The Watcher: 'Supernatural'

By Ames449 © 2008

Chapter One:

Beginnings

South Dakota, 2007

The rain had started an hour ago.

It had begun as light spattering but now it came down in heavy inky droplets, hammering offensively on the roof of the car, smearing down the windows in tear trails. Sam’s foot was to the floor, rapidly pumping the gas to gain speed as the Impala screamed up the highway, the wipers flicking back and forth like a demented insect. The engine was screaming with protest at being pushed so fast but Sam ignored it and maintained the pressure on the peddle. Speed was of the essence.

He didn’t care about getting pulled over by the cops. He didn’t care about the rain. He didn’t care that he had under cut at least five cars and nearly aquaplaned into the central reservation twice. He didn’t even care that his brother would probably kill him for handling his beloved car like a friggin’ go-kart. At the moment none of that was important. What was important was getting his brother some help as quickly as possible.

They were still a good twenty minutes from salvation. Sam hoped Dean could hold out that long. He prayed to god that someone upstairs would cut them a fucking break for once and let this whole mess work out. If Winchester luck was anything to go by it was unlikely but Sam continued to repeat the silent prayer anyway. It didn't hurt to cover all bases.

Sam glanced over to the passenger seat and couldn’t help the fear that crept into his mind. Dean was slumped against the door, his face pale, a sheen of perspiration covering his already pallid skin. He was holding Sam’s rolled up shirt against his side but Sam could tell it was already heavily saturated with blood.

Dean’s blood.

That thought scared him.

The younger Winchester swallowed hard, forcing the bile that crept up his throat back down.

“You ok?” Sam demanded, unable to keep the shake out of his voice. It was a ridiculous question but Sam needed to hear his brother’s voice. He needed to know he was still with him. He needed the reassurance that everything hadn't gone completely to hell in a barrel.

“Fine Sammy,” Dean slurred, gazing at him through half mast slits. Sam couldn’t help but think he looked anything but fine and tried to ignore the black smudges that rimmed his older sibling’s eyes. Unfocused and confused, but still alive. That was enough - for now.

It was a damn miracle Dean wasn’t dead.

It had been close.

“Just hold on, Dean,” Sam muttered, dragging his eyes back to the road.

Things had gotten out of control quickly. Sam barely remembered the details of the hunt that had left his brother bleeding in his arms, he only knew that within seconds things had taken a swan dive into chaos and, as usual, it was Dean who had taken the brunt of it.

Sam risked a glance at his brother once more, almost afraid that he would slip away from him if he wasn’t watching. The older mans chest fluttered rapidly as he struggled to drag ragged breaths into his damaged lungs. Sam winced at the way Dean’s brow was tightly drawn, pain evident in his expression. He wanted to give his brother respite from his pain - offer him some kind of relief - but the couple of Tylenol he had forced into Dean’s hand fifteen minutes ago didn’t appear to be doing anything to curtail his discomfort.

The aggressive honking of a horn forced Sam back to the real world. Snapping his eyes back to the road the younger Winchester realised the Impala had deviated into the adjacent lane and swung the wheel sharply to the left to counteract the move. He narrowly avoiding hitting the vehicle that was inches from the hood and swore. He was grateful the car had such good handling.

“Christ Sam…” Dean muttered thickly as he was jerked into the side door. Sam winced again, muttering an apology under his breath as he struggled to control his thumping heart.

“We’re nearly there. Just hold on, Dean.” Sam meant it to be reassuring but it came out more like a pleading invocation.

He sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears.

Sam wasn't the protector. He wasn't used to fixing things. Dean was always picking him back up. Sam didn't have a clue how the older man coped. He was coming apart at the seams. He couldn't imagine what would happen if they didn't get help soon. Dean was going to be taken from him in eleven months time and one damn poltergeist was about to take those precious months away too early. Sam's stomach clenched painfully and he forced himself to push the thought away, focusing his attention on the road. Last thing they needed was to be wrapped around a street light.

It was with a sigh of relief that Sam pulled onto the familiar dirt track thirteen minutes later, his driving resembling something out of NASCAR racing. The back wheels spun out, tossing grit and sodden mud into the air as he released the brake and flung his foot back onto the accelerator, speeding up towards the iron railings that surrounded the house.

The young man gave the sign above the gates a brief glance. He had never been so grateful to see the words Singers Salvage Yard in his entire life. He knew help lay within. He knew if he could just make those few meters everything would be ok. It had to be -the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

Screeching to a halt just before the front door, Sam had barely pulled the parking brake up before he was out of the car. His body screamed at him for the sudden movement. He didn’t care. He would deal with his own injuries later. For now the only thought in his mind was helping his brother.

Ignoring the rain he carefully opened the passenger door and braced himself as Dean slid fully into his arms like a fish flapping around on dry land. Sprawling limbs tangled around his own lanky frame, dragging both brothers onto the wet ground. Sam struggled with the weight, trying to liberate his arms and legs from underneath Dean’s body with little avail. He was exhausted and hurt. He didn’t have any more strength to offer his brother.

He wanted to scream with frustration, ordering his heavy appendages to move but his body would not comply. Paralysed under the weight of his six foot one brother, Sam's chest ached with the pressure building on his torso and his shoulder burned painfully. He felt helpless and useless and the two emotions only added to his overall anger at the situation.

“C’mon Dean, a little help here, bro,” Sam muttered, readjusting his grip on his brother’s muscular frame, shaking dark, sodden curls from his eyes.

Sam's t-shirt clung to him like a second skin as the rain continued her relentless assault, seemingly indifferent to their plight and the younger Winchester tried to ignore the moisture that was seeping through his jeans, into his frozen muscles but he couldn’t stop the shivers. He was freezing to death whilst Dean slowly bled out on top of him.

A groan of pain escaped from the older hunter’s lips which only heightened Sam's anxiety further. Dean never complained when he was hurt. He played the tough guy routine far too well – he had done it for too many years. The fact that Dean was acknowledging he was in pain frightened Sam. It must have been bad.

“Sam?”

The new voice brought Sam’s head up so fast it spun. Even in the darkness he recognised the figure leering over him as Bobby Singer. The mechanic was already crouching down next to the two brothers, water dripping off the edge of his baseball cap.

“What the hell happened?”

There was a crack of authority in the voice that reminded Sam of his father and for a moment he wanted the man in question to appear. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire life. John could fix this. John would have made things right. John would have meant Sam wasn't completely alone. But Sam knew John would not come. He had been dead for almost a year. The maudlin thoughts continued to plague his overwrought mind until -

"Sam?" The man spoke again.

“Dean. He's…” Sam’s throat suddenly felt dry and talking hurt, but Bobby didn’t need to hear any more. He had already pulled his shoulder under Dean’s armpit and, with surprising strength, was dragging him to his feet.

Dean groaned as the older hunter moved him, glassy green eyes fluttering opening. Sam saw nothing but pain in his expression and cringed.

"Get the other side, son," Bobby ordered, shifting his body to take Dean's weight better.

It was all the younger Winchester needed to get moving again. Struggling to his feet, disregarding the shaking in his legs, Sam took Dean’s other side and helped guide his brother.

The walk to the house seemed excruciatingly slow and Sam’s knees were nearly touching the floor by the time they reached the steps up to the building. Every inch of him screamed in protest but Sam would not relent to his pain or exhaustion. He could not give up on his brother. Dean would never give up on him. He took a shuddering breath and found the strength to put one foot in front of the other and together Sam and Bobby navigated the hunter into the living room.

The room was lit by a couple of lamps scattered absently around the small space casting a warm glow that seemed completely out of place given the current turmoil. Wall to wall bookcases were crammed full of books ranging from general histories to demonology to the occult whilst two low backed couches filled the intervening space and were offset by a couple of square tables. The familiarity of the place did nothing to ease Sam's stress levels.

The two men, dragging Dean between them, made the short space across the floor in three steps and lowered the hunter onto the nearest chair. Sam cringed inwardly at the moan that Dean emitted as his broken body folded onto the sofa. He hadn’t imagined anyone could make that kind of sound, let alone his own brother. It sounded so primitive, almost animalistic. Sam wanted to put him out of his misery right there. He wanted to heal Dean's hurts but he could not. Dean's fate rested in the hands of Singer for now.

Stepping back to give Bobby the space to work Sam sank against the wall, his exhausted body hitting the floor hard as the mechanic opened his first aid kit. Bobby had seen his fair share of wounds and Sam trusted the man to fix his brother. He had fixed worse.

Dean’s breath was now coming out in heavy rags, each inhale less controlled than the forced exhale. As if sensing his younger brothers turmoil Dean tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as if trying to hold back a cry.

Unable to bring himself to even look at Dean, Sam lowered his eyes to the floor, dragging a bloodied and bruised hand through his hair. His adrenaline tank had reached empty and he could feel every ache and bruise anew. Knees drawn up to his chest he wrapped his uninjured arm around his torso and shivered uncontrollably.

“Jesus Christ, Dean! Can’t you and Sam stay out of trouble for five minutes? You really did a number on yourself here,” Bobby exclaimed, fumbling with the older Winchester's bloodied shirt.

Sam felt his eyes on him and glanced up to meet the gaze being directed at him.

“What the hell happened?” Bobby was directing his gaze between the brothers and Sam felt like a gold fish facing a piranha.

“Bad salt and burn,” Sam replied quietly, his eyes returning to the floor.

That was the understatement of the century. Everything about the damn case had gone south from the moment they had taken it. The research had hit brick wall after brick wall. The location had been in the middle of nowhere. The cabin itself had been rotted and unsafe. The research had gone to hell... The list was exhaustive.

Sam closed his eyes as Dean moaned again. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. Ultimately he was responsible for this and his inner demons seemed to taunt him relentlessly. He had screwed up and now Dean was injured - badly.

“That hurt?” Bobby asked, his attention back on the older Winchester.

“W - what d’ya think?” Dean responded breathlessly. Despite that there was a bite in his tone. Sam didn’t need to see his face to know he was pissed off. It eased his tension a little. If Dean was annoyed then things couldn't be that bad.

“Your neck’s a mess, kid, but I don’t think you’re permanently damaged. I’m pretty damn sure you’ve busted a couple of ribs though,” Bobby said finally.

“They heal?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

“In time. But you’ll have to take it easy. I’m more worried about this gash.”

“Just patch it up,” Dean told him, his voice drained.

“It’s pretty deep. I don't think you hit anything vital but you lost a lot of blood. You’re gonna have to take it easy for a while.”

That was a given. Dean would already be dead if the damn wound had hit something vital. Sam could at least be grateful that tonight hadn't gone a whole lot worse.

“I'm okay,” Dean assured the man and even despite the slur in his voice it was said with such conviction that Sam almost believed him - almost.

“Sam…?” Dean’s voice hitched and Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, careful to avoid putting any weight on his injured shoulder and moved closer to the couch.

He tried to focus on his brother's face but his eyes were inexorably drawn to his body. Dean's chest was a smattering of newly formed bruises located mainly around his ribcage and neck. Bobby was frantically pushing gauze onto the deep gash to his left side that had not only soaked through his shirt but also the top of his jeans. Three pieces of gauze were already heavily stained crimson and the fourth piece was beginning to show red blots inking through.

Dean winced as Bobby applied more pressure to the wound, blood oozing uncontrollably from underneath the material, dripping down his pale skin onto the couch. The fact it was still bleeding worried Sam. It should have stopped by now. He wasn't sure how much more blood Dean could lose. He looked like shit as it was.

Not that Sam looked much better.

His shoulder was dislocated and hung at a odd angle. He had thick scratches down his cheek accentuated by crusted dried blood that marred his pale skin. His throat and face were bruised black and his left eye was swollen so badly he could barely crack it open. In fact he was pretty sure he had bruises in places that he didn’t know could bruise but somehow the younger man couldn’t bring himself to complain about his own wounds. Not when Dean was lying there, beaten to crap and bleeding all over the place.

“You okay?” Dean asked after a moment, composing himself. Sam noticed the effort it took, noticed the tremble of the older man's body but didn't comment on it.

Even after everything that had happened Dean had asked that. He cared more about his little brother’s wellbeing than his own. It had always been that way but Sam felt unworthy of that attention tonight. Sam felt guilt gnawing away at him. He should have found a way to prevent this.

"Sammy?" Dean repeated.

Sam didn’t speak –couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. There was no apology that could fix this. There was nothing to say. He had screwed up and they were both paying for it now. Instead he continued to stare at his brother’s injured body, mentally cataloguing every bruise, every cut, every inch of his damaged skin. He had caused them all.

“Sam?” Dean repeated a little more forcefully this time, wanting his brother to speak. To say anything. His silence was unnerving and the tension in the room was stifling.

“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered finally. Dean fixed him with a quizzical stare.

“For what?”

Sam merely nodded at his injuries, unable to meet his brothers gaze. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Not even close to being your fault, Sammy.”

“I know but I should have-“

Dean interrupted him.

“Should have what? There was nothing either of us could have done differently. This wasn't your fault man.”

Bobby glanced between the two boys, scowled and reached into his kit for another gauze pack.

“As wonderful as it is watching you both pass the book between each other can you do this later before you bleed to death?” Bobby demanded, tugging at the packaging until it gave in, granting him access to the material that lay inside.

Sam frowned at the reprimand but Dean managed a sheepish look, even though it was layered with a grimace.

Bobby was muttering something inaudible under his breath as he continued to set up his supplies. Gauze, normal saline, a set of sterile clamps and a packet of surgical thread lined the low table to his left. No doctor could have had better equipment under the circumstances.

The mechanic pushed Dean's hand gently onto the fresh bandage over the wound and got to his feet. He moved over to the sideboard, returning a moment later with a bottle of honey coloured whiskey.

Sam cringed. The good stuff was only broken out on certain occasions. This was going to be bad.

“Here," Bobby handed Dean a bottle. The hunter took it with a shaky hand, green eyes seeking out the older mans. “Drink it, kid. This is gonna hurt like hell.”

Sam had to hand it to his brother. If he was apprehensive about what was to come he didn't show it. His schooled features - didn’t let one readable emotion slide onto the radar as he took a long swig. Once he had finished, Bobby took the bottle from him and twisted to place it on the table.

Armed with the thread he turned back to the hunter and gave him a small reassuring smile.

"I'll make it quick," he promised. "You ready?"

Dean chose not to articulate, his jaw tightening as he nodded to let him know he could start.

His older sibling didn’t make a sound as Bobby inserted the first stitch but Sam noticed he had pulled his lip between his teeth, blood continuing to spew from the wound like geyser. Sam had to admire his stamina. Stitches were never pleasant, especially on a wound that deep. Hopefully the stitches would halt the bleeding. It was all they could do at the moment. Dean needed a hospital, a surgeon, probably a full laparotomy, but that wasn't an option. There was too much risk. Being on the F.B.I's most wanted list certainly had its downsides. Not that Sam wouldn't do it if it came down to it. He would not lose his brother yet. He had promised he would save him and he would. A bad hunt wasn't going to stop that.

Sam focused on Bobby’s face so he didn’t have to see his brothers pained expression.

This was a mess.

 Chapter Two:

Guilty Admissions

Sam had retreated outside onto the porch. It had been an hour since he had driven into the salvage yard like a stunt driver in some Michael Bay flick. An hour since he had dragged his brothers bloodied body across the yard and in that hour his guilt had buried itself deeper into his soul, spreading like a cancer, destroying everything it touched.

Dean had finally succumbed to sleep once he was sure Sam was okay - and after insisting the mechanic treat his injuries. Sam had – albeit – grudgingly allowed Bobby to pull his right shoulder back into place and even agreed to the sling that was holding his arm across his chest. He had refused any further assistance, his need for solitude more pressing. Truth be told he almost relished the pain. It reminded him how much one mistake could cost them, made him realise how dangerous things could get. The price was too high.

Sighing, Sam bowed forward carefully and leaned his good arm on the railings, letting the mid autumnal earthy smells infuse his senses. The porch itself ran around the perimeter of the house and was covered by a heavy wood slatted roof that had – like most of Bobby’s house – seen better days.

The yard outside was a graveyard of maimed and mangled cars. Half were full vehicles but there were several that were missing limbs; a door here, a windscreen there, some had no seats, others no windows at all. In the dark they appeared like shadowed sentinels, standing watch over the mechanics house.

Sam recalled the summer they had stayed here when they were kids and couldn’t help but smile. He had only been twelve but Sam remembered it as if it were yesterday. Long days spent helping Bobby fix up cars whilst John had been off hunting had been a welcomed relief from researching the supernatural. Dean had bitched and complained about being left behind but Sam had felt at peace. He had felt normal for a few weeks. Sam would give anything to feel that way again. Since he left Stanford nothing had been normal.

He laughed a little. Had anything about his life to date been normal? They were hardly the Walton’s.

Gripping the railing, he forced an exhale, ignoring the slight tremble in his lanky frame. Even when they were kids, no matter how bad things got, everything had somehow been more bearable. His family unit had been strong, had pulled one another through the traumatic situations. Now his family were nearly gone, extinguished in the blink of an eye. Like a five year old kid, Sam longed for that solid foundation back. He longed for the innocence of youth. He prayed for the days when a simple word from his father or brother could heal a world of hurt but those days were over and harsh reality was Sam’s only companion these days. They had lost so much. Too much.

Sam suddenly felt the pressures of his impending isolation keenly. An orphan, soon to become the last remaining member of the Winchester line. It was a sobering admission but one that would become reality in eleven months. Once Dean was gone Sam had no one. He had nothing.

The hunter wondered if he could even go on without his brother. He wondered if he even wanted to go on without Dean. It was a question he wasn’t sure he had the courage to answer. The truth was he couldn’t see his future without his brother in it.

Dragging his free hand through his dark hair he glanced out into the dark and wished he could just disappear into the shadows. His head was a mess, a tangle of raw emotions; confusion, hurt and fear prominent amongst them. Sam, try as he might, couldn’t sort through the maelstrom that was overcoming his already emotionally fragile state. He was tired and angry. Mostly he was terrified of losing Dean.

Sam wasn’t sure what it was that caught his attention but his musings were brutally severed and his heightened senses went on alert. He half turned to look down the length of the house, coming off the railing and peered out into the darkness. Paranoia over took good sense. The yard suddenly seemed full of movement, the steel sentinels that had moments ago been comforting now seemed hostile and dangerous. Hazel eyes darted back and forth rapidly and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

He was being watched.

His pulse shot up several beats and in between his shoulder blades itched. The fact he couldn’t see who was watching him made his skin crawl. Slowly but purposefully, the tall man reached for the waistband of his jeans and cautiously pulled his handgun out, shifting it in his fingers. He was nowhere near as good a shot with his left arm and even as he raised the weapon it felt clumsy in his grasp but whatever was out there wasn’t giving him feel-good vibes. Sam wasn’t about to sit back and do nothing. A second class shot was better than a first class death and Sam knew that – he was an expert at dying.

Moving slowly forward, wood creaking under foot, he raised his weapon. His heart beat seemed suddenly loud in his ears as he strained to hear what had caught his attention but nothing stirred apart from the low moan of the wind. Still, he could not shake the sensation of eyes seeking him out. Over the years Sam had come to trust his instincts. They had saved his life more than once and right now they were screaming at him. Despite not being able to see his foe, Sam knew there was something out there in the yard, and the feeling of malice that charged the air made the young hunter edgy.

“Sam?”

The younger man twisted his body to the voice, the gun following the sudden movement, heart beating furiously beneath his ribs.

“Jesus Bobby.” Sam finally took a welcomed breath. He hadn’t even realised he had been holding it back as he lowered the weapon to his side, his head flicking back over his shoulder to look behind him. The watchful feeling had dissipated like hot breath on a cold window.

The mechanic split his gaze between the man and weapon before finally resting his eyes on Sam.

“You ok, son?” his tone was suspicious, his expression a mixture of worry and amusement.

Sam shrugged and nodded simultaneously giving him the appearance of some kind of carnival joke trinket. Replacing his weapon in the back of his jeans he turned back to the yard, trying to calm the blood pounding in his ears. He had been so sure he was being watched. He wondered if he had perhaps simply picked up on Bobby’s sudden arrival but then the anger that had emitted from the watcher was not something Sam associated with the mechanic.

“Sam?” Bobby tried again when Sam offered no explanation for his behaviour.

“Thought I heard…” Sam broke off feeling somewhat stupid for jumping at shadows and noises like a little kid, afraid of the dark. “Things have been…” Weird? Off the wall? Damn well crazy?

How could Sam explain that every day felt like a waking nightmare, that he was waiting for the big finale, the last curtain call? That the secrets he kept buried deep inside the vaults of his mind could put them all at risk? That he was waiting for his tainted life to bite them all on the ass? That he was scared other demons would pick up were yellow eyes left off?

He coughed, clearing his throat, unsure of how to articulate his feelings. He put his paranoia at being watched down to exhaustion although the small niggling voice in the back of his mind argued otherwise.

“Dean going to be ok?” He asked finally, knowing that admitting he thought he was not alone out here would lead to questions that Sam didn’t want to answer.

The older man gave him a reproachful look at the blatant avoidance before he slipped in beside him at the railing, sighing himself.

“Yeah,” Bobby murmured. “Dean’s gonna be fine. Nothin’ a week in bed and some proper food won’t cure.”

Silence fell between the two men, the only sound the steady drumming of the rain. To Sam it was proof that the world still turned no matter what happened to the creatures that walked its surface. The sun would rise, the trees would grow and the stars would continue to shine. It was the only certainty in an uncertain world. Nature didn’t care about unbreakable deals and broken little brothers.

“How about you kid?” Bobby glanced at him, catching his eye for a moment before Sam averted his gaze.

A small shrug followed a sigh.

“I’m fine, Bobby.”

It was a lie but Sam was so used to saying it these days that it slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about it. The sceptical grunt from the older hunter told Sam his statement hadn’t been received as well as he had imagined it would.

Bobby pulled his cap off his head and rubbed a hand over his thinning hair before replacing it.

“You’ve never been good at lying, kid.”

Sam turned towards the house and leaned his back against the railings, his eyes falling toward his feet.

“You ever feel like you went to bed one night and when you woke up your entire life had gone to hell?” He refrained from adding literally. It was true on far too many levels and admitting it probably had a whole host of psychotherapeutic issues attached to it.

