness. Sam could barely think beyond the need to save his father. His world had all but narrowed to that single goal. It was odd, he mused with detachment, how his brain seemed wrapped up in some sort of trance.

The immovable pile of metal that blocked the doorway, that cut Sam off from his backup, reverberated with blow after blow from the hellhounds, until a screech of metal indicated the machines weren’t quite so immovable after all. The baying of the hounds grew in intensity, almost frantic as their hunger drove them forward. More shrieks of metal and the hellhounds broke through. Sam slowly turned his gaze from the not-demon to the approaching hounds.

He could see them. Huh. Somewhere in his befuddled mind popped up the idea it was a bad thing that he could see them. They were coming for his father. They were coming to hurt his father. No, he wasn’t going to allow that. They belonged in the hell that spawned them.

He stood up, his father’s blood mixed with that from his own wounds covering his chest. He felt something within him rise up, a dark power that called to him to embrace it. He didn’t give a shit. He just wanted his father safe.

“Go back to hell, you fucking mongrels!” Sam shouted at the hounds bearing down on him and his father at full speed. His voice seemed to echo outside as well as inside his skull. He screamed and his hands went to his head as he collapsed to his knees and blood poured from his nose, white pain engulfing him. He whimpered softly as he tried to claw through that pain. He knew the hellhounds were gone. He knew his father was safe. Vaguely he heard the shouts of Bobby and Jim as the white pain shifted to darkness and he fell into unconsciousness.

Dean watched in horror as the hellhounds ripped past the barricade, rabid and frothing at the mouth for the taste of blood and flesh. Ready to tear all of them apart limb from limb. Even their former ‘master’. Though only one thought repeated over and over in his mind.

He had failed.

He was not afraid of death. Because he knew there were things far worse than death. He knew first hand. He’d seen glimpses of hell, courtesy of his father. Worse than any torture he’d ever experienced in his entire life, and he knew that’s what would await him.

For his failure.

Oddly enough as he braced himself to be torn to pieces, though the raging hellhounds were barely feet away from him, from all of them, they never touched him. That didn’t stop a different pain from ripping though him perhaps even more intense than the jaws of the hellhounds would have been.

The blast of uncontrolled power from Sam hit his mind with the force of a freight train and tore through him without mercy. He was powerless against it, his defenses stripped from him by magic, and he almost didn’t recognize his own screams even though he’d heard them often enough. His back arching from the floor as it felt like his mind and body was being incinerated in white hot fire.

Then he was falling. His mind shutting down as he succumbed to the blessed darkness he’d often escaped into as a child. His only escape from the torment of his life.

***

Things hadn’t been looking all that great from the moment the other two hunters had been cut off from Sam and John. The fact that they’d managed to hold their own for this long against half a dozen hellhounds was more of a miracle or just plain stupid luck than anything else. But when the beasts had suddenly broken off their attack Jim Murphy and Bobby Singer knew the shit was only about to hit the fan.

They were right.

They’d raced back to the room where they’d last seen Sam and John, pushing their way past the gaps in the twisted machinery just in time to watch the younger man collapse boneless next to his equally motionless father. Bobby ran to the father and son, checking the vitals of each in turn, while Jim kept his guns trained on the demon that was also unmoving.

“Their alive!” Bobby announced with obvious relief, and the other hunter sighed and muttered a soft prayer of thanks even though it was obvious that both men needed medical attention.

There was no argument that John and Sam needed to get to a hospital as quickly as possible, the argument came when they had to decide what to do with the demon now. They’d had a plan, of course, but things had changed drastically since that plan had been made. Jim argued that they couldn’t risk keeping the demon alive now, it was too dangerous. Bobby agreed, but he also still agreed with Sam that they needed the intel that this demon could provide to keep other hunters and even Sam’s friends from being killed. So they agreed that Jim would take the demon to the old abandoned church, they’d picked out beforehand, and Bobby would take Sam and John to the nearest hospital.

They carried John and Sam to the impala first, and then Bobby quickly helped Jim secure the demon as well as possible in ropes and chains and throw him in the spell protected trunk of Jim’s car. After seeing the pastor off Bobby quickly got into the impala and floored it to the emergency room of the nearest hospital.

John had been taken immediately into intensive care, and he still hadn’t heard word back on the state of his old friend. Sam’s wounds had been much less severe, thank god, though he was still unconscious and the doctors weren’t sure why, which caused Bobby no small amount of worry.

Giving the doctors the Winchester’s fake insurance information was easy enough though coming up with a convincing lie to explain the two men’s injuries was impossible, so he’d told the truth to a point. That John had been kidnapped, and when he and Sam had managed to find the kidnappers and free him Sam had been injured as well.

Bobby had given his statement to the police, and by then Sam’s wounds had been treated and the younger man moved to a room to recover. Unfortunately John was still in surgery. Now all Bobby could do was sit by Sam’s hospital bed and wait for news.

Sam blinked open his eyes, a dull throb still pounding in his temples. He felt like he’d been thrashed to within an inch of his life. Every part of him ached. “Jessica?” he murmured as he struggled to chase the cobwebs from his mind.

“Sam!” Bobby said, straightening, the car magazine he was reading tumbling from his hands and to the linoleum floor. He rested his hand on Sam’s arm. Sam had come away with some bad bruises on his back and face, and several stitches from the three long gashes on his chest, but otherwise was in good health the doctors had told him. Bobby reassured himself that Sam was sleeping for so long because the boy had been up for something like two days straight. It wasn’t any wonder he’d been out cold for over a day.

Sam shook his head minutely, trying to sort out his thoughts. He looked around and identified immediately that he was in a hospital. When he saw Bobby, puzzlement crossed his features until the events of the past hours returned to him in a painful flash. He shut his eyes. Jessica. Oh, God, Jessica.

Swallowing back his emotional pain, he refocused on Bobby. “Dad?” he asked hoarsely. He motioned to the glass of water by Bobby.

Bobby handed him the water. “Your daddy came out of surgery a few hours ago. He’s bad, he’s in ICU, but he’s stable and they think he’ll come through this okay, given time. John’s tough. He’ll be fine, Sam. How do you feel?”

Sam gave a half shrug after he downed the entire glass of water. “I ache, have a headache, my chest hurts, my arms are sore, and my lower back feels pretty bruised up. Other than that? Just great,” he said sarcastically. His brow furrowed. “What happened to the guy?”

“Jim took him to that old church. Wanted to just fill his meatsuit full of lead and banish him back to Hell, but you’re right. We need intel.”

Chewing over Bobby’s words, Sam said, “Bobby, he’s not a demon. At least, I don’t think he is.”

Bobby scoffed. “Sure, and Bo Derek and I are having dinner tonight.”

Sam glared at his friend. “Call Jim. Make sure he’s not counting on a devil’s trap to hold him.” When he saw Bobby’s reluctance, he threw back his covers. “Fine. I’ll do it,” Sam huffed. Why the hell did everyone question him? Dad always did, and other hunters never gave “the kid” any credit for having half a brain.

“Whoa there, Boy,” Bobby said, putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Okay, okay, I’ll call him,” Bobby said, seeing that Sam wouldn’t back down.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Sam said. “I want to see Dad then I want you to take me to the church.”

Giving him a patient smile, Bobby said, “Don’t you think we ought to wait for the doctor and let him decide when you’re ready to get out of here?”

Sam bristled . “How long have I been out?” he demanded of his friend.

“About a day,” Bobby said.

“In twenty four hours I lost my best friend, my girlfriend, and almost my dad. I am not sitting here when I could be getting information from that bastard that might save other friends or hunters.” Sam disconnected himself from the various lines he was hooked up to. “Get my clothes,” he told Bobby.

Seeing that Winchester set to his jaw, Bobby knew there would be no dissuading Sam. Sam was just like his Daddy. Once his mind was set, his mind was set. He went to the closet and retrieved Sam’s belongings, tossing them onto the bed. “Sam, what happened in there?”

Sam pulled his clothes out of the bag and caught the faint whiff of smoke still clinging to his clothes and felt a new rush of pain inside him. His Jessica was dead.

Clenching his jaw, Sam tried to recall just what did happen. The events in the mill were pretty vague to him after the man had tossed him halfway across the room and taunted him that he wouldn’t be able to save his father. A few things were clear and he stuck to those facts. “We fought. He knifed Dad in the leg. I managed to hit him with the mineral oil, and it was pretty much over.”

“We had half a dozen hellhounds on our asses and suddenly they came tearing after you. What happened to them?”

Sam gave a shrug. “Back home to their master, I guess.” A faint recollection gnawed inside him. Sam had sent them away. Somehow. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how and he sure as hell didn’t want to bring it up to Bobby. Not until he had a better grasp on those foggy memories.

Bobby eyed him suspiciously. He gave a harrumph. “I’ll call Jim and get the doctor. You get dressed.”

After Bobby left and Sam got on his clothes, he sank down onto the bed. What had happened? He’d…he’d moved things. With his mind. Like he had demonic powers. He shuddered. No. He was Sam Winchester, son of John and Mary Winchester, and he was nothing more than a law student and one-time hunter. That was it. Nothing more. He couldn’t be anything more. He just couldn’t.

Dean woke slowly, surprised to be waking at all.

Surprised to be alive.

Not that he was all that pleased to be waking at all given his head felt like it had been split open from the inside with an axe. Not to mention how his broken ribs sent sharp pains through his chest with every breath he took.

But he’d endured far worse before.

He forced his eyes open to look around the room he was in slowly. He was alone. In a basement of some kind. Nowhere he recognized. That was his first clue that he wasn’t in demon hands, that, and that he hadn’t woken in much more pain than he was in. His next clue was the devil’s trap drawn underneath the chair he was bound to.

The hunters then. Why hadn’t they killed him when they had the chance? Whatever the reason, Dean decided quickly he would not be around long enough for them to regret their mistake. He would escape, kill the other hunters, and bring Sam Winchester to his father as he was ordered. Perhaps if he did his father would forgive his earlier failure. Or if not, perhaps his punishment would be a little more lenient.

Dean tugged against the handcuffs that bound his arms tightly behind him to the chair. Nothing else. Perhaps because they assumed the devils trap would be enough to contain him. That, and whatever spell they’d woven into the charm that hung around his neck that prevented him from using his powers. That hardly meant he was helpless, however.

Setting his jaw the young man twisted his hands around in the tight cuffs, gripping his right thumb and quickly dislocated it. A small grunt of pain the only sound that escaped him as he began quickly working the cuff off of his hand. Uncaring how the metal bit cruelly into his flesh, tearing skin and drawing blood. His blood slicked the metal, after all, helping to ease the way until it finally slipped from his hand.

He stood up from the rickety wooden chair and turned it over. Snapping off one of the legs, satisfied he would be able to use the sharp end as a weapon if he needed, and started for the stairs. Hearing a noise from above he quickly hid in the shadows underneath them. Remaining perfectly still as one of the hunters from before descended. He was speaking on the phone with someone.

As soon as the hunter saw he was missing from the chair and devil’s trap the man turned, a gun already in his hand, but Dean was quicker. Dodging the first shot aimed at him he kicked out and swept the older man off of his feet. The hunter landing hard and Dean was on top of him in an instant. The older man barely managing to deflect the sharp piece of wood Dean lunged at him with, burying deep into the hunter’s shoulder rather than his chest as he’d intended.

The hunter struck out blindly, landing a lucky blow to the side of his head, making it explode in agony, dazing him, as Dean fell back off the older man. Rolling to his feet, and cursing as a second shot from the hunter’s gun grazed his left side. The older man was aiming a third shot for his head when Dean broke off the attack and ran up the stairs.

The hunter swore loudly as he followed close behind. But Dean wasn’t running. At the top of the stairs he rounded the door and waited for the other man to emerge and the young man struck out. Sending the hunter toppling back down the stairs, but not before the man got off two more shots. One hitting Dean high in the chest, near his left shoulder. The second blowing through the meat of his right leg causing him to stumble and fall.