“The last month’s been hard,” Bobby agreed.

Sam merely snorted.

The last year had been hard. The last month had been unbearable.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Bobby.” Sam scowled at the admission and took a frustrated breath. He hated how out of control his life was.

A reassuring squeeze of the younger Winchesters arm was followed by a small smile.

“Things will work out, Sam.”

Sam raised a sceptical brow.

He couldn’t see a way out of this. Too much had happened; too many things were out of their control. They were being played like pawns in a game of chess and every move seemed to place them in checkmate. Dean was –as far as Sam could tell –screwed and Sam was infected with the worst disease ever created; demon blood. Sam shook his head, confusion and anger settling heavily in the pit of his stomach and turned his attention back to his brother’s predicament. His own personal demons, for the time being, could wait.

“You really believe that anything will work out? It’s been three weeks, Bobby, three weeks! Are you any closer to finding a way out of this deal? Because I’m sure as hell not.”

Sam heard the bitterness in his own voice and was momentarily remorseful for the biting tone. Bobby cared about them and Sam knew that. Apportioning blame wasn’t going to change a thing. Dean was still dying but focusing on the crossroads deal gave Sam an outlet for his other fears. Gordon Walkers words came back to haunt him. Maybe he was no better than the things they hunted.

The older hunter didn’t respond but deflected his gaze from the shaggy haired man at his side. The truth was hard to deal with but it was still the truth. Sam was beyond sugar coating and false assurances. He understood the reality of what was going to happen to Dean all too well.

“I wish to God he hadn’t made that damn deal,” Sam muttered, dragging fingers through his hair. He wished Wyoming had never happened. It had opened Pandora’s box. He had found out about Dean’s impending future and to add insult to injury horrific secrets about Sam had come to light all in that one day.

Part of him wanted to tell Bobby what yellow eyes had shown him. He hated carrying around the burden alone but Sam wasn’t sure he could tell Bobby – or in fact Dean - that he had demon blood and that his mother knew the demon. It would mean pulling skeletons out of the closet that Sam wasn’t ready to share just yet. He was also afraid that it would change things. That people would look at him differently scared him more than knowing he was akin to something evil.

“You’re his brother, Sam,” Bobby stated with a slight shift of his shoulders - as if that explained everything.

Sam rolled his eyes.

“I’m sick of having that thrown in my face.”

“I didn’t mean it as a cheap shot, kid,” Bobby defended softly. “I care about your brother too and if there’s a way to break this damn deal then we’ll find it, ok?”

Sam suddenly felt guilty. He hadn’t given any thought to how this was affecting Bobby. The man had been a big part of both brothers lives for a long time. If Sam was willing to admit it he would have said he saw the mechanic as a grandfather type of figure. Of course Bobby would have scoffed at the insinuation but he was the only real family they had left.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, sinking back against the railings, rubbing a hand against his temple. His head was beginning to ache. “This is just…” Sam groped for a word but there was none that fit the situation.

“I know.” Bobby, thankfully, let him off the hook. “Thing ‘bout your brother Sam is that he’s spent his entire life watching over you. That doesn’t just change over night just ‘cause you wish it would.”

“Doesn’t make what he did right,” Sam threw back, his words double edged as his mind replayed the scene in his nursery over twenty years ago. Nothing about any of this was right.

He had been a baby, had no control over what happened but even so Sam felt as if this was all somehow his fault. Everything that had occurred since that night in his nursery was because of his link to yellow eyes. The knowledge wasn’t easy to handle. It put a lot of people’s fates at his feet. He was responsible for too many peoples deaths as it was. Now he would add his brothers to that growing list.

“No, it doesn’t make it right,” Bobby agreed seriously. Sam shook his head and threw his left arm up in the air, frustration taking precedence over all other emotions for the moment.

“He won’t even talk to me about this friggin’ thing though, Bobby. Every time I bring it up he brushes it off. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Dean’s not exactly the caring sharing type Sam,” Bobby said pointedly.

That was true. It had always been the case. Sam couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had opened up to him. Dean was so used to pushing his feelings into that little box and putting it on the Winchester shelf of unresolved issues.

Sam almost smiled. He was guilty of the same crime. For three weeks he had kept yellow eyes revelation about his blood baptizing to himself.

Old habits were hard to break.

“I just…” He broke off. He wanted to tell someone. He needed the reassurance that he was not a freak, that he was not a monster. His courage failed him however. There was too much at stake by revealing his tainted blood. For now he was content to let Bobby think he was unravelling due to Dean’s deal. It was true enough anyway. Sam’s world had stopped that night in Wyoming.

“Eleven months isn’t a long time,” Sam concluded, scuffing his boots across the decking as his shoulders tensed.

“It’s long enough to come up with a plan kid,” Bobby countered, blissfully unaware of the internal argument Sam had just encountered in his mind.

“Maybe,” Sam replied uncertainly.

Bobby cleared his throat.

“So you gonna tell me what the hell happened tonight?”

Sam knew the old man was deliberately changing the subject. Bobby was about as comfortable with chick-flick heart-to-hearts as Dean was. Sam didn’t pursue the conversation either. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue with the maudlin thoughts that were now assaulting his subconscious.

“Told you. Bad salt and burn.” Sam tried to school his expression but he knew he hadn’t managed it. Bobby cocked a brow at him, a knowing look crossing his face.

“Pretty bad from the looks of you both.”

Dragging his fingers through his hair, Sam pushed off the rails and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“It was my fault.” He shook his head as Bobby opened his mouth to counter him. “I screwed up, Bobby and Dean got hurt.” He trailed off, leaving out what he really wanted to say. Dean always gets hurt because of me. It was a self-pitying thought but at that moment it felt justified.

“We don’t exactly work at Disneyland kid.” Bobby cocked his head to the side. “Things go wrong. People get hurt. It happens.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably.

“I guess.”

There was a long awkward pause. Bobby was studying the younger man carefully. Sam felt slightly uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze and shifted on his feet, his eyes wandering anywhere but the mechanics face. For a moment Sam wondered if the man was capable of dragging his secrets out of his mind.

“You gotta stop blaming yourself for your brother’s situation, Sam.” Bobby said at last. “He made that deal of his own free will.” The older hunter held his hands up defensively when Sam opened his mouth to speak. “I’m not saying I stand by his decision, kid –not by a long shot - but it’s not your fault. Guilt like that can destroy a man’s soul.”

Sam sighed at the pointed look being directed at him. It was so much more than guilt that was eating him up. Truth be told Sam felt ashamed. He was disgusted with himself and what he was and he hated himself for dwelling on his own problems when his brother was facing an eternity in hell for him.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Sam said, gifting the older man with a small lopsided smile that did not reach his eyes. “Dean’ll milk this whole injured thing for all its worth.”

Last time Dean had been hurt Sam had become his personal slave. Not that he minded helping his brother but he had quickly realised that even once Dean had got back on his feet he was still playing the injured solider routine. Sam had lost his patience at that point.

“Yeah well if your brother thinks I’m gonna mop his brow and hold his hand he’s in for a damn shock.”

Sam couldn’t help but grin at the mental image of Bobby playing nursemaid to Dean. His smile quickly faded however, his lips forming a tight line.

“This war – you think we can win?” Dragging a hand over his face, Bobby took a deep breath and shrugged.

It was a loaded question and Sam wished he could shove the words back into his mouth. He didn’t want the answer. They were already at a disadvantage. There wasn’t exactly a training school for hunters. They were a small group of people who had either accidentally stumbled across the supernatural world or were from a family of hunters. Numbers were already against them and things were - without a doubt - going to get bad. Hundreds of demons were roaming free, unabashed and unsupervised. There was only so much the three of them could do. Sam felt like Atlas, holding the world on his shoulders. The pressure was threatening to crush him. he just hoped he could bring his promise to save Dean to fruition. The alternative was unthinkable.

“I don’t know, kid.” Bobby’s tone had an air of regret at not being able to offer any reassurances.

Sam let his tall frame drop. There was no point dwelling on the ‘what ifs’. They would have to face what happened when it happened. Either way, Sam was not going to roll over and let demons take over. They could try to take his brother but when they came for him they would have one hell of a fight on their hands. Sam would take the underworld apart stone by stone if necessary to save him.

“Night Bobby.” Sam forced another smile and moved towards the house.

The older hunter watched him push the backdoor open before following him in out of the cold.

Neither men noticed the shadow that moved towards the porch as they departed.

Slow Recovery

Sam woke with a jolt.

Covered in a sheen of perspiration he dragged a shaky hand through his sweaty hair and tried to push the remnants of the dream from his mind.

It was the same one he had experienced for the last couple of weeks but it had escalated to a whole new level that left the young man trembling. It was always the same. He would watch as Dean was dragged to hell by some kind of shrouded figure, never seeing the creatures face and always helpless to stop it from happening. This time however Sam had been the figure.

He knew it was not real but the look of betrayal in his brother’s eyes was burnt into Sam’s retinas forever. It was a memory he would not be able to shed easily.

Twisting his head to the side, Sam flicked the lamp on before glancing over at the adjacent bed. He was thankful that Dean had not stirred. He didn’t want to explain what had dragged him from his sleep. It would lead to that ‘paternal look’ that Sam was growing to hate. That ‘look’ had always been there but since Cold Oak had become a more frequent visitor. Sam just wanted to be alone with his maudlin thoughts and a worried Dean would never allow that.

Finally mustering the energy he swung his legs out of bed, and with some difficulty pushed himself onto his stork-long legs. His shoulder was aching but he ignored the pain as grabbed his rucksack before glancing at his watch.

It was just after three o’clock in the morning which meant he had been asleep for just over two hours. It was an hour more than he had slept last night but Sam was starting to feel the detrimental effects of his insomnia keenly. Another week of this and he was going to crash – literally.

Careful not to wake his older sibling, he opened the door, flicking his head over his shoulder at the prone form in the bed to check he was still asleep. Satisfied that Dean was still chewing Z’s Sam made his way down to the darkened corridor towards the living room.

His dream was still bothering him. It was hard enough knowing the reality of the situation but to see his brother being taken to hell every time he closed his eyes was driving him further into despair. Sam forced himself to remember Bobby’s words. They still had time to fix this mess. Even so it had unsettled him.

Cold Oak held a lot of bad memories for the younger Winchester that he hadn’t yet dealt with. Dean wouldn’t let him talk about the crossroads contract and Sam was loathed to bring up what he had learnt from yellow eyes. However it seemed his subconscious was not at all content to be silenced and was forcing him to meet his inner pain - much to his displeasure.

Sam sank down at the desk, flicking the light on. He felt bone weary as he roved his eyes over the stack of papers that littered the area and it took a few minutes to find the will to clear a space to work before digging into his rucksack. Finally retrieving what he was looking for Sam gently placing the item on the desk, running his uninjured hand over the covering and sighed deeply before pulling the small leather bound journal open.

It had belonged to his father, John Winchester, and was the only link he had to a man long since gone. Sam wasn’t sure what made him cling to the journal with an almost childlike sentimentality but in a maudlin kind of way the leather bound book kept a little piece of John Winchester alive for Sam and that kept him strong.

Flicking the pages over, Sam visualised the page he had been reading last night but the long-limbed hunter found his fingers hesitating. For a moment he merely stared at the familiar scrawled handwriting, his eyes sending the nostalgic pattern back to his brain for him to lament over. John was dead but his legacy still lived on in this battered book. Hundreds of supernatural creatures were catalogued within these pages, priceless information that had saved their lives on numerous occasions.

Sam shook his head, heavy, dark curls dropping into his line of sight before he forced himself to turn the page. He had no will to get sidetracked by ill-timed grief. He could no more rectify his failed relationship with his father than he could go back in time and stop his brother making that stupid deal.

Once he had found out what Dean had done, Sam had looked for anything that could help his brother. If he couldn’t find a legitimate way out of this contract – which was beginning to look unlikely –then he would do the next best thing; blow that bitch’s brains back to hell. To do that he needed the colt working. Brute strength and sheer determination was not going to win this one.

Fix the colt, save his brother.

Sam wasn’t an idiot however, and he could see the gapping holes within his plan. Using the colt on the Crossroads demon didn’t necessarily mean his brother would be free but he would feel a hell of a lot better with a supercharged-demon-killing gun in his possession. Sam didn’t really care about the ethics of killing demon-possessed-humans anymore. He would take down every son of a bitch who even attempted to breath near Dean.

With that in mind, Sam had read every single article, book, paper, and record he could find on Samuel Colt, trying to discover what the hell he did to the damn weapon that made it such a destructive force.

So far he had found out nothing.

Sure, the internet provided pages and pages of biographies, patents, and blueprints of the revolver design but nothing else. Not that Sam had expected to find a site on Samuel Colt’s supernatural gun but wishful thinking was unavoidable at this juncture and so, in desperation, he had turned to his fathers work. He had even found an ambiguous segment within the journal that offered a degree of hope about Colts gun.

That hope was short lived however.

The passage was tricky at best, and was written in some kind of undecipherable riddle that was causing Sam a major headache. For weeks he had agonised over the piece, trying to put it into some semblance of order but even with a GPA of 4, Winchester was still finding the whole thing baffling.

His father was notorious for writing in tongues but this was ridiculous. It looked to Sam as if John had undergone an explosion of thoughts and just scrawled down the first words that came to mind. Essentially that was what he had done.

Straightening in his seat Sam forced his attention back to the lines and re-read them.

The lesser of two

Fire

Greater unknown.

Non timebo mala

One eye – watcher

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the next three paragraphs went on to discuss something completely unrelated.

Sam tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling resisting the urge to throw something heavy across the room. It made even less sense than before. Every reading of the passage seemed to add another analytical element that confused Sam even more. It was grating on his frayed nerves.

Sam had only really stumbled upon the entry due to the fourth line. The words Non Timebo Mala were inscribed on the Colt. It was the only mention his father made of the weapon Samuel Colt made and Sam had latched onto it with grim determination, hoping it would give him a push in the right direction. So far it had been of no use whatsoever and Sam was becoming increasingly perturbed by the riddle.

“Hey.”

Sam jumped at the voice and was pulled abruptly from his musing as Dean stepped into the room. He noticed his older sibling still was sluggish on his feet, and he kept his arm clamped across his side to guard his movement.

“Should you even be out of bed?”

Dean merely shrugged.

“Says the guy who is awake in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not the one who was almost gutted less than five days ago, Dean. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

A cocked brow was thrown back at the younger man.

“Dude, it’s a cut. I’ve had worse. Besides, you don’t exactly look stellar yourself, kiddo.” Dean shifted back on the couch. Sam didn’t miss the fact his brow pulled tightly in pain as he tried to get himself comfortable. Winchester stubbornness was nothing if not persistent.

Sam lowered his gaze back to the journal so he didn’t have to meet the pointed stare that was now being directed at him.

“I’m fine, Dean.”

It wasn’t a complete lie; physically Sam was ok. His shoulder was stiff but healing, the cuts to his face had scabbed over and the bruises were fading into green speckled dust. His emotional state was a different matter. Sam did not plan on sharing that with his brother, however. Dean tended to go off the deep end into big-brother-protective-waters when it came to his little brother and Sam wasn’t sure he could deal with an overbearing Dean tonight. Risking a glance up, Sam wished he hadn’t as hard green agates latched onto his more congenial hazel irises.

“Yeah,” Scepticism bit in Dean’s voice, followed by a flicker of tetchiness, “says the guy who looks like he went twelve rounds with Rocky Balboa… and lost.” He added with a grunt.

“I wasn’t the one who was bleeding all over Bobby’s couch,” Sam said pointedly, not removing his gaze from his brother’s face.

Dean graced him with another nonchalant shrug that grated on Sam’s nerves.

“Occupational hazard.”

“You could have died,” Sam countered irritably. “Doesn’t that even bother you?”

His older sibling snorted.

“What? And get a ride downstairs before the big show? Stop worrying, Sammy. I ain’t going anywhere - for a while at least.”

The younger Winchester frowned at the statement, trying to ignore how much the words hurt. He was frustrated at his brother’s lack of disregard for his own life. Since Wyoming Dean’s belief in his own immortality was frightening. He simply didn’t think he could be hurt until the year was up and to make matters worse he wouldn’t discuss the deal in any context. It was as if he had simply given up.

In fact Sam largely suspected that Dean was relieved that his life had an ending point within sight. He knew he was tired of fighting and the deal had offered a solution out of his lifestyle that was noble and – in a morbid way – heroic. However Sam was beginning to wonder just what would happen to his brother when the bubble burst and the reality of the situation kicked in.

Sam turned back to the desk. He didn’t have the head space to think about that right now.

“Why are you awake anyway?” Sam changed the conversation to a safer subject matter. It was far too early for a slanging match. “Can't usually get you to rise before lunch.”

“’Cause Bobby believes in torturing his guests. I swear I haven’t had a decent nights sleep since we arrived,” his older sibling grumbled, running a hand over his short hair. “I think that damn bed is as old as him. I feel like the princess who slept on that damn pebble.”

“Pea,” Sam corrected absently. “And if you wanted the Hilton, princess, you should have said.”

Dean muttered something incomprehensible under his breath but Sam’s interest had already waned back to his research.

“You and Bobby found anything on the demon front yet?”

“Not really,” Sam murmured, not bothering to look up.

“Well that was really specific,” Dean drawled sardonically, “thanks for the run down, d.”

Sam raised his head and sighed. Dean had been out of the game for nearly a week but boredom was an ill fated companion for his hyperactive brother. Sam had the feeling Dean wasn’t about to let this drop. With a resigned droop of his shoulders Sam knew he would have to explain their findings –even if it was three in the morning and Sam was exhausted.

“Bobby found a number of places were demonic activity seems to be more heightened than anywhere else, Sam told him with a controlled breath. “Around southern Wyoming where the original gate was opened, an area in north Philadelphia, central Arizona and – “He caught his brothers eye before lowering his gaze back to the journal, “- and Kansas – near Lawrence.”

Dean’s brow tightened but that was the only emotion that flitted across his face before he resumed a stoic expression. Kansas was sore point for both of them. It seemed strange considering it had only been a part of Dean’s life for four years –even less for Sam. Both their minds associated the trauma that had started them on this crusade with the place. It was difficult to revisit their hometown - even mentally.

“Ok, geek boy,” Dean pressed on, moving the subject swiftly on, “but what the hell does it all mean? They having some kind of demon reunion in these places?”

“I don’t know what it means,” Sam admitted sourly, his lip curling a little at the edges. “Maybe nothing…” But maybe something. Sam wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The game was being played on their terms; Sam and Dean were merely spectators.

“Well that’s reassuring,” Dean muttered. “So you uh you wanna tell me what you’re doing with that?”

Sam flicked a guilty gaze to his brother.

“With what?”

“Don’t play dumb - Dad’s journal.”

Sam should have known Dean would latch onto the book. His observation skills kept them alive most of the time. He was used to picking up on the tiniest of details. Sam just hadn’t expected Dean to see it from across the room.

Sam wanted to discuss his idea with his brother but Dean wasn’t exactly approachable when it came to the subject of the Crossroad demon. Instead he formed a lie in his mind. It was easier than the truth anyway.

“Just looking up some stuff, seeing if I can find anything that will help,” Sam said evasively, shifting a little in the seat.

“Ever heard the phrase needle in a hay stack, Sammy? You won’t find anything in there,” Dean assured him. “Trust me I’ve read it back to front. It’s like reading friggin’ Yoda’s diary. Most of it's nonsensical rantings.”

“It’s worth a try though,” Sam defended, unsure of why he was bothering. Dean had already dismissed the idea. Not that he minded if it kept the man from snooping. He had the feeling his big brother wouldn’t be overly happy with him researching the colt.

“Yeah well time’s a little scarce and I don’t plan on spending what I’ve got left trying to decipher Dad’s ramblings.”

Sam found his anger mounting.

“Why d’ya do that?” he demanded, narrowing his brow.

“Do what?” Dean asked, honestly confused. It only heightened the younger mans irritation.

“Make jokes about dying like it's some kind of game.”

The older Winchester sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Would you rather I cried softly into my pillow whilst listening to Yanni?”

“No,” Sam snapped. “But stop pretending like it's not happening.”

Dean pushed himself to his feet, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

There was a timbre to Dean’s tone that Sam couldn’t quite place. Maybe anger, possibly frustration. It sounded closer to annoyance. It made the younger man edgy and he forced himself to look at his brother.

“Then when Dean? Cause every time I so much as mention this damn deal you close up!”

“How ‘bout never Sam,” Dean growled. Sam’s face scrunched up, his patience reaching empty. For three weeks he had respected his brothers need to privacy on the matter but he was sick of skirting around the issue. Time was inexorably against them and Sam was no longer prepared to ignore the obtrusive countdown down any longer. He needed help. He needed his brother’s support. He doubted he was going to get it.

“You can’t keep ignoring it! We’ve got eleven months to come up with a plan!”

“Forget the plan! It's not gonna happen. There is nothing we can do!”

Sam wanted to offer his brother some hope – make him see there was a light at the end of the tunnel. He mentally weighed the pros and cons of telling Dean about the colt, fearing what kind of response it would stir from him - he was already like a feral animal pacing the floor - but Sam needed to show his brother there was possibly a way to fix this. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“That’s not true, Dean, there could be a way. Me and Bobby have been talking and we think the Colt is our best chance if we can just-“

Dean rounded on his brother, his expression livid, hands fisted at his side. Sam didn’t mind admitting he was a little scared by the wild look in his sibling’s eyes. It was a look Sam usually only saw when something was threatening him.

“Colt? As in the Colt Colt? You’re looking at fixing it?”

“He built it, Dean.” Sam knew he sounded unsure of himself but forced himself to continue anyway, ignoring the incredulity in Dean’s voice. “If we can just get the plans or something then maybe we can-“

“What? Do what with it Sam?” Dean fixed his brother with a deadly stare. “Are you planning on using it on the Crossroads Demon?” he demanded.

Dean paced the floor with short steps, his stance radiating deep seated fury. Oh yeah he was pissed and Sam was pushing all the right buttons. It was like poking a bear with a stick – very, very dangerous – but Sam was not about to be cowed. If anything his brother’s stubbornness drove him on.

“She holds the contract, Dean!“

“You really are an idiot!” Dean muttered.

“This could be your only chance.”