Hot blood pouring over his fingers from the wound in his chest darkness quickly began to crowd the edges of his vision. He barely registered the sight of the hunter standing over him, aiming the weapon once more between his eyes before the young man lost consciousness once more.

“Jim,” Sam called out as he and Bobby entered the old church, “where are you?”

“Here, Sam,” Jim said wearily as he came out of a room a few door down the hallway. His left arm was in a sling and spots of blood dotted the fabric near the shoulder. Bobby practically pushed Sam out of the way as he rushed to the pastor’s side.

“What the hell happened, Jim?” Bobby demanded.

“Your warning was just a little too late,” Jim said, grimacing as Bobby carefully pulled the sling away to get a look at the wound. “You were right. He’s not a demon. He got out of the cuffs, nearly killed me with a stake to the heart, then tried to take me out again when I gave chase and I got to the top of the stairs, which I promptly went back down, thanks to him.” He shut his eyes a moment and with a sigh, gave Bobby and Sam a small smile. “I hurt in places I didn’t know I could hurt.”

“The man? Did he—“ Sam began. He dreaded the thought of trying to hunt the slippery bastard down.

“No, no, Son. He’s in there.” Jim gave a slight jerk of his head toward the room he just left. “I shot him twice, three times if you count the shot I grazed him with on his side. With my shoulder injured, I wasn’t about to try to drag him back down those stairs. I went with shackles and chains this time. Didn’t believe I’d be able to get ropes tight enough. You’ll need to check his bandages. Couldn’t bandage him much better than I could bandage myself.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sam said to Jim, then his gaze shifted to Bobby. “Look after Jim. Let me know if he needs to go to the hospital.”

Bobby gave a nod and motioned Jim into the next room before turning to retrieve the first aid kit from the Impala.

Sam walked into the old office. A large heavy metal desk sat askew near the back wall. The man who’d tried to kill his father sat slumped in a metal chair, bandages around his injured leg and shoulder, both of which had slowly growing red stains. His ankles were hobbled and the chain ran around the metal chair leg above the cross beam, and then looped around a desk leg. Additionally, a set of handcuffs fastened the chain between the leg irons to the other chair leg. The man’s wrists were shackled behind him and those chains wrapped around the vertical side beams of the back of the chair. Sam lifted an eyebrow when he saw that Pastor Jim had even put a leather collar around the man's neck with a chain that ran down to the cross beam of the chair. One more chain ran from the back of the chair to another leg of the heavy desk. A bandana had been pulled between his teeth to act as a gag. Jim was nothing if not thorough.

“No, probably just pissed as hell,” Sam murmured.

Jim’s sizable first aid kit lay open on the desk. Going over to it, Sam retrieved some fresh bandages. He wouldn't get a damned thing from the man if the man died. Carefully, he worked a fresh bandage underneath the man’s leg and tightened it over the too loose bandage there, putting some fresh gauze on top of the previous bandage before tying it off. He turned to the man’s shoulder next and basically did the same thing. The man had wicked bruising along one side of his ribs, where Sam kicked him, Sam surmised. If he’d broken a rib or two, too bad. Broken ribs didn’t mean death unless one pierced a lung. With that thought, Sam decided he’d better check. He ran his fingers along the side the ribcage. The ribs might be bruised or fractured, but there didn’t seem to be any complete breaks that could puncture a lung. That same side of the ribs showed a red weal, barely bleeding, where a bullet had grazed him. Sam’s eyes traced up the man’s horribly scarred chest and froze when he saw the brown splotch on the man’s shoulder. A birthmark. A birthmark that kind of resembled angel wings.

Sam’s jaw clenched. The bastards were just messing with him. They had to be. His brother was dead. Sam pulled the gag out of the man’s mouth, leaving it tied but letting it drop around the man’s neck. He backhanded the man.

“Time to wake up, bastard,” Sam said. Getting no response, he backhanded him a second time.

The man groaned softly and opened green eyes to stare a bit groggily at Sam.

“Who are you?” Sam demanded. “Why do you want me and my dad dead?”

Dean was not unused to being woken in such a way.

Groaning softly the young man opened his eyes slowly, mentally calculating his various injuries, something that had become habit over the years. Gunshot wounds in his left shoulder and right leg. Broken ribs, heavily bruised. Other various cuts and bruises, and of course the intense migraine like pain inside his head from before, when Sam Winchester had hit him with that uncontrolled psychic backlash, that still had not dissipated in the least. Still, nothing overly life threatening, unless he continued bleeding of course.

Lucky him.

Finally he managed to focus on the man in front of him. None other than Sam Winchester himself. Standing there so full of righteous indignation. Dean didn’t need his psychic abilities to feel the fury rolling off the younger man in waves. The desire for revenge boiling just underneath the surface. Dark and twisted, looking for an outlet, and that outlet was him.

Dean couldn’t help but grin, as though enjoying a private joke with himself.

“And what are you going to do if I don’t tell you, Sammy?”

The arrogance! The cocky, self-sure arrogance of the man before him only inflamed Sam’s anger.

“It’s ‘Sam’,” Sam snapped.

What was he going to do? His eyes roved over the man’s scarred chest. He walked slowly around the man and the scars seemed even worse on the man’s back. Running two fingers along a particularly nasty scar that ran from shoulder blade to kidney, he felt the man tense at his touch, even flinch just a fraction. It was always worse when you couldn’t see it coming. The imagination could play terrible torturous games with one’s mind. He’d learned all about that in psychology class.

Sam rested a hand on either of the man’s shoulders, digging his thumb in the backside of the bullet wound as he leaned down, whispering in the man’s ear, “Looks like you’ve played this game before. I guess I’ll have to get a bit more creative than the ones before me. When you answer one—no, two-- of my questions, I’ll give you a break. So,” he switched ears and gave another squeeze to the injured shoulder, “Who are you. Why do you want me and my father dead. Who’s your boss. Did you order the death of my girlfriend or my best friend. If not you, who did. Who ordered you to kill the hunters. There. Pretty easy questions to start with, don’t you think? But I won’t take simple one word answers. I want a bit more than yes or no, or because you get your jollies on torturing and killing hunters. I want the truth.” Sam released the man’s injured shoulder. “One last chance. Answer my questions or I’ll try to best your former friends’ handiwork.”

Sam stayed behind him, wishing he could see the man’s face but knowing it was more effective for him to stay where he was. He wondered if he could even bring himself to do worse to the man than had already apparently been done, but then he remembered his father hanging from the chains, tortured to within an inch of his life. Sam licked his lips. Yes. He could certainly try.

Dean didn't particularly like the way the younger man was looking him over, and he certainly didn't enjoy it when the Winchester boy moved behind him where he couldn't see him and touched him. Even the light brush of the other man's fingertips making his muscles tense and flinch away involuntarily, expecting pain, because that was the only way he was ever touched.

Yet when the younger man began digging his fingers into his wounded shoulder, Dean clenched his jaw but didn't make a sound. He didn't even flinch this time. This was, after all, something he was very used to.

After the boy was done muttering his threats into his ear, promising him worse pain than he'd endured before if he didn't answer his questions, Dean couldn't help but laugh. Genuinely amused by the threats because the boy simply had no fucking clue. None at all.

"You really think you can scare me, little Sammy? You think you can do better than the torturers of hell who've had thousands of years of practice ripping apart damned souls for their own amusement? Alright. Take your best shot, hunter. You might even enjoy it."

Sam was taken aback. His light touch had made the man nervous. He was certain of that. Pressing down on a gunshot wound, hell, he knew how much that hurt. He remembered when his father had to dig out a bullet from Sam’s thigh once. It hurt so badly Sam thought he was going to pass out.

The man hadn’t even made a sound when Sam dug his thumb into the wound. And then the man laughed at Sam. The torturers of Hell had worked the man over? Sam wanted to doubt the man’s words but the scars seemed to belie that possibility. He was telling the truth, Sam simply knew it. To make it worse, the man seemed okay with the thought of being tortured and he thought Sam would enjoy making him scream.

The image of Jessica burning on the ceiling and of his bloodied father leapt into his mind. Yeah, he wanted to find a release for the pain he felt and if the son-of-a-bitch were a demon he wouldn’t have any problem with it. Holy water and holy symbols offered a righteousness, maybe even a nobility, to its torture before exorcising it. But this was a man. A tortured man who maybe had a choice about what he had done, or maybe he hadn’t.

Sam realized torture would not get anything from the man. Sam still wanted to beat the hell out of him. He might yet if the man kept pushing him. Sam wasn’t a saint. He had his limits. If his father died, he didn’t doubt he would plant a knife in the man’s gut or put a bullet in his brain. No matter how wrong it was, he would. If he found out the man had killed Jessica or Mike, or ordered them killed, the outcome would be the same.

He laughed bitterly to himself. The man wouldn’t stop trying to kill him and his father. The man would eventually have to die. But Sam didn’t want days of blood on his hands or hours of screaming in his ears. He had enough nightmares already.

“No,” he said softly and straightened. He went over to the first aid kit and drew a few milligrams of morphine into a needle. Not enough to stop the pain and maybe offer the man the strength to push through what was left and try to escape, but enough to soften the pain a little. He went to the man’s side and after wiping down a spot with alcohol, gave the man the shot.

“That should take the edge off of the pain,” Sam said quietly. Bobby and Jim would probably think he was nuts. Hell, maybe he was. Sam pulled over the one remaining chair in the room and, turning it around so he straddled it, sat down in front of the man. “Would you please tell me your name?”

No.

Dean couldn’t help but frown slightly in confusion. No? What did he mean no? No he wasn’t going to torture him? Well, he couldn’t say he was all that surprised. He’d half suspected that the Winchester boy didn’t actually have the stomach for true torture, despite his how he’d had no problem hitting him and jamming his fingers into the bullet wound on his shoulder.

He just hadn’t thought that the boy would have backed off from his bluff so suddenly. Even if he didn’t get as ‘creative’ as he promised. As Dean had experienced. He was sure that the younger man would have at least followed through with some of his threat.

Then why didn’t he?

When the younger man’s hands left him Dean couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. Following him with his eyes, untrusting. Maybe the hunter had simply realized that Dean wasn’t going to give him any information no matter how much he tortured him and had decided to simply kill him. That Dean at least understood. So when the younger man came back over to him with a needle rather than a gun or knife, he could only narrow his eyes in confusion.

Was he going to poison him? Didn’t he even have the balls to kill him like a man? Dean didn’t twitch a muscle when he was given the shot. His eyes never leaving Sam’s, however when the younger man explained that the shot would only take away the pain he frowned. Why? Why the hell would he do such a thing after he’d just threatened him with torture?

Dean looked down at his arm where the boy had stuck him with the needle, already feeling the drug moving its way through his body. Lessening the pain, as he’d promised, and Dean’s frown only deepened. Why? He didn’t understand.

“Why?” He finally asked, meeting the younger man’s eyes once more when the hunter asked him his name.

Sam saw the depth of the man’s confusion. “Because I’m tired of not having something to call you.”

At the man’s contnued furrowed brow, Sam realized what the green-eyed man meant. Sam raked his fingers through his hair, not sure he could explain it to himself, let alone to the nameless man. “Because I don’t think you’ve really had a choice in what you’ve done. I don’t know. Maybe you did. The way you’ve been hurt.” He jerked his chin toward the man’s chest. “You say demons did this to you. Considering you had a whole pack of hellhounds with you, I kind of figure you’re telling the truth. You’re right. I can’t make you tell me what I want to know if you don’t want to. I don’t suppose you will.” Sam shrugged. “Okay. I’ll find out what I need to from someone else. The demons I’ve met,” he gave a sad smile, “they don’t sacrifice themselves if giving up information will save their hides.