“Leave it alone Sam.” The tone in his voice was unmistakeable. It didn’t broach for arguments but then Sam had never been one to do as he was told.

“So what, that’s it? You just wanna give up? Do nothing? Let her drag your ass to hell? Are you that determined to die?” Sam gestured wildly with his uninjured hand, unable to comprehend what his brother was saying to him. “You know hell isn’t full of scantily clad women seeing to your every friggin’ whim, Dean.”

“Really?” Dean rolled his eyes, the unmistakeable sarcastic drawl back. “I wasn’t aware of that, Einstein!”

“Then what the hell is the problem? Why aren’t you even willing to try?”

Dean paused, taking a shuddering breath as he tried to control his raging emotions. Fists clenched and relaxed at his side before re-clenching again.

“I try and break this deal, Sam, and you die!”

It was said with such finality that Sam almost didn’t catch what was said. Then it hit him. It was like walking into a closed patio door – painful. Sam opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to articulate his muddled thoughts. The revelation made things fall into place but Sam didn’t like were they falling. He should have expected some proviso like that but for some reason Sam hadn’t.

“Is that what this is all about? Trying to protect me?! ‘Cause you do know I’m a big boy now, Dean, I can take care of myself.”

“You died, Sam, in my arms, you just…” Dean broke off, running his tongue over his lips, dropping his hands onto his hips, his head lowering. For a moment the younger man felt a pang of sympathy as he saw the shuddered that ran through his brother’s body. “I can’t go through that again. I won’t go through that again.”

“So I’m supposed to watch you die instead?” Sam tried to hold on to his anger but he couldn’t. He heard his voice crack, and felt the tears building behind his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it’s gonna go.”

Sam glared at him for a moment. He ignored the first tear that fell briefly before brushing his cheek with his fingertips.

“You’re a selfish bastard, do you know that?”

Dean shrugged.

“Probably, but I can live with that, Sam.”

Clenching his jaw tightly, the younger Winchester shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do nothing.”

“You even so much as pick up a book on the Crossroads Demon and I’ll tie you up and leave you in the damn trunk of the Impala for the next eleven months!”

Sam sensed Dean would probably follow up that threat but he couldn’t rein his emotions back in.

“Screw you Dean! I’m so sick of this macho bullshit routine! I know you’re scared – God I’m terrified- but I’m not going to sit with my thumb up my ass waiting for you to die! You want to give up - that’s fine! Just don’t expect me to.”

Sam pushed passed him and stormed from the room. Even as he fled Sam knew it was childish but another two minutes in that room and Dean would have been checking in downstairs right there.

Chapter Four:

Unsavoury Meetings

Sam hurtled out of the house and into the cold night air. He needed space and Bobby’s house felt incredibly small all of a sudden.

Weaving his way through the graveyard of scrap cars, Sam didn’t stop until the building was out of sight. Only then did he drop onto the hood of a half mangled vehicle.

The yard was lit by a flickering orange light on the opposite end of the grounds that barely reached where Sam was sat, but he didn’t care. He needed the isolation, and he needed to calm down. The failing light did not bother him.

Mental crunched underneath him as he shifted his position on the hood of the destroyed car and glanced up at the navy sky, the silver stars twinkling unaware overhead. He needed to stay focused if he was going to find answers, and he wanted to find answers more than anything. He wanted to fix his brother and he wanted to know what Hell wanted from him – if anything. However, allowing himself to become emotional was only going to distract him, and distractions cost lives.

I won’t lose myself. I won’t become a monster.

He kept that thought firmly embedded in his mind, hoping that his belief in the words would give them truth. It was a fool’s hope, but Sam was increasingly relying on that sentiment these days.

He felt his rage slipping and found it replaced by a cold, empty feeling. He had no idea why he had baited that argument, and more importantly he didn’t know why Dean was pushing away the only person in this world that he had left.

Shuddering against the chill in the air, Sam wished he had brought a jacket outside. As it was he was only garbed in a faded pair of grey sweat pants and his right arm was clamped in a sling across a thin, navy, v neck tshirt. He glanced down at his free arm and studied the goose bumps that were rising on his skin. Sam was fairly sure it hadn’t been this cold a moment ago and wondered if his argument with Dean had sucked all the warmth out of his body.

Rubbing his hand up and down his good arm, he narrowed his brow. Sam felt like he was losing control of himself, of his life, of everything. Not that he had ever had control of anything. Apart from the brief spell at Stanford, Sam’s life had pretty much been shaped by rules, demands and ill-fated destiny. It was wearing thin.

Out of the corner of his eye something caught Sam’s attention. Snapping his head around, he felt the tremor that ran through his tall frame before he saw the figure.

Just behind the adjacent car a dark shadow stood.

It didn’t move and despite staring directly at it Sam felt like he couldn’t focus on it properly - as if it was just out of eye shot. A mixture of fear and confusion ran through him as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and for a moment his brain emptied its vaults of anything that remotely resembled a coherent thought; all his training, all his long years of hunting vanished as if they had never been there.

It took him a couple of seconds, but Sam finally snapped out of his shock. He reached for the small of his back, expecting his fingers to find the handgun he often kept there and felt his heart sink. He wasn’t carrying it.

His brain flashed an image of it tucked inside his rucksack in the house and he cursed himself. He hadn’t expected to need a weapon inside Bobby’s house and his flight from the relative safety of the building now seemed imprudent. He longed for the feel of those four walls around him as the yard seemed to grow and swell around him, adding to the dangerous sense of impending doom that filled his mind.

Fear was replaced abruptly with sheer panic.

His stomach nearly dropped out of his ass as the shadow moved towards him. It kind of glided but it moved so quickly that in the blink of an eye it was at Sam’s side.

With a yelp of alarm, Sam slid off the hood trying to distance himself from the thing. His legs folded beneath him in his haste to move and he cursed his clumsiness as he crumpled like a piece of paper towards the ground.

Instinctively Sam tried to pull his bound arm from the sling to break his fall but his swollen joint protested angrily at the movement. He sucked air through his teeth as a shot of electricity raced up the limb and winced as his vision danced momentarily. Either way his efforts were in vain. He hit the sodden, cold dirt heavily, the bones in his hip taking the brunt. The shock

reverberating up his left side but he didn’t give it any thought as he pushed his hand into the mud and forced himself to turn back to the shadow.

There was nothing there.

The only sound was his own laboured breathing as he flicked his eyes around the scrap yard, seeing figures in every shadow. Puzzled, but still frightened, Sam half expected it to appear again but it didn’t. His eyes darted wildly around, so fast that it made him feel queasy, but he was completely alone.

The shadow was gone.

He swallowed hard, his brain trying to work out if he had imagined the whole thing. It had happened so quickly he wondered if it was possible he had.

“It’s a little late for a midnight stroll, don’t you think?”

Panicked, Sam flicked his head over his shoulder at the unfamiliar deep voice, unconsciously taking a step back whilst swallowing hard. His gaze darted between this new stranger and the yard and for a brief moment Sam wondered if the man and shadow were connected. Of course it could have just been coincidence but Sam wasn’t sure he believed in coincidence any more.

The man moved towards him but still kept his distance but there was something in his stance that frightened the hunter. It could have been the way he held himself – so self assured and tall – or perhaps it was some internal sixth sense that saw the warning signs. Either way Sam wished he wasn’t alone out here. He would have given anything for his brother to appear right now but that was unlikely considering the argument they had just had. No doubt Dean was sulking. Sam probably wouldn’t see the older man till tomorrow afternoon and then it would be chipped conversations. No, Sam was alone with this one and that thought fuelled his fear.

“Who are you?” Sam demanded, taking in the strangers neatly cropped dark hair with a brief glance.

“Just someone who wants to talk,” the stoic man said, straightening his tan jacket with a shake of the lapels, the whites of his eyes reflecting the fake orange light.

He was smaller than Sam –which wasn’t unusual give his freakish height – but what the man lacked in stature he made up for in width. Sam wished it was fat that lay behind the layers of material but he suspected it was muscle that had the man bulging out of his clothes. It was not reassuring.

Sam glanced behind him towards the house and wondered if he could outrun him. He needed help. There was no way he could fight this guy at a 100. With only one arm working Sam was totally screwed. There was no way he could cover the distance however. His hip was aching and the house lay at least fifty metres behind him.

“You won’t make it,” the man told him with a quirk of his lips, following the young man’s line of sight, “I wouldn’t bother trying.”

Sam’s jaw trembled and he swallowed hard, trying to push the bile that was creeping up his throat back down. He had no idea what this goon wanted but Sam had the distinct feeling it wasn’t good.

“You want to talk, so talk.” Sam hoped his voice didn’t waver too much but he didn’t see how it couldn’t be. He was scared.

“I’m not sure talk is the right word,” the man mused.

Sam’s quizzical look barely graced his gentle features as white light flashed before his eyes. Pain reverberating through his skull, exploding down his neck with lightning ferocity until it hit his feet. It almost drove him to his knees, his lanky frame suddenly feeling weighted, but heavy set arms grabbed him from behind keeping him upright.

Instinct overrode his confusion and Sam bucked in the new grip, his shoulder screaming at the force being exerted on the injured joint. He ignored the pain throwing his weight against his assailant; his only thought was getting free of the crushing grip that held him.

Without thinking he threw his head back and was grateful when it connected with something hard. That appreciation was short lived however, as a second round of agony tore through his rattled brain.

This time there was no strong arms to keep him vertical and Sam slid onto his knees, his head clamped between his fists.

Sam was vaguely aware of a new voice behind him that he surmised belonged to his assailant. It sounded thick, like he was listening to it through a wall but Sam could still recognise the baritone accent of a southern man.

He pushed his eyes firmly closed and willed the world to hold still but the darkness behind his lids only offered him some kind of swirling vortex that threatened to pull him into unconsciousness. Fearing he would pass out Sam forced his eyes open and immediately regretted the action. Everything continued to lurch to one side, and there seemed to be three of everything. He groaned and pulled his brow in tightly, willing his stomach to hold as it contracted violently.

“That was rude, Mr Winchester,” the stoic man’s voice drifted through the air, barely reaching Sam’s muffled ears, “I think you may have hurt Roger’s feelings.”

Sam heard a grunt behind him and the sound of someone spitting. “He hurt a helluva lot more than my feelings,” the southern man drawled. “Little punk!”

Adams apple bobbing up and down spasmodically, Sam was cruelly dragged backwards by his shirt. The man, Roger, had fisted his hands into the material on his injured side and the limb objected to the careless disregard. Tears formed in the young hunters eyes and he didn’t bother to hide them as the pain intensified beyond bearable levels.

Finally the man released his grip, shoving Sam awkwardly into the dirt. The shaggy haired hunter didn’t even bother to prevent his fall this time and lay prone in the mud, his body screaming at him as he breathed in the earthy smells of the ground beneath him.

His attacker didn’t give him much in the way of respite.

A face full of knuckles made his head reel and his mouth filling with blood told Sam it had been a true strike. He struggled to his knees, his vision dancing once more and felt rough hands grab the neck of his tshirt. Fear replaced all other emotions as he tasted the stale breath of the man holding him. He could take on two guys under normal circumstances but with his right arm out of action Sam wasn’t sure he could do a damn thing. The helpless feeling threatened to overwhelm him as he carefully raised pain filled eyes to the man holding him. Finally, he got first look at the man who had smashed his skull open.

He was tall, wide, muscled and his greasy blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail at the nap of his neck. Younger than the stoic man, Roger was like a brick wall of pain and Sam had the feeling he was very good at inflicting pain – he had already been subject to some of his talents. His leather coat creaked under every flex of his limbs and a grizzled white scar ran down his cheek. Sam was glad to see his headache hadn’t been caused in vain as a trickle of dark crimson blood ran from Roger’s nose, pooling around the philtrum. The man was eyeing him, his gaze stormy. Sam gulped reflexively and shuffled back a little on his bottom, wishing he could place a little more distance between himself and this psychotic madman. That was not an option however. Sam’s body was not co-operating with his demands any more.

Sam saw the fist before it hit this time. Not that it made any difference; he wasn’t in a position to stop it. The blow caught him on the side of face, his head snapping back at an angle that he was sure wasn’t natural. His ear stung and his eyes watered as heat raged in his throbbing cheek bone. Sam coughed, trying to clear the blood that was threatening to block his airway and shook himself.

His head felt groggy, like he had drunk too much. Sam grabbed at the man’s arm that was still fisted in his shirt and held on desperately. It was the only thing the young hunter could do to stop his body lurching into the mud. And then his vision cleared again, the blond wall coming back into focus. He almost wished it hadn’t. The man was leering at him, his expression morbidly excited. It made Sam nauseous.

Slowly, Roger, reached under his coat and pulled a small object out. Sam’s gaze moved to his hands.

“Woah, hold on a minute,” Sam breathed, finally finding his voice. His eyes darted hastily between the man and the ebony hilted knife Roger was now wielding. “Please, just wait a second before you do something you’re gonna regret.”

“I don’t think we will regret it, Sam,” the stoic man replied from behind him. Sam couldn’t see him but his attention was a little focused on Roger, the wall of pain right now anyway. “You see, Mr Winchester, we heard things –through the grapevine like – about you.”

Sam ‘s breath ripped out in shallow rags as he tried to still his thumping heart but his adrenaline tank was on overload and his respiratory system was on overdrive. Roger, the blond wall, hadnt relinquished his grip yet but stoic guy had moved in behind him so he was in the younger Winchesters eye line.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Sam muttered thickly, ignoring the warm liquid that was trailing down his face, dripping off his chin.

“Oh, but this, we have on good authority,” stoic man said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Sam saw the dangerous glint within his expression and swallowed hard. “I know all about you Sam Winchester. I know things about you that would make most peoples skin crawl.”

Sam kept his silence. He was pretty sure that anything he said would be taken and used against him anyway and he figured these guys had enough ammunition as it was. It was unnecessary for him to add to that.

“I know what happened to your mom,” stoic man continued to drawl softly, “about your father. That pretty girlfriend of yours. I even know about Wyoming and Azazel.”

Sam frowned at the last word. It sounded familiar but he couldn’t quite place how he knew it. His confusion must have shown in his face however.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know who your yellow eyed little friend really was.” Stoic guy laughed and the idiot wall of pain, Roger, joined in. “From all the hype about you, kid, I figured you were some kind of demi-god. I guess that’s the power of mis-reputation.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, but you’re wrong about me,” Sam murmured, gingerly probing the side of his face. He wasn’t surprised to find sticky blood on his fingers.

“I don’t think so, kid,” stoic guy replied, his eyes seeking out the human wall. Roger met the dark gaze and inclined his head ever so slightly. It was such a small movement that most people would have missed it but Sam knew what it meant. It was the final curtain call and Sam had no intention of being the final bow.

Sheer determination and adrenaline became Sam’s master. Pushing his weight forward, he rammed his six foot four frame into the blond wall and was surprised when they both collapsed in a heap. The idiot Roger relinquished his grip and staggered backwards, briefly taken off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Sam staggered to his feet, ignoring the agony that tore down his shoulder, and ran.

He didn’t even manage two strides.

The blond wall launched at him like a cheetah bringing down a wildebeest. Pain rippled down Sam’s spine as he was thrown into something hard – a car he thought sourly. Hands fisted into his shirt and rammed him against the metal, forcing the air out of the younger mans lungs before dropping him back into the dirt. Winded, Sam clenched his jaw, and forced the pain from his mind. Quickly he stumbled back to his feet using the mangled car as leverage.

“Sam. Stop.”

Winchester did stop but not because he had been told to. He couldn’t maintain his own weight anymore and his limbs felt thick and heavy. Leaning on the broken car frame for support Sam slowly swivelled his eyes to the stoic, dark haired man. His adrenaline fled leaving him trembling as noticed the gun in the man’s hand. Sam took a helpless breath, his eyes closing. There was no reasoning with these people. They wanted him dead and Sam didn’t have the strength to fight them both.

“You know this is for the best, kid,” stoic man said softly, pulling the safety catch back. For a moment Sam was sure he heard a hint of regret in his voice but it passed quickly. “It’s for the greater good.”

Sam ignored his words and gave a brief thought to his brother. He felt regret that Dean had signed his life over for a wasted cause, that his soul would be claimed by demons for a brother who had died again three weeks later.

It was the only thought he was allowed however as the loud reverberating sound of gun shot rang out into the still night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean had watched Sam stalk from the room scowling. He had given a brief thought to going after the kid but decided against it. Sam was impossible to reason with when he was like this and Dean wasn’t exactly loving the fighting.

He cursed under his breath and sank down at the desk, flicking over some of the research his brother had been working on. There were pages and pages of theories scrawled in a lined notepad. Dean raised a brow, his anger dissipating somewhat only to be replaced by a twang of guilt. The kid meant well but Dean wished Sam would see that he was just trying to protect him. His younger sibling didn’t make it very easy.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to live – he really did – but not at the expense of his brother. The need to keep Sam safe overrode all other emotions. However that didn’t stop him from feeling apprehensive about the future. Sam had been right about that.

Pushing his own doubts from his mind, Dean forced himself to think of Sam. He didn’t want to give in to his own dark future just yet.

Dean had no idea what was going on inside his brother’s freaky head but Sam was edgy, plagued with nightmares and as moody as hell. Yeah, Dean knew about the dreams. He would have to be blind not to. For the last couple of weeks he had let it slide, acted like he wasn’t aware of the fact Sam was rarely in his bed passed four in the morning, but for some reason he had followed his younger sibling tonight. In all honesty, Dean was worried about his baby brother.

It was like Sam had become a different person since Wyoming. It had completely swung their relationship onto a different axis. Dean was supposed to be the belligerent sarcastic one but lately Sam was taking that role in his stride –in fact as loath as he was to admit it Sam was doing it better than Dean at the moment. The shift in balance was unsettling them both as they tried to find their own niches in this new relationship. It was causing a lot of friction in the mean time.

Dean wanted Sam back. The Sam he knew and not this grouchy kid that was sulking outside right now. It was annoying the older hunter greatly. He was not sure how much more self-pitying Sam he could take. He knew this whole deal thing was hard for his brother but even so he didn’t need constantly reminding that he was going to hell. He was freaked out enough as it was.

Ok so he hadn’t really handled the whole situation very well and the slanging match that had ensued was probably not the best way to deal with the sensitive younger Winchester but Dean was at a loss what else to do.

When Sam was hurt Dean fixed him.

When Sam was sad Dean comforted him.

When Sam was dead Dean brought him back.

This time, however, Dean was totally clueless and it didn’t help matters that Sam was keeping everything so close to his chest. Well aside from the mini meltdown just moments ago. That had been a revelation.

Absently, he fiddled with ring on his right hand, twisting the metal between his fingers pensively. How the hell had things got so out of control? A month ago everything had been fine, well as fine as things could be in Winchester central. Now Sam was freaking out and Dean’s soul was damned. Not to mention the hundreds of demons having their own party on earth.

Dean heard the bang before he registered what it was. It took him half a second to realise it was a gun shot and no more than a second to remember Sam was outside. Dean was on his feet before he had a chance to think about it.

Grabbing a shotgun from the bag in his room Dean hurtled towards the backdoor, his heart pounding.

Sam had gone outside. The gunshot had come from outside.

Dean’s only thought as he made his way onto the porch was his baby brother and whether or not he was still alive.

Troubled Waters

Dean barrelled out of the house. He didn’t bother with the three steps down from the porch, jumping them in his haste. Shotgun in hand, he was loading it with live rounds even as he ran across the orange lit yard, dodging cars as he went. Beneath his rib cage his heart was pounding so loudly that he could hear it clearly beating in his own ears, drowning out all other sounds. He was a second from meltdown. Too many scenarios were running through his head. Too many fears.

He took a moment to pause at the entrance to the vehicular graveyard, his head flicking back and forth, seeking a direction. He had no idea which way the shot had come from and skyscraper like piles of twisted metal was hindering his view of the area. It was as if the scrap yard had suddenly grown like titans around him and even the piled scrap junk felt like a ten foot high wall that prevented him from finding his brother. He felt like he was stuck in a maze of recycled parts, conspiring against him to hide Sam from him.

The minutes seemed to drag painfully on as Dean ducked around the tail end of a battered ford courier only to be met by another clump of mismatched cars, blatantly absent of his little brother.

He moved towards the centre of the yard to where Bobby’s workshop lay, keeping to the shadows. The single storey building was lit by a couple of orange floods, and the steel corrugated door pulled to the floor.

A half finished station wagon that Bobby was working on was parked in front, the wheel rims balanced on heavy concrete blocks. Parked around the edge of the structure was his blue pickup truck. It sat silent and inanimate in the chilled night air. Dean flicked his eyes around the area but it was deserted. Nothing moved.

Desperation was becoming prominent now and although there had been no other shots fired, Dean was terrified that the first one had been aimed at Sam. The thought played havoc with his already overwrought emotions and horrific images played through his mind like some kind of sick horror film. Dean struggled momentarily to separate the fiction from reality, his worst nightmare in severe danger of coming true.

Sam had to be alright. Dean wasn’t sure he could cope with losing his brother again. Once had been impossible but for Sam to die merely three weeks later seemed gut-wrenchingly unjust. Besides, Dean didn’t have anything more of himself to give to save the younger man; his soul had already been claimed.

It was then he heard movement from behind the huge metal shelving system that held bits of old engines, exhaust pipes, tyres and other pieces of scrap. The sound cut through the chilled air like a knife just ahead of the towering structure but Dean couldn’t see who or what had caused it.

He was moving before he even thought about it, shotgun poised for any eventuality. Rounding the end of a high rise stack of battered engines he came to a small clearing in the metal wasteland.

Under normal circumstances he would have scouted the area first; checked for numbers, unseen dangers. But Sam was out there, alone, unprotected and possibly on the bad side of a gunshot wound. He lost all sense of reason, his training going out of the window, as his green eyes darted into the space.

The light didn’t quite reach through the stacks and so the area was shrouded in fragmented orange. Even so, through the murky illumination, the scene that met the older hunter was unusually still and made his stomach turn inside out with fear. He had expected all guns blazing. The calm façade was unsettling.

His eyes shifted around the clearing swiftly, taking in every detail in that sweeping glance. Face down in the mud, a dirty blond man that Dean did not know was sprawled out unmoving. Dean wasn’t sure what the hell was wrong with the man – he didn’t really care – he had spotted his brother.

Sam’s back was propped against the side panelling of a car, his head dropped so low onto his chest that his shaggy dark bangs hid his face. His long legs were stretched out across the ground in front of him and his un-slung arm hung limply at his side. Dean wasn’t close enough to see any injuries and the dark shirt swallowed up any that would have been visible anyway. What worried Dean most of all was that Sam hadn’t attempted to get up. Sam would have fought back if he could – which meant Sam couldn’t. That sent a chill racing through his body.

He started forward but halted suddenly, his shot gun following his gaze. A figure appeared out of the shadows. Dark haired and tall, somewhere in his mid forties, the guy had thick black smears of blood down the left side of his face. He staggered a little, lurching in his attempt to keep on his feet.

Dean instantly moved to put himself between the stranger and his brother but found himself looking down the barrel of a loaded gun. Dean paused, his eyes flicking between the armed stranger and the prone form of his brother. He felt like he was stuck in some kind of spaghetti western and they were about to duel. He almost rolled his eyes. Couldn’t anything about their lives be normal? What he would give to be in bed at 3am and not running around Bobby’s yard like friggin’ Keifer Sutherland.

“Unless you want to be picking up pieces of brain, kid, I’d back the hell off,” the man snarled in a quiet voice.

Dean didn’t lower his own weapon at the ominous threat but his mind was racing. His only thought was that this jerk lay between him and his brother. Dean wanted to remedy that right now but the showdown that was in danger of exploding into full out gun warfare halted any action he might have taken. The guy was far too close to Sam for Dean’s liking.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean growled the expletive, his eyes flashing dangerously between the stranger and his brother. He was over a barrel and the guy knew it. No way would Dean risk Sam's life and the dark haired stranger looked like he was crazy enough to have an itchy trigger finger. That thought stilled the hunter’s hand.

The man laughed throatily. What he found funny about this entire situation Dean wasn’t sure. Nothing about this seemed funny at all. Slowly Dean side-stepped, moving closer towards his brother so they were now forming some kind of tragic triangle with Sam at the point of it, him and the dark haired man either side. He had no idea what to do. His instincts were screaming at him to shoot the bastard, to end it all now so he could get to his brother, triage his injuries – if any – and get the hell out of town but he was a little afraid of what the psychotic moron would do. This was turning into some kind of surreal nightmare that Dean really wanted to wake up from.

“Don’t push me into doing something we might both regret,” the man warned menacingly, emphasizing the threat with a small gesture of the gun towards Sam.

Dean growled under his breath, risking a quick glance at his brother before focusing his dark green eyes on the asshole with the gun. It was taking every fibre of self control that Dean possessed to ignore the man and not to go over to Sam.

Something snapped within the older Winchester. The sight of Sam’s prone form pushed him to a whole new level of angry.

“If you’ve hurt my brother, I swear to god-“

“If we hurt him?” The dark haired man exclaimed incredulously, his free hand gingerly probing his bloodied face. Dean felt a small swell of pride that Sam had managed to get at least a good hit in. “You have no idea who the hell you are dealing with here, do you?”

Dean’s brow narrowed a little at the dark haired man’s words.

“Just turn around, go back inside, kid.”

Dean laughed dryly. “Not gonna happen, asshole.”

“No one would blame you. It's for the greater good.”

The older hunter didn’t have a chance to respond.

A gun shot rang out from the right of him.

It whistled through the air, the recoil echoing into the still air like an explosion. The dark haired man jerked back, the bullet hitting him in the shoulder with a sickening squelch of ripping flesh. Dean spun his head to the sound, his weapon following. It was only years of training that stayed his finger on the trigger just in time to prevent him from doing something he really regretted.

Bobby Singer moved closer, not taking any notice of the shotgun that Dean had been aiming at him. His eyes were dark –even in the poor lighting Dean could see the anger in them and he was grateful the death stare wasn’t aimed at him.

Dean whipped his gaze back to the dark haired man just in time to see him crumple boneless to the ground, hand clamped to his shoulder, crimson liquid trailing down between his fingers. His unfocused, pain-filled eyes were raking across the muddied ground as he tried to rise but his body trembled under his weight. Eventually the man gave up his struggling and remained on the floor, his breath stealing out in thick rags. Bobby moved over to the dark haired man and studied him briefly, rifle aimed at his head.

“Don’t even think about moving, jackass,” Bobby snarled, his rifle aimed at his head. Dean didn’t doubt he would use it. The dark haired guy shook his head groggily.

“Not going anywhere,” he responded thickly, punctuating every word.

Dean blinked stupidly for a moment, his shock at the entire situation temporarily paralysing him. Where the hell had Bobby come from? And who the hell were these two assholes? And what the hell was wrong with his brother?

Numerous unanswered questions assaulted the older sibling. They added to his anger and his sense of frustration. He wanted explanations and he wanted them now. It was unlikely he would receive them however. Winchester luck was notoriously bad.

Dean watched the mechanic move over to the blond guy who was still biting the dirt and fumbled at his neck, his eyes and gun still on the dark haired man. Dean hadn’t lowered his weapon either, not entirely trusting Bobby’s shot to keep the bastard down.

Bobby must have found a pulse because he straightened from his crouch a second later and patted the guy down, pulling a knife and a handgun from his prone form before straightening and returning his focus to the conscious man.

“Sam ok?” Bobby’s voice growled quietly.

The mention of Sam was enough to snap him out of the older Winchester from his daze. Dean dropped onto the ground next to the shaggy, brown haired man, his shotgun discarded for a moment at his side. His brother still wasn’t moving. The staggered rising and falling of the kid’s chest offered Dean some temporary respite from his fear. At least he was breathing.

Gently, Dean cupped his brother’s face in his hands and raised it. His rage was mounting as he noted the injuries the unknown strangers had inflicted on his brother.

“Sam?" Dean tried but got no response. Sam's head rolled to the side, Dean's hands the only thing keeping it upright. "Sammy! C’mon kiddo, wake up.” The painful plea was tinged with emotion. Far too much emotion. Dean tried to bury his feelings but he didn’t manage it. He never could when it came to his little brother. “Sammy!” He shook him carefully, mindful of his injuries.

It had the desired reaction. Sam’s eyes cracked open slowly, his heavy gaze rolling beneath drooping lids. Blood and dirt stained down the side of his face, and his cheeks were a mismatch of ugly red patches that Dean suspected would surface as mottled bruising by the morning. The younger man took a shuddering breath, adams apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard.

“Dean…” The older man had never heard his voice invoked in prayer before but Sam’s tone held a pleading quality to it that tore at every protective streak he had.

He glanced over his shoulder at the dark haired guy who was still being held at gun point by Bobby and had an overwhelming need to beat several shades of shit out of the moron.

“Dean?” Sam repeated, sounding stronger this time.

Sam’s voice brought Dean back to the current situation and he forced himself to turn back.

“You ok?” Dean asked, cursing himself for asking such a dumb question. The kid was a thousand miles from ok.

Sam grimaced as he shifted uncomfortably.

“Been better,” he mumbled through thick lips. Hazel eyes shifted blearily to the dark haired figure still kneeling in the dirt and then slowly rotated around the yard, searching.

“The other guy’s down, John Morrison,” Dean answered, understanding what Sam was looking for. His younger brother met his gaze, his leaded eyes half closing again.

“Guess that makes me The Miz…” Sam murmured.

“Hey, if anyone is the self-proclaimed chick magnet, it’s me,” Dean said with a smile. The levity helped to ease his mind a little but it was short lived as Sam groaned. “Where else are you hurt?”

“My face… head…” Sam replied slowly, one eye opening slightly. Dean grunted. His face was a given. It looked like he had gone twelve rounds with a pneumatic hammer. “And, uh, my side…”

With fumbling fingers, Dean reached out and dragged his sibling’s shirt up, searching for any life threatening injuries. He winced at Sam’s sharp intake of breath, muttered an apology and continued with more care. Sam’s dislocated shoulder made it somewhat difficult to assess the damage properly, the top half of his torso hidden under the sling. It didn’t matter however. Dean could see enough. Sam’s skin was already beginning to mottle purple but other than the bruising there was nothing immediate. No gunshot wound. Dean breathed a little easier but a dry voice in the back of his mind asked what the hell had happened. Perhaps the blond guy eating the ground had been shot.

He pushed that out his mind. He would deal with what the hell happened later. Right now Sam needed him.

“I think your head took the brunt of it,” Dean said finally, concluding his brief exam, smoothing his brother’s t-shirt back into place. “Good thing your brain’s so damn big. Kinda acted like a huge airbag.”

It was said in jest, but truthfully Dean was worried about the amount of blood trailing Sam’s face. In the poor light he couldn’t see the thick gash hidden under the mounds chestnut hair but he could tell it was still bleeding.

“D’ya think you can stand?” Dean asked, searching the younger man’s face for any sign he couldn’t, ready to help if necessary.

“Yeah...think so…” Sam licked his lips and let his older brother ease him up, avoiding his already hurt shoulder. The moan that came from the younger man’s throat tore painfully at Dean; the need to kill or maim something was increasing with each passing second.

Dean ignored his feelings for the moment and took the brunt of his little brother’s weight. Sam was as weak as a newborn foal, his long legs trembling under him. Dean grunted under the bulk, his own injuries from under a week ago protesting at the six foot three frame leaning on him. Dean – as always – ignored the pain and focused on his brother.

“You boys ok?” Bobby demanded as the two hunter's straightened. There was a hint of anxiety in his voice. Dean noted the mechanic still hadn’t moved his rifle off the dark haired moron.

“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean replied, shifting his grip on Sam, “we’re ok.” Sam’s ok. That was all that mattered.

“What about Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?” Bobby inclined his head at the two attackers.

Dean’s face darkened ominously.

“I think we need to have a little chat.”

The dark haired man raised his head and for a brief second Dean had the satisfaction of seeing terror in his eyes. He smiled and nudged his brother a little to get him moving again. He would make these bastards talk, no matter what it took. Dean took attacks on his little brother as a personal assault against himself and right now his person was angry as hell. Dumb and Dumber were about to find out the grave error of pissing off a Winchester. It was a lesson they would learn the hard way and one Dean was very good at teaching.

Chapter Six:

Out of the Darkness

Dean waited until Sam had closed his eyes before quietly gathering up the soiled medical supplies and tossing them into the trash can by the window. The wound to his head had been a mess. Thick and jagged, the skin had been torn from the crown. Six stitches was all it had required but Dean couldn’t help but think that was six stitches too many. The bruising to his face and torso were already beginning to blacken on his pale skin and his left eye was heavily swollen shut.

He glanced back at the kid for a moment and sighed. Sam was strong – Dean had no doubt about the kid’s resolve – but sometimes he wished he could protect him from all this crap. Fate had inexorably dealt the Winchesters the worst hand it possibly could have. They were nothing but pawns in a game that the cosmos had dreamt up and the universe seemed to be plotting against them.

They had never asked for any of this shit, they had never wanted it. Dean would have liked nothing more than to be sat at home, curled up in some girls arms, knowing his brother was a top notch lawyer. As it was the reality was somewhat different. The night of the fire had changed everything for the Winchesters. It had set their lives on a course that was beyond their control and beyond their comprehension. At least Dean had experienced four years of normality, Sam hadn’t even had one. Since he was six months old his younger brother had been dragged across country, his days filled with research, his nights filled with horror stories that weren’t tall tales. Dean wished he could give his brother back his innocence. He wished Sam had never been involved in any of this. However that was no longer his choice.

Slowly, Dean stepped into the hallway, giving his brother a last glance before pulling the double sliding doors closed. He made his way down the darkened, narrow corridor towards the far end of the house and stepped into Bobby’s study.

The mechanic gave him a brief look before turning back to the room. The two men who had attacked Sam were trussed up, tied to high backed chairs. The blond was glaring defiantly at them but the dark haired man’s head was lowered onto his chest. Bobby had patched the guy’s shoulder up – after all they weren’t murderers – but the man was obviously still in pain. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care about the assholes shoulder wound however. Not when he thought about what they had done to Sam.

“They said anything?” Dean asked Bobby in a low voice, his eyes still on the men.

“Not a damn word.”

Dean’s lip curled. “Yeah, well, they’ll talk.” He gave Bobby a meaningful look. “Trust me.”

Winchester moved over to the dark haired man, ignoring the eyes boring into his back from his associate. Fisting his fingers into his hair, he dragged his head up. The man stirred but didn’t come round fully. Dean patted his cheek roughly.

“Hey, sleeping beauty! Time to wake up, asshole.”

The man finally roused after some persuasion from Dean’s palm. Unfocused eyes rolled towards the young hunters face before sweeping around the room, taking in their current predicament.

“You know,” the dark haired man began, his voice slurring a little as he ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth wincing, “I usually get dinner before I get tied up.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t The Ivy, and I’m definitely not that kinda guy.” Dean deadpanned.

“I heard you were funny, Winchester. I didn’t realise that observation was grossly misinformed,” the man muttered.

Dean raised a brow. “Dude, I’m totally funny.”

The dark haired man glanced at the mechanic. “You know you can still walk away from this Mr Singer. No hard feelings.”

Bobby merely grunted, folding his arms over his chest and gave him a level stare.

“I guess I missed the introductions,” Dean said, glancing at the older hunter, “friends of yours?”

“Not even close,” Bobby scoffed. “Never met either of these dumb asses before.”

That didn’t bode well. Dean had assumed they were hunters but if Bobby didn’t know them that meant there was a group of ‘unknowns’ running around.

“Since you know who we are, I guess it’s only fair that we know who you are.”

The dark haired man brought his gaze back to Dean. “Civility, Mr Winchester? I am surprised. I had heard you were an uncouth thug.”

“No, I just make it a habit to know who my fist is connecting with.” Dean gave him his trademark shit-eating grin, his head tilting to the side a little.

The dark haired man shrugged, glancing briefly at his blond haired associate.

“I’m McGill.” The man dropped his eyes to Dean’s clenched hand. “Your fist can call me Thomas, however. My acquaintance is Roger Amory.”

The names didn’t ring a bell. He looked at the mechanic quizzically.

“Looking for a resume?” McGill snarked.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know, the attitude is really starting to piss me off.”

He leaned over McGill, his palms resting on the arms of the chair so that he was looking the dark haired man in the face. Dean had to give the guy credit; he didn’t even flinch at having the hunter in his personal space but met his gaze with stony eyes – eyes that had watched whilst his brother was beaten to a pulp. Dean lost his temper and pulled his glock from his waist band, flicking the safety catch back, pressing it against the guy’s temple. He wanted to kill the bastard, get Sam and run.

“Dean!”

Bobby’s warning cracked through the still air like lightning, halting the younger man’s finger on the trigger. He didn’t remove the gun however. He glanced over his shoulder at the mechanic, and then turned back to Captain Asshole. A fist full of knuckles sent McGill’s head reeling to the side. Dean watched with some satisfaction as the bastard spat blood.

“Let me guess,” McGill’s tone was irritatingly impassive, even as blood trickled down his chin, “this going to play out like one of those old police shows, with you playing the bad cop and Mr Singer maintaining the peace in the hope either myself or Mr Amory will talk.”

“Oh trust me, Thomas,” Dean drawled, flexing his fingers, his knuckles stinging, “this isn’t the French Connection and I’m not Jimmy Doyle. Start talking or next time I will be adding holes to your sorry ass.”

McGill merely smiled at him. The bastard was testing Dean’s already frayed patience. He wanted nothing more than to smack the smug expression off his face.

“You’re playin’ with fire, kid.” Dean had almost forgotten the blond man was even in the room and was even more surprised that Amory had spoken. He had been silent so far. “We have friends in circles higher than you could even imagine.”

The older Winchester kept his face neutral but his mind brushed over those words. Dean wondered if it was a diversionary tactic - meant to scare him into letting them go - or if it was simple truth. Either way Dean didn’t care. When it came to his little brother there was nothing he wouldn’t to do maintain his safety. He pulled the gun from McGill and turned his attention to Amory.

“You think I give a shit about your damn friends?” Dean growled. “Ten seconds to tell me what the hell is going on, and then I put another bullet in your pal here.” He gestured towards McGill with the gun. Amory’s face hardened but that was the only outward sign he gave of caring.

“No, you won’t Dean,” McGill said quietly, “you have never killed a human being in cold blood.”

“You know that for a fact?” He snapped.

“Actually, yes,” McGill said pointedly, “I know everything about you and your family, Mr Winchester.”

That surprised Dean. He schooled his features hastily. Never let an enemy see your weaknesses. It was a lesson John Winchester had instilled in them since birth.

“Yeah, well, I got a one way ticket downstairs anyway and I doubt they care if I get a few points on my soul in the mean time.”

“Do you even know what your brother is?” McGill continued in a low voice, gazing at him under heavy lids. Blood was beginning to seep through the white gauze on his shoulder. The bullet wound had to be hurting like hell. Dean smiled a little at that.

“Let me guess, the anti-Christ.” Winchester mocked, his tone scornful as he paced the floor with short steps.

He had heard enough crap about what Sam ‘supposedly’ was to last a life time. Dean just couldn’t see it. His little brother was a friggin saint, he probably should have been canonised.

“Not quite the phrase I would use,” McGill gave a haphazard shrug, “but I suppose its fitting enough.”

“You been talking to Gordon?” Dean demanded. This whole situation had a ring of Gordon the psychopathic vampire slayer.

“Mr Walker?” The man flicked a brow and laughed. “Delightful chap – if you can get passed the sociopathic lunacy of course.”

Dean stopped pacing.

“He send you to take my brother out?” Winchester pressed, his irritation rising. He was bored of sparing words. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. Dean was not a patient man and his patience was being severely pushed to its limits.

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t had the misfortune of meeting Mr Walker - thankfully. The man is…” McGill groped for a word. “…well crazy. I can’t think of a better place for him than as a ward of the state.”

“So, what?” Dean continued to tread his path into the hardwood floor. “You just thought up this plan to kill my brother all by yourself?”

“Not exactly,” McGill told him, a small smirk gracing his bloodied face. “Gordon Walker is not the only man who has a vested interest in Sam.”

A cold shiver ran through Dean at those words. He tried to maintain his hardened façade but it crumbled like old mortar. They had assumed Gordon was their only thorn. Evidently it was no so. Dean had no idea who these morons worked for and he didn’t like being in the dark. It was frightening.

“What the hell does that mean? Who the hell sent you?”

The man smirked at the slight apprehension in his tone.

“You really think I will disclose my contacts?” McGill asked somewhat amused. “Would you?”

“No. But then you’re the one tied to a chair,” Dean favoured him with a cheeky grin, “and I’m the one with a gun.”

McGill gave him a level stare.

“You think that killing myself and Mr Amory will keep your brother safe? Others will come for him. There is nowhere you can hide, nowhere we will not find you.” The threat was spoken so quietly that it took Dean a moment to see it for what it really was.

“You know you’re not really giving me a lot of reasons not to shoot you,” Winchester growled, his grin fading.

“I can think of a whole host of reasons why you shouldn’t, Dean,” McGill replied laconically.

“You beat the hell out of my brother, you’re lucky your face ain’t eating the floor right now.”

McGill snorted.

“Your brother is hardly defenceless.”

“His face disagrees,” Dean countered.

The man gave him a hard look, considering the arrogant hunter before him fleetingly.

“I aimed a gun at your brother’s head. I pulled the trigger. He should be dead.” Dean couldn’t prevent the snarl that passed his lips. This guy really did have a death wish. McGill continued on regardless. Either he didn’t sense the danger of prodding an already wound up Dean or he simply did not care. “I woke up five minutes later ten metres from where I had been stood, my head pounding, my face covered in blood. How I came to be that far from where I had been I don’t know but I’m guessing Sam does.”

Dean gave the man an incredulous stare. Sam had been unconscious when he got there. He had hadn’t even been able to hold his own weight, let alone inflict any damage on the bastard in the time it took Dean to hear the gun shot and get outside. Dean wasn’t entirely sure what this moron was suggesting but he didn’t like the underlying implications.

“You know as much as I love the riddles,” Dean spat sardonically, “I really don’t.”

“Your brother is not who you think he is, Dean.”

Rolling of eyes followed a snort of derisive laughter. “I raised that kid from the time I was four years old. I know Sam better than anyone on this planet. I know exactly who he is.”

“A psychic? A pawn in the hands of your yellow eyed friend?” McGill’s tone had changed. It was no longer reasonable but dry and tinted with scorn. Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. This guy knew too much about them. Far too much. It was unsettling. Who the hell were they working for? Dean almost wished it was Gordon. This unknown faction was making him nervous.

“Guess you didn’t get the memo about that one, huh? Yellow eyes made the mistake of screwing with Sam and I killed the bastard. You want to join my shit list along with Gordy, feel free, but you come near my brother again and I will kill you.”

“Then I guess this puts us both in a difficult position, Mr Winchester.” McGill actually sounded remorseful.

Dean turned to face him. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I guess it does.”

He glanced at the gun in his hand before raising his eyes back to the dark haired man. Dean had never killed a person before. At least not one that wasn’t supernatural. But these men wanted to kill Sam. They had promised as much. Dean wanted to end them both right now - remove the threat – every instinct in his body was screaming at him to do it. However, these men weren’t demons, they weren’t monsters. They were people. Human beings.

He ran his tongue over his lips, a little frightened of the thoughts ploughing ungraciously through his mind right now. All it would take was two bullets. Easy. Sam would be safe for a while longer but killing a man in cold blood was a step Dean had never taken before. He felt as if he was stood on a precipice, in danger of falling over the edge.

And then the moment passed. A gentle hand on his shoulder dragged him from the reverie. Bobby was looking at him intently, his other hand held open. Dean slowly –and somewhat reluctantly - placed the gun in his outstretched fingers and let the older man herd him into the corridor.

Dean waited until he had shut the door to the library behind him before allowing himself to breathe. Sometimes it scared the man the lengths he would go to in order to protect his dwindling family. He sagged back against the wall feeling suddenly exhausted.

“You ok?” Bobby asked a little hesitantly.

“Yeah.” Dean dragged a hand over his face. Things were spiralling out of control. “They ain't gonna tell us squat, Bobby. I know their type.”

“I know,” Bobby said quietly.

Dean risked a glance at the older man. “You know, these guys aren’t going to stop till Sam’s dead.”