“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going to happen to you. I don’t know. I honestly don’t, but for now, I can make you more comfortable.” A knowing smirk pulled at his lips. “Gunshots hurt like a bitch. I hope the morphine’s helping.” Sam realized he meant that and was almost surprised by it. He also knew Jessica would approve and that helped even more.

Sam reached over to the first aid kit and pulled out a bottle of water, opened it, and drank down about a third. “Would you like some water? And I would still like to know your name, or at least, something to call you. And yes, you can still have the water without giving me your name. One doesn’t depend on the other.” Sam waited patiently for the man to answer. He could hear the lecture he was going to get from his father now. Probably from Jim and Bobby, too. It was likely going to be a hell of an ass chewing.

Something to call him? What the hell did it matter what he called him? Dean was sure if their positions were reversed that he could come up with several things to ‘call’ the younger man if he wished. So what the hell did he care what his real name was? He meant nothing to the younger man. He was the enemy. That was all.

When the other man went on to explain why he’d decided not to follow through with his threat Dean felt the urge once more to laugh at the absurdity of his reasoning. The hunter thought he killed for the demons because he had no other choice? He wondered if the Winchester boy would be acting this way if he knew that Dean did what he did because he enjoyed it. His father had trained him well and nothing gave him pleasure like the ending of a life.

The boy was right about one thing. He would never talk, no matter what means torture he might have come up with. Dean might scream but he would never betray his father’s secrets. No pain in life could ever compare to the agonies of hell, the punishment that would await him if he did. Dean knew that well. The only choice the hunters had left was to kill him…

Then why hadn’t they done that already?

Dean snorted at the other man’s concern over his ‘comfort’. He probably would have laughed outright but he was so damn tired right now he almost couldn’t spare the energy. He wondered if the drugs were meant to make him tired as well. Perhaps to confuse his mind, as the younger man poured on his fake pity. Thinking he could confuse him enough to make him talk that way.

“I don’t need your pity.” Dean finally spat out in a low growl when the younger man offered him water.

The emotions Sam saw cross the young man’s face, emotions of disbelief, of disgust, of superiority, didn’t particularly surprise him. Very demon-like, Sam mused. The other man couldn’t believe Sam had any measure of concern for him. Sam wasn’t really sure he did. He’d done it because it was the right thing for him to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Sam took another swig of the water, his eyes going to the birthmark on the man’s shoulder. His gaze flicked back to the man’s face. “I don’t pity you. You are what you are. Killer. Slave. Demon-whore. Whatever. I’m only trying to treat you like a human being. If you have any concept of what that is. Regardless, you should recognize the sensibility of survival. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. You’ll heal faster, better, if you’re hydrated. You want to be too prideful to accept some water from me? Fine. Be prideful. Your pride doesn’t hurt me. Just proves you the fool.”

His gaze went back to the birthmark. His brother was dead. Burned. Like his Jessica. Like his mother. Like all his hopes of a normal life. If the demons were trying to mess with his head, they failed. He didn’t know his brother. “Dean” had no meaning to him. Probably did to his father. Bobby and Jim, they hadn’t known John before Dean died, so the name held no meaning for them either. He grinned to himself. He imagined if his brother were anything like Sam, he would heartily approve of the inside joke. Their dad would probably just as heartily disagree. In fact, John would probably completely hit the roof. When his dad was up and around and able to kick his ass, fine, John could try.

“I’ve decided what I’ll call you,” Sam said. “I’m going to call you ‘Dean.’”

Dean merely snorted and looked away at the hunter’s pretty little speech. The boy knew nothing about him. Nothing.

He was one of his father’s special children, but he was more as well. He was the one that Azazel had kept at his side always. His father had trained him personally. Had taught him how to use his powers. Taught him how to kill, and oh how he had killed. Spilled blood. His own, demonic, and human alike to get to where he was and his father had rewarded greatly him for his loyalty.

He was not human. Humans were weak. Pathetic. He was more than any human… just as Sam was… and he had no idea…

Dean actually laughed when the boy talked about how he should drink so he could ‘heal’. As though that were even an option. As though the hunter believed Dean was actually foolish enough to believe they would let him live.

However when the younger man went on, saying he’d decided what he was going to ‘call’ him, Dean couldn’t help when his eyes snapped back to the hunter, widening in surprise. Before he realized just what he’d done, what he’d given away without meaning to, and looked away again quickly with a silent curse.

How the hell had he… had he somehow read his thoughts? But no one could do that. No one but his father…

Sam tried to keep his annoyance under control. He reminded himself that based on his best guess, the man had spent years in the hands of demons. Whatever he had been, whatever he might have become, had been beaten or tortured out of him. He was their tool. He’d probably been taught to enjoy killing, enjoy torturing, enjoy any and all forms of pain he could inflict on others. Just because it wasn’t his fault didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous and Sam wasn’t about to forget that.

He couldn’t blame the man for the derisive laugh when Sam tried to coax him to accept the water. The man knew they’d have to kill him. Sam wondered if he shouldn’t just go ahead and do it. That was probably the smart thing to do. They wouldn’t have to worry about him escaping, or hurting one of them. The man was very very good at what he did and wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sam given half a chance. He’d talk it over with Bobby and Jim. And his father if his father was coherent enough.

And then he announced the name he was going to call the man. It was just a little crazy and Sam knew that. He was making a point, mostly to himself, that the demons could try to mess with him, give this man a similar birthmark as his brother, but it wasn’t going to work. His brother was long dead and if he had grown to adulthood, would probably be laughing at the demons’ attempts just like Sam was.

…But the man reacted to being called Dean. The man’s head snapped up and his wide-eyed gaze locked with Sam’s in complete and utter shock before hastily looking away, trying to hide or ignore the gut reaction to Sam’s declaration.