Bobby didn’t say anything, just maintained an uneasy silence. They both understood the realities of the situation.

“I’m already guaranteed a place downstairs,” Dean continued more to himself, “not like I’ve got anything to lose.”

“You think your brother would want you to turn into a murderer for him?” Bobby hissed.

Dean tugged at his lip. His emotions were frayed, and conflicting. His need to protect Sam was overwhelming. It was burning a hole in him. His whole life he had looked after his little brother and lately he felt like he couldn’t even do that right anymore. Dean wouldn’t fail Sam again.

“I won’t let them kill him,” Dean replied stubbornly.

“I’m not saying you should, son and if it comes down to it, I’ll even give you the damn bullets myself but-“

“But what? I can’t lose the kid again, Bobby!”

“You’re not a killer, Dean,” the mechanic maintained with a shake of his head, “and you heard them yourself - others will come anyway.”

“So what do you suggest?” He retorted angrily, throwing his arms in the air, frustration rising within him. “Those guys are trigger happy and for some reason they think Sam is the friggin’ devil incarnate.”

Bobby pulled his cap off his head and ran a hand over his scalp. Dean noted he looked tired. His eyes were encircled with dark smudges and his expression was forlorn.

“You boys have faced this sort of thing before, Dean,” Bobby replied quietly, “and you’re both still here.”

Just about, Dean thought sourly.

He had less than a year to fix this whole mess, make sure Sam was safe before the kid was on his own. Dean didn’t want to sacrifice his soul just to have the kid get hunted down and assassinated two weeks after he was dragged down to hell. Dean sighed. Keeping Sam safe was his priority. Dean knew what he had to do, didn’t mean he necessarily had to like it.

 Chapter Seven:

Admissions

Dean moved into the kitchen, his mind racing. He heard footsteps behind him and knew Bobby had followed him. He didn’t look at the mechanic however, not sure he could face the apprehensive expression on the older hunters face. Reaching for the gun bag that was on the table, he rummaged through it, mentally checking the weapons were all there before zipping it closed. He knew they would be but he needed something to occupy him from Bobby’s gaze.

“Dean?” Bobby threw out, a slight bite of frustration in his voice. “Do you even have a plan here? Or are you just barrelling out of here without a damn idea of what you’re doing?”

Dean stopped what he was doing and slowly turned to face the older man. Truth be told he had no idea what he was doing. Amory and McGill were still a threat – a very real and very scary threat. Dean wanted nothing more than to take them both out of the picture but he also knew deep down that was not an option. His next route was to get Sam, get the Impala and drive as far as was humanly possible. Both plans sucked but there was no way he could get on a plane and disappear abroad – his fear of flying aside he was still a wanted felon.

Shoulders slumping, Dean leaned his hands on the table and took a frustrated sigh. He was tired of this life. He was tired of constantly running. He was tired of things trying to hurt his family.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Bobby,” he admitted, dragging a rough hand over his face. “I don’t know a damn thing! All I know is that those assholes want to kill my brother and since I can’t kill them, I gotta put as much space between us and them as I can!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb Bobby didn’t speak for a moment. Dean could almost hear the cogs turning.

“I have a contact in the PD,” The mechanic said eventually, “he’s helped me out in the past. Couple of nights in the slammer ought to give you and Sam a good head start. It’s not much but…”

“Bobby…” Dean began, “C’mon man, this isn’t your problem.”

Last thing they needed was for Bobby to get arrested for shooting McGill. Not only that, Dean didn’t want to put the man at risk. These men meant business and Dean had lost too many people to risk losing Bobby as well.

The mechanic didn’t see it that way however.

“Like hell it’s not, Dean!” The older man growled. “You and Sam are the closest damn thing I’ve got to family. That makes it my problem.”

Dean gave him a grateful smile. His words hit a spot that Dean rarely opened up – his heart. It made him feel somewhat better knowing there was someone else out there who cared about him and Sam. Most of the time Dean felt so alone.

“Thank you,” Dean said, and he truly meant it.

Bobby favoured him with a small smile. Then he turned and moved over to one of the kitchen cabinets. He rustled inside it for a moment before stuffing something into Dean’s hand.

“This should help you boys out for a while,” Bobby said.

The hunter gave him a quizzical look before lowering his eyes. The mechanic had shoved a handful of bills at him. There must have been nearly two thousand dollars there –if not more. It was more money than Bobby made in a month.

“Jesus,” Dean murmured softly before snapping his gaze back to the mechanic. “Bobby, I can’t take this.”

The older hunter merely shrugged, folding his arms over his chest.

“Sure you can. It will keep you and Sam fed for a while at least.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Dean breathed. Their cash supplies were nearing empty and credit card scams were difficult at best. It meant they wouldn’t have to worry about money for a few months. It was one load off the older Winchester’s mind.

“Just don’t spend it all at once,” Bobby warned grinning.

“Thanks,” Dean said sincerely. “I uh… I don’t know when we’ll be able to call you next.”

“Just keep that brother of yours out of trouble,” Bobby said. “I’ll be here when you need me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam awoke painfully. His head was pounding, his body was aching. He was pretty sure he hadn’t invited the damn marching band in to his brain but nevertheless it had taken up residency in the base of his skull and was playing some kind of war march.

“Here.”

Sam opened his eyes slowly and reached up to take the ice pack his brother was offering him. He hadn’t even heard the older man enter.

“Thanks,” Sam muttered, hissing as he pressed the cold pack to his bruised face. It hurt like hell. His cheek bones felt as if someone had smashed them into little pieces and put them back under his skin. Of course, it wasn’t far from the truth. “How long was I out for?”

“An hour or so,” Dean replied quietly. “How’s your head?”

“Aching,” Sam replied with a grimace.

Sam was lucky really – although he didn’t feel it at the moment - the head wound was the worst of his injuries. Aside from a splitting headache, some bruising to his chest, a hell of a lot of pain to his shoulder and face he was fine.

It could have been a whole lot worse.

As it was lying supine on the couch, hurting from head to toe seemed a small price to pay. Those guys had meant to kill him. He was lucky to have got out in one piece at all.

“I still think you should have that geek head of yours x-rayed,” Dean told him, his tone serious. His tone had been serious since he got Sam back into the house but this was laced with something more, something that Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on. He studied his brother’s face carefully, looking for any outward sign of what was wrong but he couldn’t place it. What the hell is he hiding from me?

“Yeah, that would be great Dean, except that you’re on the F.B.I’s most wanted list. I’m not sure checking into a County hospital is such a smart idea.” He would have to be a step from death to go the hospital. It was too risky.

Dean seemed to mull that over for a moment before rolling his shoulders.

“Screw the Feds, dude. If you need a doctor-”

“I’m fine – ok?” Sam quickly assured him, seeing that dangerous paternal look beginning to materialise – the one that said Dean would go in all guns blazing if necessary. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.” I’ve had worse. “I’m just tired.”

And that was the honest truth. Sam felt as if he had been run over by a truck and then reversed back over. Everything hurt. Everything ached. He wanted nothing more than to spend a week in bed. He was exhausted.

Green eyes hardened their gaze on him momentarily. “Sam-“

“Dean, seriously I’m ok. Stop fussing.”

His older sibling fell silent, studying the younger man carefully as if expecting him to collapse right there. Finally his hands dropped on to his hips, his tall frame relaxing a little.

“You know, we’re gonna have to have a chat about your friends, man,” Dean muttered under his breath, “they’re bad news.”

Sam snorted, closing his eyes. He hoped it would tame the droning in his head but it was a foolish hope. If anything it made him feel dizzier.

“Friends?” He replied thickly, his words feeling heavy on his lips. “We’re hardly the Scooby gang.”

Dean raised a brow. “Does that make you Sarah Michelle Gellar?”

The younger man cracked an eye open. “I’m not even going there.”

His brother laughed a little before sitting on the recliner opposite the couch, but it seemed forced. In fact everything about his stance seemed wrong. His shoulders were slumped, and he barely met the young man’s gaze. Sam watched him carefully as Dean shifted back against the cushions, his mood sombre as he dragged a hand over his chin.

Frowning deeply Sam wondered what was on his brother’s mind.

“Do you remember what happened?” Dean asked, somewhat hesitantly after a pause.

Sam wasn’t entirely sure. His last memory was a gun being fired and then blinding pain in his head. The next thing he remembered was coming around in Bobby’s living room as Dean lowered him onto the couch. Sam hadn’t given much thought to what had unfolded in the yard, he had just been grateful to be alive. He surmised that his brother had – as always – rode in on a white horse and saved his life.

Vaguely, he recalled what had started this whole spiralling mess – the shadowed figure.

Sam wondered what the hell it was and why it was following him. He had always been a supernatural beacon but even so this thing was starting to freak him out. Absently, he wondered if it was linked to the two men who had jumped him.

His tired, cracked brain didn’t seem to want to offer any insight into the events of the evening however and so he pushed it to the back of his mind temporarily. Sam gave a brief thought to telling his brother about the shadow but decided against it. Dean’s mood was already tenuous.

“No…” Sam started slowly. “I went outside and then…” He paused wondering how to explain it. “I guess they were waiting. They jumped me. After that everything’s a bit hazy.”

Dean sighed wearily. “You know if you wanted an attention all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to get your skull cleft in two.”

“Any idea who they are?” Sam asked.

If Sam hadn’t been worried before he was now. His brother’s expression sent chills racing through him. It was a mixture of cold anger and deep seated anxiety. And then it was gone, passed in the blink of an eye as if it had never been there only to be replaced with a stony, stoicism that belied his Winchester roots.

“Dean?” Sam threw out tentatively, unsure how to take his older siblings changing moods. “What?”

Dean pushed himself slowly to his feet. “You think you can handle the Impala?”

“We’re leaving?” Sam struggled into a sitting position, his lungs and chest burning with the exertion. He winced, hissing sharply under his breath, trying in vain to ignore the swirling vortex that was sucking the room into the back of retinas. He must have swayed to the side because suddenly familiar strong hands grabbed him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt.

“Easy.” He heard his brother’s deep voice murmur near to his ear, easing him back against the couch.

Sam blinked, clearing the haze after several moments. Dean was kneeling on the floor in front of him, green agates searching his face. He maintained a hold on the younger man but moved his other hand around the base of Sam’s neck.

“You ok?” There was a crack of apprehension in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” He muttered.

Sam let his eyes trail his brother’s face for a moment. Dean was hiding something from him and that worried Sam. Dean only kept secrets when things were bad.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam asked, his voice sounded strained and weak. The exertion of sitting up had left him panting for breath. Absently, Sam wondered how the hell he was supposed to get to the impala, let alone travel in it for god knows how many hours. The thought of being cramped in the car didn’t fill him with joy.

“Dude, nothing’s going on.” Dean gave him a reassuring smile, but Sam saw right through it. He knew his brother too well.

There was no emotion Dean could hide from Sam - no matter what he thought. Sam would eventually get to the bottom of it. He had spent his entire life trailing after the older man. He knew every gesture, every sigh, and every eyebrow flick. Sam could read his brother like a book and - despite his best efforts - Dean could only hide his feelings for so long before Sam figured it out.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sam admonished, feeling frustrated with his brother’s denials. “What did you do with those men?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, relinquished his grip on his brother and rose to his feet.

“Ten minutes, Sam and we’re hitting the road.”

“No way,” Sam scowled, forcing himself to his feet with his uninjured hand.

As his six foot four frame straightened he felt a rush of blood to his head that made him stagger. His brother was already reaching out for him to steady him.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Dean snapped.

“Not until you talk to me,” Sam repeated forcefully, attempting to blink the haze away but it remained stubbornly there. He was starting to feel sick and had to swallow several times to remove the sensation.

“Look, it’s sorted. Everything’s fine.” Dean tried to guide him back over to the couch but Sam pulled out of his grip, ignoring the fact he lurched to one side and had to be supported by Dean once more.

“I’m not an idiot!”

“Sam, sit the hell down!”

There was a sharp bite in the tone and finally, out of necessity rather than obedience, Sam reclaimed his seat on the edge of the couch. It was sit down or fall down by this point. His head was rolling around his skull, dizziness settling in the periphery of his vision.

“Dean-“ Sam murmured, his voice wavering.

“I told you I handled it!”

“What do you mean you handled it?” Sam demanded, his stomach clenching as icy fear wrapped around the somersaulting organ. It had a ring of finality to it that frightened Sam.

“Stop worrying!”

“Dean, just tell me what’s going on! You can’t protect me from everything.”

“Of course I can,” Dean snapped. “That’s my job, Sammy.”

“No. It’s not.”

Dean spun to face him, his expression unreadable.

“You’re my little brother. Do you think I'm ever going to let anything happen to you?”

Sam snorted a little. “I’m not a kid. I don’t need you to hold my hand. I need to know what’s coming Dean. I need to be able to protect myself!” He refrained from adding 'you won't always be here'. It was too painful to say and would only irritate the already angry Dean.

“Yeah ok, I get it, Sam. You’re a big boy now.” His older sibling rolled his eyes. “To me you’re still my kid brother - a damn pain in the ass but still my little brother. I’m always gonna look out for you.”

Whilst Sam was touched by Dean’s revelation it irked him. Dean sacrificed so much for Sam and the younger man wanted Dean to realise that it wasn’t always his job to pull him from the fire. However Dean had been doing it for so long that Sam doubted he could stop it now – even if he wanted to. With a sigh Sam took the conversation back to the original topic.

“So who were these guys? Hunters?”

A shrug followed a snort.

“I dunno Sam, they didn’t say jack.” The older Winchester dragged a hand over his face. “They’re pro’s though, I’ll give them that.”

“Is that why you want to run?”

Things were starting to fall into place. Sam wished they weren’t.

Something in his brother snapped. Sam saw the moment it happened. He saw the slight twitch in his face, the slight tremble in his hands and the dark glare in his eyes.

“They want you dead, Sammy! So yeah we’re running! We’re getting the hell out here and we’re running away like a bunch of friggin’ girls! And right now we’re on the clock so do you think you can stop with the hundred Q and A and just trust me?”

Sam blinked at that revelation. The pummelling to his face had told him that they wanted him dead but hearing the actual words scared him more than he would have ever admitted to Dean. It wasn’t like they were the first group of hunters to want him dead –and no doubt they wouldn’t be the last – but even so it sent a wave of panic through him. Sam wondered if he would ever be free to just live his life with no complications. It was as unlikely as the sun coming up green tomorrow.

“So where are we going?” Sam asked quietly, afraid of probing his brother too much. Dean was already riled up.

“Anywhere,” Dean replied irritably but he also sounded weary. “We'll just keep moving till we figure this shit out.”

Sam nodded, still unable to gain a hold of his thumping heart.

This whole thing was spiralling out of control.

Shadows, hunters and demons – was nothing ever simple?

Chapter Eight:

Jacob

Rupert Haines had been a cop for over twenty years.

He had joined the force at eighteen, bright and blue eyed but years on the streets had made him very aware of reality. People were crazy – of that he had no doubt. He had seen it all in his long career. Murders, drug overdoses, traffic accidents - things that most people only dreamt of in their worst nightmares. Rupert had become hardened to it all however. He took most things with a pinch of salt and put it down the temperament of the new generation. The ‘must-have-everything-now’ ideals of the youth of South Dakota kept him on his toes.

He had become a cop for several reasons. In the beginning it had been to protect people; these days it was more about the nice fat pension. Truth be told he was tired of his job. He couldn’t wait to retire. Every day seemed to reveal more evils in the world and Haines was tired of the whole thing. He wanted out.

He had been asleep, when his cell phone had woken him. He had cursed himself for not turning the damn thing off and had grudgingly answered it.

He was glad he had however.

Rupert hadn’t heard from Bobby Singer in three years – had it really been that long? Hastily he had listened to the man and agreed to meet him. Dragging himself out of bed, he had muttered an apology to his wife that, judging from the scornful expression on her face, had not been well received.

Shelia was pissed.

Not that he blamed her. This was the third time this week he had been called into work in the middle of the night but Haines couldn’t ignore a call from Singer. He owed the man too much. The mechanic had saved his daughters life.

Pulling on a wrinkled suit and a clean button down shirt, he attempted to flatten his shaggy brown hair to little avail and finally gave it up as a bad job. It was four thirty in the morning. There was no looking professional.

Rupert had completed the twenty minute drive to Singer's Salvage Yard in less than fifteen. He guided his new Ford into the scrap yard, pulling up in front of the battered house. Haines wondered what the hell was going to greet him - considering Singer’s real line of work - and so he was a little perplexed to see the man stood alone.

Bobby was leaning on the railings of the porch, a dark blue baseball cap pulled over his head. He hadn’t changed much in the years since Rupert had last seen him. That surprised the Detective. He was fairly sure he looked ten years older than he was and he wasn’t running around battling the forces of evil.

Climbing out of the vehicle, Rupert shut the door behind him and shoved his hands into his pockets before strolling over to the man.

“Sorry ‘bout the late hour, Rupert,” Bobby said by way of greeting. Haines merely shrugged, his eyes flicking around the yard. Nothing seemed to be untoward and it made Haines edgy.

“You said you needed my help.” The police officer finally brought his gaze back to the mechanic. “What’s going on?”

Bobby took a deep breath and pulled his cap off. His hair was thinning and on closer inspection Haines realised the man looked exhausted.

“I got a problem,” Bobby explained. “Two assholes broke in. I had to shoot one of them.”

Haines raised a brow. It seemed a little extreme but then in Bobby’s line of work perhaps not.

“They human?” He ventured, his mouth suddenly dry.

“That’s why I called you,” Bobby said with a grimace.

Rupert raked his fingers through his hair. “You kill them?”

“No. I got them tied up in the back.” Haines raised a brow at that and Singer began to explain. “They were-“

“Don’t tell me,” Rupert interrupted with a wave of his hands. “The less I know the better.”

Rupert Haines was well aware of what existed in the world. He had experienced it first hand. It didn’t mean he had to like it however. The whole supernatural-weird-occult thing gave him the creeps. Haines wasn’t a man given to fancies. He believed what he could see. He had thought demons and spirits were nothing more than tales told by Hollywood to dumb ass kids too stupid to know any better. However that rug had been well and truly pulled from underneath him.

Bobby had called it ‘transference’ – a possession. Rupert hadn’t believed a word of it to begin with. He had even given a thought to having the mechanic sectioned in a mental hospital. However as the days had passed it had become more obvious that Georgia’s behaviour had become more and more erratic. At a loss, Rupert had called the mechanic and begged him to help his daughter.

Haines remembered the exorcism clearly. It had been soul destroying to watch his child thrashing about as the man read the Latin incantation. Haines had nearly had a heart attack when black smoke erupted out of the tiny girl’s mouth but she had immediately returned to her normal self following the incident. Rupert Haines had become a believer right there.

Since then he had helped the mechanic out of a number of sticky spots. He wanted the man out there, fighting these damn things.

As long as Bobby Singer was doing so it meant Rupert could keep his own nose well and truly out the supernatural world.

“You better come see for yourself.” Bobby turned towards the house.

The older man led Rupert into a back room. Singer’s house stank of antiseptic and Haines hoped that meant he had at least tried to patch the man up. A gunshot wound was one thing – a dead body was harder to get around. It required CSI’s, Coroners and various other nosy individuals that Rupert wanted to keep out of this.

Navigating the small corridor, Bobby finally halted at a set of double doors, pushing them open.

Haines merely flicked his brow as he let his eyes scan around the newly exposed room.

Two men were each bound to a chair. One was as fair as the other was dark, both were patched in blood. The two men glanced up at the sound of the door and favoured Haines and Singer with a murderous glare.

At least they were both alive. That was something at least.

Rupert had no idea how he was going to explain this mess down at the precinct. Gunshot wounds had to be reported. Reported meant paper work. Paper work meant the Captain would find out…

The Captain always found out. It was his job to find these things out. Rupert wasn’t sure he would have plausible answers when that happened however. Dragging a hand across his stubbly chin, Haines turned to the mechanic.

“I’ll take them downtown. I’ll have to come back in the morning though - take a formal statement.”

Bobby nodded, a small smile gracing his wrinkled face.

“’Course. Thanks Rupert.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Once the two men were handcuffed, Rupert Haines settled the pair into the back of his car. He would have to take the dark haired man to a hospital and get his shoulder wound checked out. The last thing he wanted was for the asshole to croak on him. It meant far too much paperwork – god knows there was going to be enough as it was. He propped his forearms on the driver’s door.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Bobby.”

“Thanks again, Rupert.”

Grunting, the detective climbed into the vehicle. He still had no idea how the hell he was supposed to explain this to his Captain. He was grateful for what Bobby had done for his family but sometimes he wondered if it really required this much retribution. He could lose his job over this. He was messing with an investigation. If he got caught he could kiss his big fat pension goodbye – probably his freedom as well. The PD did not tolerate bent cops – especially not bent cops who screwed with criminal proceedings.

Sighing, Rupert started the engine and pulled out of the yard.

The police department lay about thirty minutes away. Haines risked glancing in his rear view mirror and felt his unease rising. Both suspects hadn’t spoken a word since they had left Singer's. It was making him uncomfortable. Most of the idiots he arrested usually ranted and raved about being unfairly detained. These two were as silent as the dead.

He was so busy trying to suss McGill and Amory out that he didn’t see the black SUV until it was too late.

It impacted the driver’s side with a deafening crunch, the jolt skimming the smaller vehicle across the road like a pebble on water. Haines slammed the steering wheel to the right, trying to straighten the skid but the bigger car had the advantage of power, bulk and speed. The five door hatchback didn’t stand a chance.

Haines turned back to the road and winced. The car was heading down an embankment into a field. He saw the tree, noticed it was getting closer and tried to pull the wheels out of its path whilst slamming his foot onto the brake. But it was too late. The momentum of the crash kept the vehicle moving and the steering seemed to have locked. He closed his eyes waiting for the impact.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Head snapped back and then forward before the detective hit the dashboard with a sickening thud that sent his vision rolling. Nauseous crawled up his throat as he tried to lift from the steering wheel but his head felt so heavy. Rupert was sure he was bleeding. He was certain the warm sensation down the side of his face could be nothing else. He raised his eyes a little and tried to take in the scene.

The hood was crumpled around the trunk of a heavy set pine and the side panelling was encroaching into the drivers seat touching his side – his left arm was pinned between the seat and the metal. Wincing he felt unconsciousness calling him but he knew he had to call for help. No one knew he was out here and given the late hour and the remoteness of the road it was unlikely anyone would find the car anytime soon.

He tried to move his free arm to pull his cell from the glove compartment but the snap of agony that tore through the limb halted the action. Breathing raggedly he tried to control the pain but it was proving impossible. Everything hurt. He glanced in the rear mirror.

McGill and Amory had their heads tipped backwards, blood caking their cheeks. Haines wasn’t sure if it was old or new – he didn’t really care, his own pain overshadowing theirs. The two men were blinking owlishly but they were alive. It was a small consolation. This was just more paper work to add to the already growing stack.

Rupert’s attention was suddenly diverted by the sound of a car door slamming. He tried to turn his head but couldn’t. Instead he flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror and felt his heart stop.

A dark figure had emerged from the SUV and was steadily making its way down the incline to the car. Rupert wasn’t surprised when he heard the back door of the Ford creak open.

Swallowing convulsively he willed his right arm to move. His gun was in his holster at his side. If he could just reach it… however nothing seemed to be complying. Helplessness washed over him in thick waves. He felt like a field mouse staring into the eyes of a hawk.

“McGill and Amory.” The figure was male, his voice guttural. The accent was undistinguished but it had a faint southern twang to it. Possibly Arkansas… possibly not. Rupert didn’t feel with it enough to decipher the man’s dialect. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Screw you,” the blond man, Amory, growled but it sounded pained.

Evidently this had not been an accident. This man had meant to get Amory and McGill alone. This whole thing had the ring of a 1930s mafia hits about it and that made Haines hedgy.

What the hell Singer has got me involved in?

Rupert glanced in the mirror and through his wavering vision managed to get a look at the man who had rammed them off the road.

He could just about see brown unruly hair and could barely make out the man’s features but he did notice a long scar down his right cheek. His vision blurred again forcing him to blink.

With half his senses offline, Rupert found himself listening to the conversation with a strange feeling of detachment. It was all he could do. He couldn’t move and his eyes weren’t working the way they should have been. He was trapped in his own weak body.

“I guess age didn’t bring you manners, Roger,” the driver of the SUV replied absently.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jacob?” McGill‘s voice cracked with authority. It was the same tone Rupert had heard the Captain use on several occasions – usually when he was pissed with him.

“I was in the neighbourhood.” Jacob’s laugh sounded deep in the small confines of the vehicle. “You two really fucked up. Never seen such a mess in my life. I’m sure Escott will be proud of your actions tonight.”

“Were you following us?” Amory demanded, slurring a little as if he was intoxicated.

“Yes.” He seemed unperturbed by this revelation. “I saw you get your asses handed to you on a plate by a bit of kid. Embarrassing really.”

“He’s hardly a kid,” McGill countered but the words were given no response.

The tone of the conversation suddenly changed. Rupert felt it as if the temperature had dropped several degrees. The air was heavy and thick. He felt as if he was listening to something that was none of his business. He wished he could get up and walk away from the whole thing. His pinned arm made that impossible however. He wanted to stop the surreal nightmare but this was not a dream and Rupert was certainly not able to wake from it.

“Play time is over,” Jacob snarled like a wild animal, “I want answers. Where did the Winchester boys go?” Jacob demanded.

There was no answer. Rupert almost felt sorry for the two men in the back of his car. Almost.

“C’mon assholes!” Jacob practically yelled. “Answers. Sharpish. Where are they?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Amory snapped although it held little conviction. The man sounded too weak to make a statement.

A shot rang out. Rupert jumped. His heart almost stopped. In fact he was fairly certain it had momentarily and then the heavy beating made itself known once more.

Amory was groaning through gritted teeth, his breath dragging out.

“Son of a bitch!” Amory barked.

“Perhaps now you will see that I’m serious, Mr Amory,” Jacob deadpanned.

Rupert didn’t dare raise to his eyes to the mirror; he didn’t want to see what was happening behind him. Instead he kept his focus on the dashboard in front of him.

“Jacob-“ McGill snapped the name but there was an underlying warning in the tone.

“I’m not playing games, Thomas. If you know where they are you better start talking.”

“We don’t know. They took off.” McGill admitted somewhat reluctantly.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find them,” the man, Jacob, said quietly.

There was click of metal that Rupert recognised. It made his blood run cold. The Detective wished he could disappear into the upholstery. “You both failed tonight,” Jacob continued, “they got away and out of your grasp.” He snorted a derisive laugh. “Escott will be pissed but trust me when I tell you pair of dumb asses that his level of anger isn’t even half way to how angry I am right now. Tonight will be your undoing.”

Rupert jumped.

He couldn’t help it. The two simultaneous gun shots sent fear spiking through the roof of his already frayed nerves. He closed his eyes listening to the two men take their last breaths and waited for a third shot, a life time of regret assaulting him. He wished he could tell Shelia he loved her. He wished he could talk to Georgia; tell her he was proud of her. He wished he had taken more beach holidays. Bought that villa in Spain…

But the shot never came.

The sound of the SUV engine revved and then disappeared up the road.

Rupert risked cracking his eyes open. The man, Jacob, was gone.

Rupert swallowed hard and glanced in the mirror at the two dead men in the back of his car. He had never been so grateful to be alive. It could have all ended for him and yet he was still here –albeit in a goddamn awful mess.

The captain was going to rip him a new one for this.

Maybe it would have been better to be shot...

Chapter Nine:

Almost Revelations

It was a little after nine thirty in the evening. The Winchester brothers had left Bobby’s just before half four in the morning and raced across country as fast as the Impala could go. Dean had wanted to put as much distance between them and the psychotic nut jobs from last night. As it was seventeen hours on the road had only put them in south Nebraska, not too far from the Colorado border - much to Dean’s dismay. It didn’t seem far enough. He felt the imminent threat looming on the horizon like rain clouds threatening to burst.

The open road snaked into the distance, the sun settling behind the hills on the horizon bathing the landscape in hazy reds. Leaning his elbow against the window frame, his hand settled idly on the steering wheel as he stifled a yawn. He was bored of driving and the breeze coming through the open window was welcomed. It was too hot and Dean was tired.

As much as he loved his car there was only so much time Dean was willing to spend in her – especially when he was still recovering from ghost-induced wounds.

Carrying Sam into the house in the early hours of the morning had put enough strain on his stitched side as it was and his body was beginning to let him know – forcefully – that it wasn’t happy with him.

Dean glanced at the passenger seat and couldn’t help but pull a face. He wondered how the hell Sam was doing. There was no way that being in the car for this length of time was helping his injuries. However, the man had not complained once. In fact he had retained a stony silence that was worrying the older man.

Dean recognised the look. Sam was brooding.

“I think we should find a motel,” Dean said finally breaking the silence. He didn’t cope very well with the quiet but he couldn’t help but wince at how loud his voice sounded.

“I’m ok for a bit longer,” Sam mumbled, shifting a little in the seat.

He tried to hide the grimace, but Dean saw it. In a way he admired the strength of his younger sibling to put a brave face on the whole thing but he also wished the kid would just be honest. Sam was far from ok and they both knew it.

“Bull – and even if you’re ok I’m not.” Dean didn’t miss the apprehensive look his younger sibling threw his way, hazel eyes seeking out his face for any signs of injury or hurt. Dean almost rolled his eyes. “I’m tired and hungry,” he continued to explain before the kid freaked out.

“Oh. Ok,” Sam said quietly and turned his attention back to the fields flicking passed the window. The stoic expression returned in full force.

Dean sighed and focused on the road. He couldn’t stand it when Sam blocked him out like this. It never boded well. Sam was usually the more emotional of the two – and not in a whiny kind of way but in a need-to-express-every-little-thing kind of way. The silent treatment was driving Dean mad. Nine hours with monosyllabic conversation was not his idea of fun.

“Sammy?” Dean pressed weakly. He needed the younger man to say something – to tell him he was alright.

“Yeah?”

Dean scowled and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. He didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t know what to say to help his brother. He wasn’t entirely sure how to bring Sam out of his brooding because he wasn’t entirely sure what he was brooding about. Was it just the attack? Or was it something more…? Dean hadn’t told him any of what McGill had said – and he didn’t plan on doing so either – but something was definitely going on in Sam’s head and Dean needed to know what it was. He needed to find a way to fix it. He couldn’t cope with the downcast look in his brother’s eyes any longer.

“I just… Do you need to talk about this crap?” Dean winced at how lame that sounded but his need to comfort his brother overrode the blatant chick flick moment. He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze back to the road.

“I’m fine.”

Dean thought about leaving it there and letting it go – he was already in far deeper than he wanted to be – but he couldn’t. Sam needed him. That thought drove him to speak again.

“C’mon, we both know that’s shit! You’ve barely spoken since we left Bobby’s - and usually I would count that as a friggin’ blessing - but…” I’m worried about you.

Dean willed himself to say the words but he couldn’t. He had closed that part of himself off a long time ago. There were too many walls in place now and he wasn’t sure he could pull them down any more - not even to comfort his brother.

Sam raised his eyes to him, dark bangs trailing across his brow and narrowed his gaze.

“What do you want me to say Dean? I’m freaked out, ok?” There was anger in the tone but Dean recognised the slight tremor that belied Sam’s fear. “There’s a bunch of people out there who pretty much want me dead, and somehow or other I dodged a bullet this morning, with no recollection of how it happened.”

Dean felt his heart sink. He hoped Sam would not remembered that but evidently the prolific Winchester bad luck was back in full force – well it had been sniffing around since those two assholes showed up. Dean recalled what McGill had said and winced.

He had no idea what Sam had done – part of him didn’t care, it had kept him alive – but if he was truly honest with himself he had to admit that it had been playing on his mind. McGill said he had fired the gun. He said he had pulled the trigger at Sam and yet the kid had been ok. It didn’t make a lick of sense. None of this shit did.

“The guy was a crap shot, Sam.” It was a lame reply. So lame in fact that Dean wished he could shove the words back into his mouth.

Sam’s snort of incredulity was enough to prove his words were empty.

“Dean, he fired a gun at me and I don’t have a mark!”

His mouth open to refute the claim that Sam didn’t have a mark on him; his face was a mangled mess of cuts and bruises.

Dean quickly closed it however. Sam was giving him a look that almost cracked his resolve. The kid wanted answers and Dean was reluctant to give them.

Shifting uncomfortably Dean tried to make his brain move faster than it was. Sam had enough to deal with without this as well – whatever this was – but he couldn’t think of an excuse to cover what had happened, he didn’t have a lie to feed to his brother to reassure him. There was no rational explanation for what had occurred. Sam should have been dead – and his younger sibling knew that. Even Dean knew that. McGill and Amory were pro’s, the shot should have been perfect and yet something had gone astray.

“Sam-“ His uncertainty cracked through the word.

“I think I did something… to him,” Sam murmured under his breath, cutting the older man off before he had a chance to offer false assurances.

Dean narrowed his brow, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times whilst trying to formulate a coherent sentence. After the longest pause of his life he managed it.

“What the hell could you have done, Sam? You were hurt!”

“Exactly,” Sam countered.

Scowling, Dean shook his head. He knew where Sam was going with this.

“C’mon, what the hell are you talking about Sam? You think you did some kind of freaky mind-meld on the son of a bitch?” It was said with scorn but even as Dean spoke the words he felt the truth of it weighing on him. He was wondering the same thing himself. The whole situation had been bugging him since McGill opened his damn mouth.

“It’s not the first time I’ve moved things like that,” Sam shot back. Dean didn’t miss the challenge in his tone.

He schooled his hardened feature to impassive. Dean had no idea how he managed it but the only sign he gave that the whole Max Miller situation had rings of déjà vu to this was a slight twitch in his face. His inner voice was a different matter. She was screaming at him to wake up and smell the coincidence.

“Dude, that was totally different.”

“How, Dean?”

“Well…” He groped for an explanation. Right now he would have settled for a comprehensive sentence. Neither came. Sam took Dean's floundering as an opening to continue.

“Dean, I think… I think I stopped the gun or something. I think that when I get frigh-” Sam pulled a face, stopping what he was about to say before taking a breath and continuing along a different thought path. “I think maybe it’s like some kind of freak adrenaline thing and my body reacts when under stress, allowing me to do things I wouldn’t normally be able to do. Like moving heavy objects…”

Or people…?

The older Winchester turned his gaze back to the road, regretting starting this conversation. Somehow or other it had lost its direction. Dean had expected his brother to be worried about the men hunting them, about the demon war, about the deal. He hadn’t expected a half assed confession about telekinesis.

The problem was that Dean knew Sam had done something to McGill. He largely suspected he had done something to Amory as well but he forced the image of the blond mans prone form from his mind.

One problem at a time, dude.

He could feel Sam’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head, waiting for answers, for a solution. Dean had neither. He didn’t have a clue what any of this shit meant. They had both assumed that with yellow eyes dead Sam’s powers would go. Apparently assuming anything could go right for them was a colossal mistake.

“Dean, what?”

Blinking, the older man snapped out of his thoughts.

“Nothing Sam, I don’t know, ok?”

This whole situation was beyond the realms of weird – even by their standards.

“Don’t treat me like I’m a kid. If you know something tell me.”

Dean made his decision. It took less than a heart beat to make. He didn’t know if it was right or not but he was doing this for Sam, to protect his brother; nothing was more important.

Sam needed to know what was coming. Dean wasn’t always going to be around and his brother had to be clued up. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and cut the engine, staring out of the windshield.

Trees lined either side of the road, a valley dropped over the edge and smoothed out on the passenger side, houses nestled in the hillside. There was no other traffic on the road and Dean was grateful for that. The last thing they needed was a Good Samaritan to stop and see if they had broken down – especially whilst him and Sam were discussing demons and psychic powers.

“McGill… he uh… he told me something,” Dean said finally.

“What did he tell you?” There was a hint of fear underneath the brave façade. Dean wished he didn’t have to do this. He wished he didn’t have to dump more on the twenty-four year olds shoulders. Unfortunately wishing was a luxury Dean did not have.

“He said…” Dean exhaled loudly and paused. It was difficult to say. Saying it meant handing Sam his worst fears on a silver platter. Dean hated to do that to him. “He said he shot you, Sam. He said he pulled the trigger but nothing happened – at least not to you.”

A puzzled look faded into a stern quizzical expression.

“What?”

Dean turned and met Sam’s eyes before glancing away again. It was too hard to look at the kid.

“He said he came around and was stood… in a different place.” Dean winced at the words as he said them. They seemed foreign in his mouth, nonsensical even. He wanted Sam to refute them but the kid was showing no sign of doing so.

Sam stared at him for a moment and then pulled his brow in further, eyeing him feverishly.

“What the hell does that mean, Dean?”

“I don’t know, Sam!” The older hunter snapped.

“Well, did I move him? Did I use the power of my friggin’ mind to propel him across the friggin’ yard?”

“I don’t know!” Dean repeated irritably. He had no clue what any of it meant.

Sam pulled a face. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

“I did! He said he shot you and nothing happened. Then he came around in a different place.”

“This doesn’t make any sense!” Sam’s voice rose. It cracked as he spoke, tinged with emotion. “I mean all this psychic crap was linked to the Demon! He’s dead! This shouldn’t be happening.”

Dean almost lost it right there. His need to kill or maim something was growing. He wanted to tell Sam it would be alright, that everything would work out but he couldn't. He didn't have any answers. He couldn’t bear the look in the kid’s eyes – that desolate, despairing look. Dean placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s neck.

“Look, we’ll figure this out ok?” I’m here for you, no matter what.

Dean wished he could put weight behind that. He was here for Sam – for the next eleven months at least. After that his brother was on his own. That played with Dean’s mind, taunting him mercilessly. He had saved his brothers life only to risk leaving him alone with a bunch of psychotic bounty hunters running around. Dean didn’t want to leave his brother whilst all this stuff was going on but that wasn’t his choice anymore.

He pushed that firmly from his mind.

He had eleven months to find out who the hell McGill and Amory were working for and burn the whole lot of them into the ground. Dean wouldn’t leave his brother alone to face these people, even if he had to hunt them down one at a time and gut them.

“Sam?” Dean repeated when Sam didn’t respond. The absorbed look on his face worried the older sibling. Finally the hunter looked up, tension and anxiety in his face. “Ok?” Dean asked again.

Sam slowly nodded and Dean patted the younger man on the leg in what he hoped was a soothing gesture before restarting the engine.

There was no way those sons of bitches were getting anywhere near his brother and Dean had nothing to lose now. He was guaranteed a place downstairs and he was more than prepared to earn it if necessary.

They arrived in the tiny town of Smallthorne ten minutes later. Dean - as usual - took a brief drive around the town, scoping out the local area. From first impressions he gathered it was a tiny place with no more than two hundred households. It was what he described as a four street pit stop. Aside from a handful of houses, there was a church, a couple of stores and - to Dean’s relief - a motel. He surmised that Smallthorne was far from party central.

Heading out of the centre, Sam directed him to a motel just outside of town. Dean was tired and he desperately wanted to eat and sleep. He was ready to crash. Sam himself looked close to falling asleep in the car.

Dean slid the impala into the parking lot, and switched the engine off.

A neon sign flashed declaring vacancies whilst the name 'Sunnyside Inn' blinked violently above the declaration giving it the feeling of Vegas rather than some back road motel.

The actual exterior of the building looked relatively clean. White washed, each door was painted blue and little brass numbers were screwed onto the front. They were well maintained but it was hardly a bustling establishment. Dean wondered if it had ever had more than two or three customers a year. Even now there was only one other car parked up and he surmised it was probably the motel owners.

However, Dean quickly realised that looks could be deceiving. Grabbing their bags he shoved the key into the lock of the room they had booked and scowled. As far as Dean could tell there was nothing sunny about it.

The room smelt musty, the sheets were questionable and the carpet was disgusting. Two queen sized beds were barely squeezed in and a door towards the back led to the tiniest shower room known to man. Unfortunately it was the only motel in the whole stinking town.

Sam suggested sleeping in the Impala would have been better and Dean almost agreed with him. However, the need for proper beds overrode his distaste at their accommodation. In all honesty they had stayed in worse places. Those places hadn’t cost a small fortune, mind.

Dean flicked his gaze to Sam, closing the door behind him and noted the way his brother wrinkled his nose. Dean himself settled for good old fashioned cursing as he dropped his and Sam’s bags on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Man, that bitch saw us coming,” Dean moaned.

“Be thankful it’s got beds,” Sam replied wearily, sinking on the one furthest from the door.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, just glad that his brother was at least saying something. The rest of the trip had been relatively silent after their talk. “What d’ya think the odds are that they’re made of friggin’ straw?”

Sam glanced over his shoulder and fixed his older sibling with a quizzical stare. Dean was lifting the edge of the sheet to inspect the mattress. Satisfied that it was in fact a proper bed Dean lowered it again and sank onto the edge, not bothering to fix the sheet back into place.

“This place blows.” He let his eyes rest on what had been advertised as a kitchen and scowled. “And what the hell are we supposed to do with that?”

Sam followed his line of sight and shrugged. The ‘kitchen’ comprised of a moldy looking fridge, a microwave and a battered green tiled work surface that had definitely seen better days. A stainless steel sink was sunk into the counter, the tap incessantly dripping. That was going to bug the hell out of Dean.

“Take out?” Sam suggested.

“Yeah I guess so,” Dean said with a sigh.

He watched as his younger sibling carefully sank onto the bed. The movement was ungracious; his dislocated shoulder preventing the use of both hands and the action provoked a groan from the kid.

“You ok?” Dean asked, searching his brother’s face for any sign he might need his help.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam replied tetchily as he slowly swivelled his legs onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows.

Dean sighed. He couldn’t help but worry about Sam. The kid should have spent a week resting with his injuries. It didn’t seem right dragging him across country. He needed time to heal but there was no way in hell Sam was going to be able to do so. They would rest for a few hours and then hit the road again.

“You hungry?” Dean relented on his previous line of questioning. Sam wouldn’t admit to being in pain even if he was. He was as stubborn as their old man had been. It was just one of the many traits the pair of them had in common.

“Yeah. I am,” Sam replied wearily.

“Don’t suppose you happened to see a diner on the way into this place?” It was the only thing Dean hadn't seen on their drive through town.

Sam shook his head, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Well I’m sure Mrs Motel will know,” Dean muttered and then paused. He was reluctant to leave his brother alone with everything that was going on.

Hazel eyes cracked open from under shaggy dark bangs and sought Dean’s face out.

“Dean, I’ll be ok for ten minutes alone.”

The older man scowled at his brother’s ability to read him.

“I left you alone for ten minutes last night and you got your face mashed into mince.”

He immediately wished he could take the words back. Sam’s face crumbled; a mixture of hurt, failure and self-loathing filtering through his expressive features.

“I won’t be long,” Dean said quickly, not sure how to apologise without sounding patronising. Grabbing his wallet from his rucksack, he seized his keys and disappeared through the motel door.

As promised Dean returned with food no more than fifteen minutes later. The fries were cold and the burgers tasted like sawdust but Dean was too tired to complain. He watched his brother as he slowly chewed, his bruised face contorting with each bite. It was painful to watch and Dean was almost glad when the younger man declared he had eaten enough, offering the remainder of his half eaten burger to Dean, and sank back onto the bed, eyes closing immediately.

Slowly Dean changed out of his jeans, removing his heavy boots and sank onto the edge of his own bed. He watched his kid brother’s still form for a moment, his eyes trailing over the injuries, cataloguing each one and felt his cheek twitch. He should have killed McGill and Amory when he had the chance. They wouldn’t stop looking for them and Bobby’s police friend could only detain them for a couple of days. A rush of adrenaline around his body almost forced the older hunter to his feet. He wanted to grab Sam and run. However the kid needed rest – even if it only was for a couple of hours.

Dean sighed, his body bone weary and forced himself to lie down. As he usually did, Dean slipped his long handled knife under his pillow - just in case – before reaching over to the nightstand and flicking the light off. He blinked as the room was shrouded in heavy darkness, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark and let his mind mull over all the unresolved questions he had.

Immediately he wished he hadn’t let his inner voice persuade him to open that box and winced as a dull throbbing pain drifted across his temple. Hastily he shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind. He would deal with the what if's and why's of this stinking mess later. Right now he need to rest - although Dean doubted he would sleep but he closed his eyes anyway. He would at least put on the charade for Sam.