Sam’s heart practically stopped and he couldn’t breathe. He shook his head vehemently and jumped so suddenly to his feet that he knocked his chair over with a noisy clatter. He clenched his fists and stalked toward the man. Sam had been wrong, he’d lied to himself. The name “Dean” did hold meaning for him. “Dean” was the brother stolen from him, the brother who would have meant the world to him, who would have gotten him through anything. This thing in front of him wasn’t his brother. That mark on the man’s shoulder had been put there by the demon behind all of it. The demon who’d killed the light of his life and nearly caused the death of his father.

Sam didn’t know how the knife came to be in his hand. He only knew that suddenly it was there. He plunged it into the damning, lying birthmark. “You’re not him!” Sam screamed at him. “You’re not him! You’re not my brother!”

All Sam’s pain flashed to the surface. He projected that horrible agony and loss into the man before him, the man who pretended his name was Dean, who tried to fool him and make Sam believe he was Sam’s dead brother. Sam began to hit the man in the face again and again as he howled his anguish. When the man seemed all but unconscious from the vicious blows, Sam finally collapsed, sobbing, mourning for everyone he’d so recently lost, mourning for the mother he’d never known, and crying for the brother he’d never mourned before.

Dean cried out in surprise and pain before he could stop himself when the knife was suddenly jammed deeply into his shoulder. Though he was more shocked than anything at the sudden change in the hunter’s demeanor and he didn’t even understand what he’d done to cause it.

Of course, why the hell did there need to be a reason? Honestly he was probably more surprised that the younger man had kept up his pretense of… whatever… as long as he had.

He didn’t make another sound other than soft grunts of pain as blow after blow rained down on him. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t beg for mercy as his skin split under the harsh blows and his mouth filled with blood. He didn’t understand why the hunter kept screaming ‘you’re not him’ but at the same time he didn’t care. He simply took this beating like he would have taken it any other.

When the younger man was finished with him, Dean merely sat there unmoving save for his labored breathing. His head bowed, ignoring the blood dripping down his face, and pushing down the pain like he’d been taught. Fighting against the urge to surrender to unconsciousness again, not about to give the hunter the satisfaction.

Dean barely heard the sound of the other two hunters when they finally rushed in, obviously drawn by the shouts of the Winchester boy.

“Sam! Are you alright?” Bobby asked as he rushed to the sobbing young man’s side, checking him over while Jim immediately turned his attention to the bound man.

“What the hell did you do now, you bastard!” The pastor yelled in a rare display of anger, but even a man of god had his limits. Seeing the blood stained knife on the floor he picked it up and without hesitation pressed it to the young man’s throat. Damn it. He’d told them the man was too dangerous to keep alive even if he wasn’t a demon. First John, now Sam, not to mention all the other hunters the bastard had killed…. Well, he was going to rectify that mistake, right now.

Dean felt the cold edge of the blade press underneath his chin, nicking his skin, but he only looked up at the hunter impassively. Waiting for his death.

Bobby’s concerned voice drew Sam out of his despair. He clutched at Bobby for a moment, drawing in ragged breaths, trying to rein back his emotional turmoil. He looked up and saw Jim with a knife at the man’s throat. He shoved Bobby away roughly and jumped forward, pulling at Jim’s arm that held the knife at the man’s throat.

“No!” Sam cried and old habits driving him, he grabbed Jim’s hand and dug into the meat of Jim’s thumb, making Jim drop the knife with a gasp. “Just, no,” Sam said and stood between the hunters and the man. Sam wiped at his running nose with his sleeve.

“Son?” Jim said, startled by Sam’s violent reaction. The man needed to die. Surely Sam saw that.

“I’m okay now. I just..he didn’t do anything. I just kinda lost my head, okay?” Sam said, not wanting to tell his friends the real reason he’d beaten the bloody hell out of the man. How could he even begin to explain himself to them?

“Sam,” Jim began, “he’s too dangerous.”

“Look, not until I’ve talked with Dad about something. I want to make sure of something. He’s chained, his abilities are bound, at least for a few weeks, hopefully longer. He’s not dangerous, not right now.”

“He is,” Jim insisted. “Look at yourself. What did he say to you?”

Sam shook his head mutely.

Jim looked over at Bobby who shrugged helplessly.

With a sigh, Jim relented. For now. “Okay. We’ll wait until you’ve spoken with John. Until you’ve checked out whatever you have to. But if he crosses the line, Sam, Bobby or I will kill him.”

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “Would you...I’m getting kind of hungry. Could you maybe pick up some burgers or something? Maybe a cheeseburger, and a shake?” He hesitated and added, “Something for him too. In case he gets hungry. I don’t want him hungry.”

Passing confused looks between themselves, Bobby said what was on both Jim’s and his minds, “I don’t think we should leave you alone with him.”

Giving a dismissing wave, Sam realized his knuckles were bloody. He wondered if it was his blood or the man’s. Probably both, he decided. “I’m fine. It just all caught up with me.” He gave them both a soulful look. “I really need some food. Please?”

“I’ll stay,” Jim said firmly. “Bobby can go.”

Sam shut his eyes. “Fine. But I want to talk with him alone.”

After wiping at his tears, Sam leaned down and picked up the bloody knife and set it back on the table. He didn’t remember how it got in his hand in the first place and wondered if he had …no, he didn’t have powers like telekinesis. Those were supernatural abilities.
He didn’t turn as he heard Jim and Bobby step out. Ripping open some gauze, he cleaned off his knuckles. Two of them were split wide. After bandaging them he wet down a cloth and crouched by the man. He winced when he saw the damage he’d done to the man’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said softly. The man jerked back from the wet cloth as Sam began to gently wipe away the blood. “Easy…Dean. At least from your response earlier, I’m guessing that really is your name. Or what they call you. Or maybe what they want me to think your name is. It doesn’t matter.” Sam kept a close eye on the man. He didn’t want to get bitten and he certainly wouldn’t put it past…Dean. When he saw the man was about to speak, he told him. “Just shut up Dean. I know, you don’t need my pity. Saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean I pity you. Looking after you doesn’t mean I pity you.” Sam folded the cloth over to a fresh corner and continued his ministrations.