As Dean lay supine on the bed, the springs in the mattress digging into his spine, he wondered how far they could run before they were caught. More than that, he wondered how far they could run before they ran out of land.

On the other side of the room the steady dripping of a tap echoing irritatingly into the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mrs Eleanor Wilson had owned the Sunnyside Inn for the last three years.

She had moved here after the death of her husband and tried to make a new life for herself. It hadn’t been easy; not with two teenage girls and a boisterous ten year old who made her life hell at every available opportunity. Josh was mostly a good kid but his father’s death had built up a hell of a lot of anger inside him and he took that out on everyone. Eleanor had thought about therapy but in a small town it carried a stigma that she didn’t want to place on her son, so she had ignored the problem –much to her own detriment.

Nowadays she used the motel as an excuse to get away from her family. Her babysitter was a gem, a twenty something year old kid who had the patience of Job. Eleanor didn’t know how the hell Lucy did it but somehow she retained order and she was grateful for that.

It was getting on for twenty past midnight and Mrs Wilson knew it was time to pack up. Reluctantly she pushed herself to her feet and glanced around the reception – her safe haven as she thought of it these days.

There was a large counter in the centre of the room, littered with tourist pamphlets and maps of the area. The walls themselves were splattered with pictures of local sights – including the town hall and the local priory. Other than that the room was fairly sparse but the odd vase of dried flowers made it homely.

The sound of the door dragged the woman from her thoughts and she glanced up just as a tall – but broad – man entered.

“I was just about to close up, Sir.” She gave him a friendly smile but it fell off her gentle features before it had even had a chance to settle. There was something about this stranger that set her on edge.

His appearance struck her as strange – out of place even. He had shaggy brown hair that looked as if it had barely had a comb dragged through it in years and his eyes were piercing blue. Down his right cheek a dirty scar ran from below his eye, disappearing beneath the collar of his white shirt.

His outward physique did not match his dress sense. His clothes appeared smart and professional as he swaggered into the office, eyes searching every inch of the room. Her first thought was he must have been a cop; however he didn’t offer any ID.

Eleanor wasn’t sure what it was about the man but he put her on her guard. There was something about the way he stood, small gestures with his hands or eyes… she wasn’t sure what exactly but she knew the man was dangerous. She moved behind the desk, trying to put something solid between herself and the man. It was stupid –she was alone out here – but it gave her temporary respite from her fear.

“This won’t take long.” The man gave her a smile, but she noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. “My name is Jacob. I’m looking for two men. They may have stopped here.”

He pulled out a photograph from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slid it across the surface. For a moment Eleanor stared at the man and then she lowered her gaze to the picture, tucking a piece of auburn hair behind her ear.

Two young men in their twenties were stood together in what looked to be conversation. One was taller than the other with shaggy brown hair and the other had dirty blond hair cropped short. The smaller of the two men was wearing a beaten leather jacket, his rugged features looked troubled. She recognised the blond man in the photograph immediately.

“These boys in trouble?” She asked hesitantly, splitting her attention between the photograph and the man.

“I just need to find them.” He was still fixing her with a mirthless smile. He scratched absently at his scarred cheek, his blue eyes staring at her intently.

Eleanor gave a brief thought to lying. Her hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.

“Please, Madam,” the man started. “These boys, they’re my nephews. They took off after their mother passed away and I just want to bring them home.”

She glanced back down at the photograph and back up at the man. The man, Jacob, didn’t seem to share any qualities with either boy – aside from the same colouring as the taller one. There was no way they were related to this man. She knew he was spinning her a tale, she just didn’t know why. That made her wary.

“Please,” the man repeated, a pleading timbre to his voice.

She sighed and decided that whatever these kids had done it was nothing to do with her. She had enough problems with her own children without taking on strangers as well. Besides, what damage could it do to tell what she knew? It wasn’t even like she knew that much anyway. More than that, she wanted this man out of her motel and answering his questions was a sure way to do that. He was making her nervous.

“You sure your nephews aren’t in some kind of trouble?” She asked. The man gave her a quizzical look so she continued. “It’s just… you’re not the first person to ask about them today.”

The man’s brow narrowed momentarily but his expression was so schooled that Eleanor couldn’t get a read on what he thinking.

“Really? Did you get a name?”

“Yeah, Detective Bryman of the New York Police Department,” she deadpanned, her hands dropping onto her hips.

If the man was bothered by that piece of information he didn’t show it.

"They got into a little trouble," he said by way of explanation. "I just need to talk to them before the cops - see if I can straighten this mess out."

She wasn't convinced and the sceptical look she was fixing him with must have belied that fact.

"Do you have kids?" The man asked. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Three."

"You would do anything for them, right? Keep them safe - even from themselves?"

She sighed. She knew the man was minipulating her but some deep part of her understood were the guy was coming from.

“Look, fine, I’ll tell you what I told the cops but honestly I don’t even know that much. The short one booked in about quarter to ten yesterday,” Eleanor said. “They were gone before sun up this mornin’. Headed on the south road out of here. I didn’t see the taller kid though.”

The brown haired man gave her a quizzical look. “The older man was alone?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head, “he booked a double room, but I only saw him.” She pointed to the shorter man in the photograph.

“Thank you,” Jacob said with a twisted grin. “Your help is appreciated.”

She tugged thoughtfully on her lip and studied the man carefully.

“Whatever trouble those boys are in, it’s probably better you let the cops deal with them,” Eleanor said, thinking about her own son. Sometimes, as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t always help the people you loved. Eleanor Wilson knew that all too well.

He half turned and glanced at her over his shoulder.

“They’re the only family I have,” he said quietly.

And then he was gone.

Eleanor let her shoulders relax a little and moved over to the front door, locking it. She wondered what the hell those kids had done to have cops and tall dark strangers asking after them. She came to the conclusion that it could only have been something bad – it had to be, there were too many lies being told. If these boys were dangerous she didn’t want them out on the streets. She gave a brief thought to the lies that the man Jacob had spun, wondering why he had claimed to be their uncle and sighed. There was no point trying to figure out people. They were mostly crazy.

Without a further thought she grabbed her purse, dimmed the lights and left the reception, completely unaware of the trouble she had brought the two boys sat in a shoddy motel a hundred and fifty miles from Smallthorne, Nebraska.

Another Lonely Day

“You ready to do this?”

Sam half glanced up from the small table where he had taken residence for the last hour or so as his brother appeared from the bathroom. A towel draped around his broad shoulders, Dean moved into the small room and pulled his rucksack onto the bed. His bare chest was riddled with scars like a road map of every hunt they had ever been on; each had a story and Sam knew most of them. Christ, he had even caused a few of them himself.

His eyes strayed involuntarily to the scar on the older man’s left shoulder; a gun shot wound that Sam had inflicted when he had been possessed. The young man knew it was pointless brooding about the past but still the mark bothered him. It reminded Sam of what could happen to him; of how susceptible he was to that dark side that dwelt within the abyss of his tainted soul. Sam was afraid of loosing control of himself like that again. He had never been more scared of anything in his life.

“One second.” Sam forced himself to turn back to his laptop and ignore that line of thinking. He was already carrying too much guilt without dredging up old regrets as well.

They had stopped for the night just outside of Colorado Springs in a tiny town called Etruria. The motel itself was average but it sufficed. Two beds filled the majority of the main room but this place already had an advantage over the Sunnyside Inn. For a start it had a working kitchen but it also boasted the small dinning area that Sam had completely invaded with his computer.

“You looking at porn?” Dean goaded even as he continued to rummage in his bag. He was dragging a clean, black shirt over his head as Sam turned back to him.

“Just because that’s what you do when you’re online Dean…” Sam responded half-heartedly. He didn’t have the strength to parry words with his brother. He was too tired and in all honesty Sam couldn’t see the point in pretending everything was ok. This entire situation was as far from ok as it could possibly be.

“What you doing then?”

Sam stopped perusing the website he was browsing and glanced across the room giving his brother his full attention.

“I’m looking into McGill and Amory.”

That sparked Dean’s curiosity enough to pull his eyes from the clothes and crap now littering the bedspread.

“And?”

“Well the DMV has records for like a million Thomas McGill’s,” Sam murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes, “twice as many for Roger Amory.”

Frustration marred the older man’s face.

“So basically all you’ve got is a huge, stinking pile of nothing.”

Sam understood Dean’s irritation. He wanted to know who these guys were too. It made him edgy not knowing anything about McGill and Amory. However with no information other than their names finding anything on the heavy handed pair was proving impossible. Sam had quickly given up on the DMV route as soon as he realised it was like looking for a needle in a ridiculously large haystack.

“If we had more information… place of birth, or even current residency then maybe I could narrow the search down a little but…” He trailed off.

Even then it was a long shot. There were over nine thousand Thomas McGill’s in the Colorado Springs area alone; with over fifty States to contend with that number got alarmingly bigger.

“Great,” Dean muttered as he shoved the contents of his life back into his rucksack unceremoniously and dumped it back on the floor. “So I guess this is what square one looks like, huh.”

Pushing dark bangs from his eyes, Sam exhaled loudly and sank back against the low backed chair. His hair seemed to have a life of its own these days.

“Did you expect it to be easy?” Sam couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. The powers that be weren’t exactly big handing them breaks. There was no reason to think they would start now. “You said it yourself, Dean, these guys are pro’s. They aren’t going to leave a trail of breadcrumbs right to the front door.”

Dean rolled his eyes; a gesture that made Sam want to smack him upside the head but his brother was already speaking.

“Yeah ok Hansel. I’m not an idiot. Nothing we ever do is friggin’ easy,” Dean grouched and then he seemed to wilt like a flower in a drought. “Forget researching those assholes anyway. This is more important. Get your ass over here.”

“Dean-“ Sam began to protest but Dean cut him off.

“C’mon, the sooner we start this the sooner I can get some shut-eye.” The tone was so paternal that Sam felt like a chastised kid.

Begrudgingly he closed the lid of the laptop and pushed himself out of the chair, dragging his feet across the dark shag pile carpet. He sank down onto the edge of the bed and slowly pulled the sling off his right arm. Sam couldn’t prevent wincing as the injured joint lost the support. It felt like a block of wood that had been through a chipper.

“How’s it feel?” Roving green eyes raked across the limb for a moment before finally resting on Sam’s face.

“Like it was pulled out of its socket, shoved back into place and then pulled back out again,” Sam deadpanned, earning a scowl from his brother.

“You know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sammy.”

“Dean, you’re always sarcastic,” the younger man countered.

His older sibling flashed a grin.

“Yeah, but I do it so well.”

Sam let out a weary breath. “Just get on with it.”

Dean placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder and slowly began rotating the joint. Each movement brought a fresh wave of agony and Sam forced himself to ride above it, refusing to give into the pain. Physio was necessary if he wanted to get the movement back in his arm and in their line of work it was vital. He needed his shooting arm to be on full form.

The exercises lasted for no more than twenty minutes but it felt infinitely longer. By the end of the session Sam’s entire right side was burning as if red hot pins had been embedded into the flesh, tearing at the tiny nerves under the skin.

Sam sank back into the pillows and tried to ignore the aching limb. It wasn’t easy and he was more than grateful when Dean reappeared with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol. He took the pills and washed them down before closing his eyes.

Neither brother spoke for a while. Sam was focusing on breathing through the pain and Dean’s expression was so distant he might as well have been on the other side of the world. The young Winchester couldn’t get a read on his thoughts at all. In all honesty since Cold Oak Sam was finding it increasingly difficult to decipher his brother’s moods. It was as if he was slowly closing in on himself, shutting the rest of the world out – including Sam. That worried the younger man.

“It feels better.” Dean spoke finally. “You’re definitely getting more movement back. You should probably leave the sling off though – try and use the joint a little more. It should heal faster that way.”

Sam made a noise that he hoped passed for an ok. He was too tired to articulate any more. But his exhaustion wasn’t just physical, it was also emotional.

He was tired of the guilt. He was tired of the supernatural world playing with him and his family, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted to spend Dean’s last eleven months more meaningfully than running across country from a group of trigger happy lunatics.

The younger man flicked his eyes open and sought his brother out suddenly needing to feel close to him. It made him cringe how pathetic that sounded but Sam had never felt so isolated and alone in his entire life; not even on the night when Sam had left for Stanford and his father had cut him out of their family.

Sam pushed that painful memory from his mind and came back to his current predicament; his brother.

Dean was sat on the edge of the other bed, his back to the room. The droop in his shoulders made Sam physically ache. This was taking a heavy toll on Dean as well. His brother took so much crap on board and never shared that burden. He was so intent on protecting Sam that he pushed his own fears aside. Part of the younger man wanted to go over and offer him some kind of comfort but he knew his brother would shy away from any sort of physical contact at this juncture.

“Dean…?” the word was thrown out tentatively.

His older sibling cleared his throat but didn’t turn around.

“You need something, Sammy?” his voice sounded strained as if he was struggling to hold it together.

Sam felt his face twitch and forced steel into his voice this time.

“You don’t have to do all this alone, you know?”

“Do all what alone?” Dean asked quietly.

“This. All of it. The deal… McGill and Amory… any of it…” Sam concluded lamely as he swung his legs off the end of the mattress and straightened into a sitting position. “We’re in this together.”

Dean finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, Sam. I know.”

“Whatever’s coming we can deal with it. We can deal with it all,” Sam continued firmly. In truth he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to reassure Dean or himself.

“I’m tired, Sam. I’m so tired of...” Dean broke off. There was a weariness in his voice that Sam hadn’t heard since their father died and it tore at every fibre within his soul.

Swallowing hard he ignored his own feelings of doubt, guilt and fear for the moment. He had to be strong for both of them. He couldn’t afford for Dean to fall apart. In truth Sam wasn’t sure how to cope with Dean if he did fall apart.

“I know,” Sam replied softly, “I’m tired too.”

Silence crept into the room like a predator stalking its prey; cold and unrelentless in its attack. Sam kept firmly in his mind that as long as they had each other they would be alright. He tried not to think of what was coming in a year’s time. His frazzled brain couldn’t take anything else on board. For now he had his brother and Dean had him. Sam clung to that thought with sheer stubborn will, reluctant to let anything – even his own insecurities – take that from him.

“We’ve just gotta keep moving till we figure this shit out.” Sam hadn’t realised Dean had moved but the bed dipped as the older hunter sank down next to him. Sam risked a sidelong glance and noticed how tired his brother actually looked. Black smudges marred under his eyes and his skin was sallow, as if all the colour had been washed out of his face.

“We can’t keep running forever, Dean,” Sam said pointedly.

“No,” Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, “but for now it’s the best plan I’ve got.”

Sam gave him a weak smile. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell his brother he was glad he was here with him. He wanted to thank him for not leaving him to face this alone. He wanted to say so much but words failed him. Instead he averted his gaze to the floor as the awkwardness continued to swell around them both.

“You feel up to getting out of here for a bit?” Dean asked suddenly, offering a reprieve from the silence.

“And going where?”

“Dinner,” Dean said with a small, forced grin, “I’m hungry.”

Sam nodded wearily. He was almost glad for the excuse to remove himself from the uncomfortable situation that was steadily growing as the seconds passed.

“Yeah, ok.”

Five minutes later they were pulling into the town square of Eturia. Nestled between Colorado Springs and Pueblo, just off the I-25, the small town was over shadowed by the looming, snowy capped mountains that made up the beginnings of Pikes Peak. It was easy to feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of them; they stood like gods on the horizon, watching over the citizens who lived beneath her protective stance.

Sam gave the landscape a brief glance whilst stretching his long legs as he climbed out of the impala. His body was aching after his physio session with Dean and part of him wished he hadn’t agreed to this outing. Every inch of him hurt.

He waited for Dean to shut off the engine and get out himself before he spoke.

“There’s a couple of places. Take your pick, man.” Sam gestured over his shoulder at the row of commercial outlets lining the high street.

There was a mixture of restaurants, ranging from pizzerias to steak houses, each frontage offering some kind of bargain, each boasting the best meal in town. Sam knew Dean would pick the burger bar but he at least gave his brother a chance to opt for something a little healthier.

“Burgers?” Dean didn’t fail to disappoint. Sam half smiled. He was as predictable as the day was long.

In all honesty Sam didn’t really care where they ate. Right now he was grateful that some of the tension was lifting. Things had been a little weird between him and Dean since their conversation in the car yesterday. Sam wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with the revelation the older hunter had ungraciously dumped in his lap and Dean wasn’t able to offer any substantial assurances so had remained quiet. They weren’t used to the stony silences and it was wearing on them both.

“Sure,” Sam conceded with a sigh as he struggled into his dark brown jacket.

Together they crossed the street, briefly glancing up the road to check for traffic and headed over to Mel’s Diner. Dean pushed the heavy glass door open, holding it ajar to allow Sam to enter before he closed it. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of grease and stale coffee.

It was one of those old nineteen fifties styled establishments that should have begun and ended in that era too. There was a battered old juke box on the far wall moaning out a classic old song that Sam didn’t recognise and several booths ran along the edge of the room. A handful of stools were positioned at the counter as well. It looked as if it had been modelled on the diner from Back to the Future and Sam couldn’t help but grin as he wondered if Dean could skateboard.

“What?” Dean asked, catching his brother’s expression. Sam removed the goofy look splashed across his face and shook his head.

“Nothing. I’ll get us a seat,” Sam said, turning and moving over to one of the empty booths on the far side of the establishment.

Since Wyoming it felt as if things had hurtled from bad to horrific over night. As if Dean’s deal and Sam’s demon blood weren’t enough to contend with he was now showing signs of telekinesis… not to mention he was also being hunted by a group of whack jobs and a shadowed figure that seemed to enjoy popping up at the most inconvenient moments.

He sank down into the booth and absently picked at a stray napkin that was discarded on the table. Sam was sick of running. He was sick of being played. For once he wanted things to go their way.

“Mocha latte chocolate frapo-something or other.” The younger Winchester glanced up as Dean slid onto the bench opposite him a couple of minutes later and placed a steaming mug in front of him. Wrapping his fingers around the porcelain Sam let the warmth seep into his cold hands. “I was gonna order food but I wasn’t sure what green stuff you would want on your slab of grease.”

“It’s called salad Dean. You should try it some time,” Sam said, half glancing at his brother.

“What for?” Dean sounded a little revolted by the suggestion.

Sam made to respond but stopped and frowned as he watched Dean make a grab for the sugar. The older man had already dumped two packets into his drink and was reaching for a third.

“You know that crap will rot your teeth,” Sam warned him.

“Really?” Dean grinned as he discarded the packet negligently on the table and reached for the laminated menu hidden behind the ketchup stand. “Didn’t realise you cared about my oral hygiene so much, Sam.”

“I don’t,” Sam shot back blowing the steam from his drink and risking a sip.

For a few seconds the banter had been a welcomed relief, a stab into the realm of normality but now silence enveloped, shrouding the two men in an awkward cloak of uncertainty. Neither brother knew what to say to break it. Dean became focused on reading through the specials whilst Sam merely gazed out of the window and watched dusk settled around the town.

He hated the atmosphere between them but Sam wasn’t entirely sure how to rectify the situation. Things had gone beyond false smiles and hiding behind humour. The shit had well and truly hit the fan and neither of them knew what to do. It was that doubt that was wearing on them both.

In truth Sam’s brain felt like a glass bowl that had been dropped, the pieces shattering until they were too broken to be glued back together. Too much had happened to him. Too much crap had been piled onto an already precarious mind and he was close to breaking. His mom, Jess, his father, his brother… he had all their blood on his hands. He wasn’t entirely sure why but he knew all of their lives had been ruined because of him – because of who he was. Or what he was. His own ignorance about his ‘supposed destiny’ was as frustrating as his guilt was insurmountable. Both were gnawing at him like an infested wound. Sam wanted to talk to Dean about it all. He wanted to tell his older brother what was going on his head and more than anything he wanted Dean to tell him it would all be ok.

“Dean…” Sam began; he heard the doubt in his own tone and winced. He had never felt this weird around his brother. The feeling was alien and added to his discomfort. “I…uh…”

Dean glanced up and gave the younger man a quizzical look.

“What?”

Sam sighed and gestured at the menu. “You finished looking at that?”

Now was not the time to dump an emotional fly-by on his brother. He could not put anything more on Dean; he was already crumbling under the pressure of it all as it was.

Eying him curiously Dean didn’t say anything as he slid the sheet over the table top and leaned back against the upholstery, leather squeaking beneath his heavy set frame. He continued to watch the younger man carefully however. Sam forced himself to lower his gaze and made a good show of perusing the menu but in truth his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the colt.

Somewhere deep inside the vaults of his mind Sam knew the passage he had read in his fathers journal led to answers … the only problem was it was written like a friggin’ riddle. He wanted to ask Dean’s advice about the whole thing but he was worried what kind of response it would spark; the last mention of the colt had resulted in a full blown argument.

“You ready to order?” Dean’s voice snapped Sam out of his thoughts.

“Uh yeah. Just get me a cheese burger and fries – with salad.” Sam absently tucked the menu back behind the condiments as Dean rose to his feet and headed over to the counter to order.

Sam watched him for a moment before resuming his gaze out of the window. He wasn’t even sure if he was hungry any more. All he wanted to do was sleep. However Dean wouldn’t fail to notice if Sam didn’t eat. Dean always noticed crap like that.

He glanced up as he heard a familiar ring tone over the din. At the counter Dean had pulled his cell from his pocket and answered it. Immediately green eyes sought out the younger Winchester. He gestured briefly at the younger man, a movement Sam interpreted as he would be right back, before dragging the door of the diner open and stepping out into the street. Glancing out of the large frontage once more Sam saw Dean pacing the sidewalk, his head lowered, and his back to the building. For a moment Sam tried to get a read on what the call was about but his brother’s stance was indecipherable.

With a sigh Sam settled back into the booth, and flicked his gaze around the diner. There were a handful of people scattered around the establishment; most in conversation with peers, friends, possibly family. As Sam glanced over to the counter his attention was caught by a small wall mounted TV screen playing a breaking news story. Sam briefly read the headline.

Lightning storms were ravaging Arizona.