“My brother, he was killed, by a demon I’d guess. A yellow eyed demon. Probably the same one that killed my girlfriend. Killed my mom for that matter. My brother’s name was Dean. He had a birthmark,” Sam stopped, swallowing back his emotions, “he had a birthmark like the one on your shoulder.” After a moment, he forced himself to continue. “You’re probably laughing your ass off at me, thinking I’ve fallen for some sort of mind game.” Sam gave a sigh. “I don’t know what to believe. I mean, you’re not him. You can’t be. But…I have to be sure. Stupid and emotional of me, I know.”

Sam fell silent and finished cleaning up Dean’s face, bandaging some of the worst of the wounds. He went to the shoulder with the birthmark and grimaced. “That’s going to need stitches.”

He retrieved the alcohol and sutures. Dean didn’t even flinch when he poured the alcohol over the wound. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry. I don’t have any anesthesia and we don’t have much morphine. I’ll see if I can steal some when I go see Dad later.”

Sam knelt by the man and carefully and as quickly as he could put in the stitches. He kept them small, as if he were concerned they would scar. Once done, he poured more alcohol over the wound and bandaged it.

Retrieving a fresh bottle of water, he held it up to Dean’s mouth and poured a little over Dean’s lips, hoping Dean might be thirsty enough to drink. And not spit the water back in his face.

No…

Dean could only stare in shock when the knife at his throat was suddenly pulled away. Nothing more than a faint scratch left on his skin when he should be choking in his own blood right now. The Winchester boy had stopped the other hunter from slitting his neck, and was now standing in front of him like some kind of bodyguard. Protecting him? Why? What the fuck kind of game were they playing with him?

A second ago the young hunter had seemed fully prepared to beat him to death, and now he was arguing with the other hunters against killing him. Arguing that he wasn’t dangerous, then actually ordering his companions to bring him food… and Dean wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Dean hung his head, exhaustion and weakness from blood loss and pain making it hard to even think and maybe that was the point of all this. But it was nothing he hadn’t endured before. Maybe the boy meant to confuse him. Trying to trick him somehow into answering his questions. Mind games. He was no stranger to them either. Did the hunters really think such tactics would work on him? The boy was more of a fool than he’d thought.

The bound man did not look up or open his eyes when the other hunters left the room and he felt the younger man approach him again. Dean assumed so that he could pick up where he’d left off, so he was a little surprised at the rather gentle touch of the wet cloth to his face.

He couldn’t stop himself from flinching away from it, in surprise more than pain, opening his eyes to glare defiantly at the younger man as he spoke. About to tell the hunter again that he didn’t fucking need his false pity, but the boy cut him off before he could say anything, and Dean wisely remained silent. He might not really care what the hunter did to him, but he wasn’t foolish enough to invite it, no matter what Sam might think of him.

So Dean merely stared at the younger man impassively as the hunter gently wiped away the blood from his bruised face. His eyes narrowing a little but saying nothing when the hunter spoke of the demon that had killed his brother, mother… yellow eyes… his brother that had been named Dean. Like him. What the hell kind of game was he playing at now? He had to be. Trying to confuse him. Unfortunately, though he hated to admit it, the Winchester boy was doing a damn good job of it.

He was glad when the boy stopped talking. It was only making his head hurt worse and he was tired. So damn tired. Too tired to think. To try and understand all the questions burning in his mind. How Sam Winchester could have possibly known his name? How he could have known about his father? And if he knew so much, then why had he asked him all those questions to begin with? Why was he keeping him alive if he didn’t need him and why was he tending to his wounds now? Why did the light touch feel so familiar to him…

His eyes slid closed as the younger man stitched and bandaged the wound on his shoulder. Not really caring about the pain at that point, especially considering it was nothing compared to having his skin cauterized closed which was how the demons had tended to his wounds in the past, if they tended to them at all. Often after a beating he was left to fend for himself, to care for his own wounds if he wanted to stay alive. It had taught him how to endure. How to be strong, and he was grateful to his father for that. He was grateful…

The bottle pressed to his lips shocked Dean slightly out of the daze he’d fallen into and he didn’t really think before he was swallowing the water greedily. Almost choking a little as he took a little too much too fast, but he didn’t really care right now. Unable to deny his body what it needed right now despite his pride not knowing when, or if, he might get more later.

Sam was pleased that Dean accepted the water without a fight. The man might have to die later, but until that fate had been confirmed, Sam would do what he could to make sure the man lived. Sam pulled the water back just a little when the man started to choke on it, drinking too fast, then offered it back up to him again as soon as Sam was sure the man was ready for more. The man made short work of the bottle of water and Sam opened the last one. There was plenty more out in the Impala, and he’d have to bring in some more next chance he got. Twisting off the cap, he held it up and the man drank down about half of it before pulling back to meet Sam’s gaze.

The green eyes staring at Sam were filled with exhaustion and confusion though Sam could tell the man was trying to keep up the cold impassive stare he’d given Sam the entire time Sam was cleaning him up.

“You want more water?” Sam asked, holding the bottle back to Dean’s lips.

Dean hesitated, then accepted the offered water, drinking more slowly until the bottle was empty.

Sam gave him a brief smile before turning back to the desk. A flannel blanket was folded into a square alongside the first aid kit. Grabbing it, Sam shook it open and carefully draped it over Dean’s shoulders, ignoring the look the man gave him. It was cold in the church and Dean was bare-chested. Cold would only contribute to the man potentially dropping into shock from loss of blood. After a moment of debating, Sam put his coat over the man’s shoulders as well. Dean stayed silent, watching him warily, but his confusion seemed to kick up a notch.

Sam righted the chair he’d knocked over and sat back down in it, facing the man. “I know you’re confused.” Sam shrugged. “So am I. It’s been some of the crappiest few days of my life, and a good half of that is your fault. Or whoever gave you orders to go after my dad.” Seeing the distrust grow in the man’s eyes, Sam shook his head. “I’m not going to ask, Dean. My money is on Yellow Eyes. He tossed me my Colt before he disappeared from the room he set on fire, the room where he killed my girlfriend. He told me I was going to need the gun. I’ve thought about what he meant by that. I’d say it’s good odds he knew you and I were going to meet up. Either you work for his enemy and he was hoping I’d take you out, or you work for him, which begs the question of why he’d imply he wanted me to have a weapon to use against you. Or hell, maybe I’m just thinking too much. “

Seeing the the man struggling to keep his eyes open, Sam sighed. “Get some sleep. Sorry you have to sleep in the chair, but, “ and Sam gave a half-hearted chuckle, “I’m not about to take those chains off you so you can slit my throat. I’ll wake you when Bobby gets back with the food.”

Sam headed to the door, but kept the man in his view. “Jim?” he called.

Jim stepped out of the doorway of the next room. There wasn’t a doubt in Sam’s mind that Jim had been eavesdropping.

“So you think he might be your brother?” Jim asked quietly, displeasure clear on his face.

Sam leaned against the door frame. “I don’t know but it kind of makes sense. The guy’s been tortured all his life, tortured by demons, if what he said was true. Dad searched for Dean in the fire. The fire fighters didn’t find Dean’s body, though they didn’t find Mom’s either. This yellow eyed demon was there when Jessica was burning. Dad’s never talked about the fire so I don’t know anything about that night, not really. Fire, Mom on the ceiling, he picked me up, hunted for Dean, and got out of the house with just me. So what if this yellow eyed bastard was there with Mom? What if, I don’t know, maybe he kidnapped Dean and was planning on taking me too but Dad showed up.”

“Those are an awful lot of “ifs” Samuel,” Jim said.

Sam nodded in agreement. “That’s why I need you to call in a favor. I want his DNA compared to mine. I want to know if he’s my brother.”

“If he’s not?”

“Then…I guess we’ll do what we have to.”

“And if he is?” Jim asked, his eyes narrowing.

Determination came into Sam’s cool gaze, “Then I find a way to reach him and bring him back to us.”

Dean hadn’t actually expected the hunter to let him drink his fill of the water. When the younger man originally pulled the bottle back from his lips he’d assumed that was all he was going to be allowed but apparently the boy was merely waiting for him to breathe easier before offering it back to him, letting him drink the entire bottle. Even opening a second bottle for him and letting him finish it off as well.

He’d smiled then, as though the younger man was pleased about something, and Dean immediately wondered if the water had been drugged or poisoned. But he could feel no ill effects from the water. It had tasted normal. It was just water, so why was the hunter pleased?

And as though that wasn’t enough to confuse him, Sam went on to wrap a blanket around him for warmth which would have been shocking enough. But when the boy draped his own coat over his shoulders as well, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if the hunter were a little mad.

This was not the way to treat a prisoner. Sam had backed down from torturing him for information, only to beat him minutes later for no reason at all. Then he had tended to his wounds, given him water, and given him his own coat off his back to keep him warm. It made absolutely no sense to him. Or did the boy expect him to talk now just because he had been… kind… to him?

Dean frowned but remained silent when the boy spoke of his orders again and of his father. He was not going to give away any more information to the younger man, not about himself, and certainly not about his father’s plans. Whatever game the hunters were playing with him, he would not fall for it. If he thought he could turn him against his father, make him distrust, then the Winchester boy was an even bigger fool than he thought.

He looked away, ignoring the younger man’s words. Though he found himself once more fighting against exhaustion now that his discomfort had been eased somewhat by the hunter’s ministrations. The beating the younger man had given him aside, the painkillers were still working and now that he was warmer he could barely keep his eyes from shutting. He’d certainly slept in less comfortable situations before, and when the younger man suggested he sleep, Dean was too tired to argue.

Besides, he would need to try to recover his strength if he would have any chance of attempting escape again. So, bowing his head, he let his eyes slide closed. The darkness of his life following him into his dreams as it always did.

While he was waiting for Bobby to return with the food, Sam went through the few things Dean had on him. Jim had hastily copied down the recently dialed numbers and received calls, but there were only a few. No text messages and nothing in the phone book. They'd tossed Dean's phone, not wanting anyone to be able to track him down using its GPS. His wallet had a thick wad of bills and a couple fake IDs and fake credit cards. There was a card key to a hotel room and car keys. Sam wished they could risk going to his hotel room and see what he might have there, but it was surely being watched. Same with his car, though they hadn't bothered to track down where it was parked. Dean, of course, had a few knives on him and a gun. Other than a nice watch, that was it. Sam heard Jim mention something about checking out the phone numbers but hadn't heard if he'd learned anything yet.

Bobby returned with food in about forty minutes. Sam hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he caught a whiff of the French fries. Of course he hadn't eaten in a good day or more, and his last "meal" consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He rolled his eyes when Jim dragged Bobby off to talk in private. Like he didn't know what Jim was telling him. Although he wouldn't be surprised if Jim implied to Bobby that Sam wasn't really playing with a full deck at the moment. Sam figured that was probably true. He was still struggling to get his feet under him after everything that had happened. So much of it still seemed so unreal. No doubt he was dealing with severe emotional overload. He glanced at Dean. The man probably thought he was crazy, too.

Bobby had brought Sam two burgers and a large fry which Sam made short work of. He was still sipping on the chocolate shake and getting ready to wake Dean to see if he wanted some food when he heard Dean gasp and even thought he might have heard the barest of whimpers. Looking over at the man, he saw Dean twitched and jerk, obviously in the throes of a nightmare. The dreams of Dean he'd had came back to him. He debated a moment, then went to Dean's side and gently cupped the side of his face, as he had done to soothe him countless times in their dreams. At least, he assumed they shared dreams, because Dean had certainly seemed to recognize him at the same time he'd recognized Dean. If they didn't share dream, Dean was probably going to think he was hitting on him or something.

Dean's eyes flew open with a start, but he didn't make a sound. He stared at Sam, clearly confused.