Electrical storms… in Arizona… where Sam and Bobby had discovered demon activity… electrical storms were what Ash had used to track yellow eyes. Electrical storms were distinct. They were usually linked to high level demons not the routine-possession-kind.

Sam frowned deeply.

The headline changed again. Another breaking story.

A preacher had gone crazy in Philadelphia and gunned down his entire congregation during a service before killing himself.

More followed.

Cattle mutilations in Kansas were thought to be the work of pranksters. A building in Wyoming had collapsed with no explanation as if it had been ripped in two.

Sam was on his feet before he even realised it, his eyes still on the screen as he moved closer.

More stories continued to flash on the screen.

Freak accidents. Weird deaths. People acting off the wall. Sam watched each story unfold with a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach. They all had the hallmarkings of demon attacks.

He felt the cold hand of fear run up his spine. What the hell was going on?

For three weeks things had been relatively quiet – at least quiet enough not to make the eleven o’clock news – now Sam was inundated with news reel after news reel. He felt giddy as images flashed across the screen.

Were They moving?

Was this the start of it all?

Was this the big one – end of days?

Would They come for him?

Questions assaulted him like a hurricane hitting an unsuspecting town; hard and heavily tossing emotional debris into the forefront of his mind. Yellow eyes had said he was supposed to lead this thing, that he was the commander of this demon army.

Things were stepping up, the game was in motion and Sam didn’t know the rules yet. He couldn’t help the tremble that coursed through his body.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice startled the younger man. He hadn’t realised his brother had come back into the diner. “You ok?”

Sam saw his own apprehension mirrored in Dean’s face. It was accentuated further in the older man by deep lines furrowing into his brow.

“You seen this?” Sam gestured towards the television with an inclination of his head. “This is serious Dean.”

Dean’s gaze shifted towards the screen before coming back to his brother’s face.

“We have a bigger problem,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” Sam frowned at his older sibling. His fear had shot up another notch and was threatening to push his heart through his rib cage. Dean dropped a handful of change on the counter, muttering a brief thanks at the waitress and guided the younger man outside.

The cold night hit him like a physical blow almost stealing his air from his lungs. He gasped as the wind howled and slammed around his lanky frame. Pulling his jacket further around his middle he tucked his hands into his pockets and allowed Dean to direct him over to the car.

Dean paused at the driver’s side and leaned his forearms on the roof. Taking his lead from the older man Sam dropped against the panelling next to him, ignoring the shivers racking his body, and waited for his brother to compose himself. It didn’t take long for the older man to pull himself back together.

“You remember Bobby’s contact?” Dean said quietly.

“The cop?” Sam frowned, groping for the name. Finally he found it lodged in a box in the vaults of his mind. “Haines?”

Dean nodded sombrely.

“He’s dead.”

Sam dropped all the words he had been about to say on to the floor.

“What happened?”

The dirty blond man scrubbed a hand across his face, tension lines drawing around his eyes.

“Bobby said it was a car crash – wrapped himself around a tree.” Dean’s snort belied his scepticism.

“What about McGill and Amory?”

Sam was holding his breath now.

“They’re dead, Sam. Bobby, he uh… he said Rupert died of blood loss. He was trapped in the wreckage after the crash but…” Dean winced before continuing. “McGill and Amory they were ventilated, man. Shot at point blank range.”

“Wait… they were what?”

That didn’t make sense. Sam had assumed Haines had died trying to prevent the McQueen twins from planning the Great Escape but if that was the case then why the hell had they been killed? Maybe the plan went wrong and they died in the attempt to gain their freedom.

Sam’s thoughts were muddled. His usually keen mind was having difficulty trying to separate all the information he had been given.

As if sensing his confusion Dean came to his aid.

“Bobby thinks the crash was caused by whoever shot McGill and Amory.”

“It was deliberate?” Sam stated incredulously.

“Bobby managed to get hold of the crime scene report. He said the markings on the road were caused by a vehicle speeding up.” Dean exhaled loudly. “Someone wanted those guys out of the picture, Sam.”

“But why?”

None of this was making sense.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted sourly. “Either way this causes problems. At least we knew what the friggin’ Smothers brothers looked like. We ain’t got a clue who our new trigger happy friend is.”

“Was it demons?” Sam couldn’t help but voice that fear. With everything that was going on it was in the forefront of his mind. If the news report was anything to go by demon activity was increasing. It could not have been coincidence that the two guys hunting Sam had been taken out at around the same time. Was this all part of the plan? To get rid of any threats posed to Sam so he could take his position at the head of Hell’s army?

“Bobby said there was no sulphur.”

“Whoever killed McGill and Amory…? Dean, is this guy a threat?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said quietly.

A dull, throbbing was slowly seeping into every nerve in his brain. Pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger Sam concentrated on taking deep breaths.

“This is never gonna stop, is it?” Sam muttered thickly.

“Hey,” Sam felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder and raised his head, hazel eyes meeting green, “don’t give up on me now, man. We’ll figure this out ok? Nothings gonna happen to you. I promise.”

Again another promise. Another verbal contract. Another reassurance that Dean would save him no matter it cost himself. Sam wanted to tell his brother he didn’t need him to always save him but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Whether he liked it or not Sam felt better knowing Dean had his back.

“I won’t give up, Dean, but you have to promise me something.”

“What, Sam?”

“That you won’t give up either and that you’ll let me help you with this deal.”

Dean stared at the asphalt for a moment and then raised his head, his face cracking into a grin. It was so out of place considering the tone of the conversation. Sam was tempted to douse the man with holy water.

“We never did get those damn burgers.”

The avoidance made Sam scowl.

“Dean-“

“C’mon Sam, I’m friggin’ starving.”

Sighing deeply, the younger Winchester knew Dean was not willing to continue any further. Sam had effectively been told to keep his nose out of this. Sighing he pushed himself off the car to follow his brother, who was already crossing the road, but something caught his eye and stopped him in his tracks. His mouth was suddenly dry and his heart skipped several beats.

Stood on the side of the road was the shadowed figure. It didn’t move. It didn’t make a sound and considering other people were looking through it –even walking through it – Sam wondered if it was even there. He couldn’t make out any features apart from the black shroud it was wearing. He frowned deeply as his stomach rolled like a ship in a storm, his chest constricted painfully but he was unable to tear his eyes from the thing.

“Sam?”

The sound of his name broke the mesmerizing spell. Snapping his eyes towards his brother Sam took his focus off the shadow and could momentarily breathe again.

“You coming?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded slowly, risking a glance back towards the shadow. However it was gone. Frowning deeply, the young hunter wondered if he really was losing his mind as he followed his brother into the diner once more, his heart still pounding.

Chapter Eleven:

Ponderings and Omens

They drove through most of the night and crossed the Utah State border in the early hours of the morning. Finally exhaustion forced them to stop; Sam was already dozing lightly against the passenger seat door and Dean was close to falling asleep whilst driving.

Rather than wasting money on a motel they opted for a more thrifty type of accommodation - squatting. Sam wasn’t entirely sure how Dean managed to find these places but he seemed to pull them out of his ass whenever the needed to stay off the radar. His older brother pointed out that whilst staying in a motel with a bed - and probably a decent heating system - would be nice, receptionists talked too much. They needed to become invisible for a while.

The place Dean had found for them was an abandoned house.

Located on an isolated stretch of road, it looked like it should have been demolished years ago. The building was completely derelict. There was no other word to describe it. Old cream paint flecked the cladding but it hadn’t been renewed in years and weeds were clambering for space in the jungle-like front yard. Dean glanced at Sam as he pushed the wire mesh gate open and cautiously moved towards the front door. He took a moment to make sure they weren’t being watched before he tried the handle. It opened with a reluctant groan.

“Guess security’s not an issue,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Stepping into the house first, the older man pulled a flashlight from his pocket and swung the beam around the room. Sam followed in after him, his nose wrinkling at the musty smell that greeted him.

The room was large but covered in a thick sheen of dust and debris. There was some furniture still in the room; two low backed chairs, and a two seater couch, all threadbare and water stained and a mattress was propped against the boarded up back window. Dean moved quickly into the adjacent room – the kitchen Sam surmised – and popped his head in. There were another two rooms off the living area, both of which Dean checked before coming back into the main room.

“Well it’s not the exactly the Hilton…” Dean said with a shrug.

“It’s fine.” Sam said wearily, dumping his rucksack on the floor before he gingerly lowered himself into the chair. Sitting in the car for hours on a host of injuries wasn’t doing him any good. He was aching and he was exhausted. Shadowed figures, demonic omens and unbreakable deals were beginning to take its toll on the twenty-four year old man. He couldn’t even find solace in sleep. His dreams plagued him, tormenting him with visions of Dean in hell, visions of demons ripping the flesh off his older sibling’s body repeatedly. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly.

“You ok?” Dean asked suddenly, catching the younger man off guard. Sam dragged himself out of his pondering and was met with hard, green, questioning eyes.

“I’m fine,” Sam said dismissively. He was far from fine but he didn’t want to discuss it. He was tired of wallowing; it took up far too much energy.

The older Winchester gave him a disbelieving brow flick as he pulled the zip back on their weapons holdall and pulled out a bag of salt.

“Sure you are. That’s why you’ve resorted to two word sentences since we left Colorado.”

A sigh followed an eye roll. “I’m just tired, Dean.”

In truth the news reports he had seen in the diner were bothering him. Things were moving. Demons were openly attacking humans. In Sam’s mind that was never a good sign.

“Yeah,” Dean roved his eyes around the squalor with a wrinkle of his nose, “well I’m not sure you’re gonna get much in the way of beauty sleep here, bro.”

Sam paused before speaking and watched as Dean lined the windows and doors with thick layers of salt. Sam wasn’t sure whether or not to broach the subject of demons with his brother. Dean was so touchy at the moment and it was bound to result in an argument. However Sam needed to talk and his need to talk overrode his apprehension of starting a quarrel with his brother.

“Dean… these demonic omens…?” He started slowly, testing the waters.

“What about them?” The older man shrugged nonchalantly but Sam noted the slight way in which his shoulders tensed as he straightened from the kitchen door frame, placing the salt bag on the floor momentarily. It was a subtle gesture but Sam caught it. He would have to be blind not to. Years of living in his brother’s pocket did have its advantages. Dean wasn’t as willing to talk about any of this as he made out.

Studying his older sibling’s back for a moment Sam decided to push it a little further. Dean hadn’t exploded yet and Sam took that as a good sign to continue.

“It just feels wrong knowing there are demons running around and we’re not even trying to stop them.”

Dean shifted his shoulders again, moving over to the weapons bag, dumping the salt next to it before taking out one of the rifles. Sinking onto the couch, which groaned a protest under his bulk, he began to disassemble the gun. Pulling out a clean rag he whipped it through the mechanisms of the weapon with deadly accuracy, cleaning each barrel carefully.

“I mean,” Sam continued when it became obvious that Dean wasn’t going to offer any kind of response, “Dad taught us how to do this from the time we were kids. It just seems…” He broke off and pulled his thoughts into a more coherent order, “… fighting these things is our job. Just seems weird not doing it.”

Dean raised his head and gave the younger man a level stare that could have melted polar ice caps. Sam suddenly had the urge to look away and became intrigued by a handful of loose threads emerging from the chair arm.

“Our job?” Dean scoffed. “Who the hell decided this was our job? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure no one asked us.”

Sam had once thought the same thing but it was strange hearing it coming from his brother’s mouth. Dean had never wanted to anything other than the hunt – and if he had wanted more he had never spoken about it. He had been content – excited even – to follow their dad around like a lost puppy, killing supernatural things. Even when Sam had told them about Stanford Dean hadn’t really understood why he wanted to leave. In his brother’s eyes Sam was deserting his family. He hadn’t seen the bigger picture; he hadn’t realised that Sam wanted to leave demons, spirits and hunting behind, not him or their father.

“I know… but I can’t walk away from this.” Sam hesitated, wondering if this would be the shove that pushed his brother over the edge. “And I’m not sure you can either.”

As soon as Sam spoke he wished he could take the words back. Dean’s expression wasn’t angry, it was downright scary.

“You haven’t got a clue what I can do! I’m sick of this whole goddamn crusade!” Dean snapped. “I’m pretty sure we aren’t the only two guys in the whole friggin’ country hunting! Let someone else take the front seat for once! Why the hell do we have to be the heroes Sammy?” He dropped his voice to a low growl, seemingly regaining control of his outburst but there was pain in his green eyes. “Haven’t we already given enough?”

Sam cringed as he cast a glance at his brother. The pitiful confession hurt more than any wound Sam had ever endured because it was not often that Dean exposed his soul in such a manner. Dean’s emotional barriers had gone up the night their mom died and had never come back down. It always took Sam off balance when, on those rare occasions, Dean did open up. Sam wished he could give his brother back the normality that he craved so badly. It was not on the cards however. They would never be normal.

As much as he wanted to allow his brother the chance to stop hunting Sam knew it was an unrealistic desire. Just because they threw in the white flag did not mean the rest of the world would. This new faction proved that. There was a long history of people and demons hunting Sam. That didn’t end just because they wanted it to.

“I don’t think it’s our choice anymore, Dean,” Sam said sadly.

Dean bristled.

“Yeah, well, the demons are gonna have to take a rain check this time, Sam.”

This new side of his brother’s personality had the kid in loops. He wasn’t used to the stoic, biting tone. Dean hid behind humour; the fact he had stopped doing so worried the younger Winchester. The last time Dean had withdrawn this much was after the death of their dad. Sam hadn’t known how to deal with his brother then and he certainly didn’t know how to pull him out of it this time.

“I still think we should at least look into it,” Sam said, ignoring the eye roll that his brother gave him. Sam had to know what he was up against and try to counter any attack they were planning. He had to try and keep him and his brother alive. “It can’t be a coincidence that omens began around the same time those two hunters showed up.”

Dean looked like he was going to argue the point and so Sam was a little surprised by his response.

“Knock yourself out kiddo.” Dean’s attention was already wavering back to his weapon cleaning.

Sam studied his brother for a moment, confusion bleeding onto his soft features before reaching for his own belongings. He had given up trying to decipher the older man’s moods lately. It was too difficult.

Absently Sam wondered if this whole situation would have been different if his father had still been alive. What would his reaction have been to this whole mess? What would he have made of his demon blood, these guys hunting him, demonic omens…?

Sam had visions of being struck off the family tree –again. It wouldn’t be the first time John had told him he was no longer a part of his family. The first time had been Stanford and that memory was still painful now.

With a sigh, Sam pulled the journal from his bag and roved his eyes over the familiar handwriting. How much had his father had known about Sam’s eventual fate? He had told Dean that he had to save him or kill him. Save him from what? The yellow eyed demons plans?

But the Demon was dead and Sam was still caught up in a vortex of preordained fate that he had no control over.

Sighing deeply once more he pulled a stack of loose notes from the back. They were the notes they had collected from John’s truck after his death. Inattentively Sam perused through them. Somehow it made him feel close to his father by holding his work in his hands.

As a hundred regrets crashed through his subconscious, Sam forced the maudlin thoughts from his mind. He could no more change his frayed relationship with John than he could fix his brother. Dwelling on the ‘what-if’s’ was a slippery slope into pity central.

Sam physically shook himself before the twin demons of guilt and self-loathing reared their ugly heads again and turned his attention to his current task; demons, deals and unrelentless, killer hunters.

The colt, the demons, McGill, Yellow eyes… Sam knew they were the key to this whole friggin’ mess. He just didn’t know how.

There was nothing on the colt and there was even less on the crossroads demon. Sam had never felt so helpless. He had never faced something he couldn’t research, and it was driving him to despair.

It was more than that though.

His brother had saved him so many times, sacrificed so much – even his soul – for Sam and the younger man wanted – no, he needed – to repay that. He had to save Dean. The thought of living without him was… Sam couldn’t even put it into words, didn’t want to put it into words. It was too painful to think about.

He felt as if his life was already over. He had no reason to carry on without Dean. No family, no friends. He couldn’t go back to Stanford. He had no home other than the Impala. He had nothing. Sam had never felt so emotionally dead. He suddenly understood his brother’s exhaustion.

Pushing his dark bangs out of his face, Sam risked a glance at Dean. Shoulders slumped, brow pulled in tightly, the twenty-eight year old man was completely engrossed in weapon he was cleaning. The younger man wished he could say something, offer some words of comfort but nothing he said could make this situation better. To put it bluntly things were shit, they were screwed up beyond all recognition and anything Sam said was not going to change that.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it however.

Something caught his attention, a stray sound…

Sam glanced at Dean but his brother was still on the couch, a new gun in his hand. He didn’t appear to have heard anything and so Sam shook himself, and returned his gaze the website.

His eyes had barely grazed the page when he heard it again but this time it sounded closer. Sam raised his eyes, flicking them around the room trying to get a fix on what had put his senses on alert, his heart palpitating beneath his ribs.

“Dean…” He barely whispered the name and was glad that his brother heard him. The older man had raised his eyes and was looking at his younger sibling with a baffled expression.

“What?” the older man’s voice sound stark and obnoxious in the silence and Sam couldn’t help but cringe as he rose to his feet.

“Someone’s here,” Sam said quietly, even as he reached for the gun he had tucked into his waistband.

A frown followed a flick of green eyes, searching the room for the unseen enemy, the rifle he had just cleaned already in his hands.

Sam didn’t even see the thing enter, didn’t even have time to react. Within a second he was sailing through the air. He connected with something solid – the wall he thought sourly – and hit the ground with a yelp. The action jarred his entire body, electric agony shooting up his spine. He was sure something cracked and was proved right as white hot fire exploded up his right arm and through his chest like he had never experienced.

The smell of musty damp wood infused his nostrils as he lay on the floor, face down, willing his heavy limbs to move but all the will in the world could not and would not make his injured body get up. Shakily Sam risked raising his head a little, ignoring the fact that the room was tilting dangerously to one side and was a little perplexed by what he saw.

The room melted together, like paint dripping down a canvas, the colours all swirling into one another. Through his hazy vision he tried to find his brother but he couldn’t make out a damn thing. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain, Sam’s first notion that Dean was in trouble was an anguished-filled scream that seemed to reverberate painfully through his own skull. He had never imagined a person could make such an awful sound and it sent a wave of fear so potent through him that Sam almost lost his meagre breakfast right there.

“Dean…” He mumbled, his voice trembling as he managed to push himself onto his knees. He didn’t get any further however as his heavy body and dizzying sight threatened to drive him back onto his face.

Biting down on his lip until he tasted bitter metallic blood in his mouth Sam tried to ignore the fire ripping through him with each movement. The younger hunter forced himself onto his elbows and managed to crawl a little way across the floor, splinters biting into his flesh, long limbs trembling under his weight. His brother’s voice had stilled but the room seemed to maintain a tenuous grip on the blood curdling scream. Sam needed to find his brother. He needed to make sure Dean was alive.

Fumbling blindly around the floor Sam prayed that his gun had fallen nearby when he had taken his impromptu flying lesson. However nothing was ever that easy for a Winchester and Sam came up empty handed.

Frustration threatened to overwhelm him but his vision was beginning to clear and Sam had never been so grateful to have the sense back. Instantly Sam sought his brother out and was hit with a mixture of relief and anxiety. Dean’s prone form had taken up residence on the floor but even in the murky light Sam couldn’t see any obvious injuries. Fleetingly he gave a thought to what had caused the older man to scream like that.

“Well… isn’t this is nice?” a deep, guttural male tone sounded behind him.

Sam swivelled his eyes towards the unfamiliar voice. He couldn’t help but swallow hard as a man appeared suddenly from the side of the room. He had close cropped dark brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. He wasn’t broad or tall but there was an arrogance that made Sam instantly wary. He had no doubt that this man could inflict pain if he chose to do so. Sam hoped he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. His head was swimming and his body throbbed fervently.

The man ran a finger across the back of couch and rubbed the dust between forefinger and thumb, pulling a disgruntled face.

“Sam Winchester… the child prodigy… the chosen one… the boy king…” The man smiled mirthlessly, rasping each word like a curse. “We meet at last.”

Shifting uncomfortably under the hard gaze pinning him down, Sam clutched his aching arm to his chest. He was certain the limb was beyond repair this time. He could barely move it and every time he tried it sent a dizzying shock of pain through his right side.

“Who are you?” Sam demanded shakily, splitting his gaze between the stranger and Dean. His need to get to his brother’s side and check him over for injuries was overwhelming but the stranger stood between him and his destination. Sam overlooked the fact his legs seemed to have taken an unauthorised leave of absence and that standing up right now was as likely as the world handing him a miracle.

The man laughed a deep, rasping bark, still pacing the room towards Sam. The younger Winchester wanted to remain strong, he didn’t want to show his fear but instinct overrode every lesson his father had ever taught him. Awkwardly he shuffled backward on his bottom, attempting to put distance between the stranger and himself.

“You know it kinda hurts when people don’t recognise me,” the man smirked, “I’m something of a celebrity amongst my peers.”

The man’s eyes flashed black, the whites of his eyes completely engulfed in the darkness before returning back to normal.

“You’re a demon.” Sam couldn’t help but tremble, his fear growing into a solid knot in the base of his stomach. He was barely a match for a human, let alone a super pissed off demon. Sam was screwed. He tried to think of a plan but the only thought his mind would allow him was that this was it. He was going to die. He couldn’t imagine a way out of this situation that would not have a dire outcome.

The man laughed. “You don’t say.”

Sam glanced at his brother once more, swallowing convulsively. His eyes were still tightly shut, the rest of his body immobile but Dean was fighting with his body’s need to remain unconscious. It was nothing more than a slight unfurling of his fingers against the floor but, as if he had sensed the danger to his younger brother, Dean was trying to wake up.

Sam couldn’t help the anxiety for his brother that raced through his mind. He should have been on his feet by now. Whatever the demon had done to Dean had to be serious. Sam had never wanted to see Dean’s green eyes so much. He wanted the man to get up, give this bastard a shit eating grin and ventilate him. However Dean wasn’t moving anywhere fast. Sam was alone in this.

“Your brother wont wake for a while yet, kiddo,” the demon said, his gaze following Sam’s, “I needed to talk to you and Dean tends to get an itchy trigger finger. Can’t have him ruining my nice packaging. People tend to notice when you walk around with a gapping bullet wound in your head.” The demon shrugged. “For some reason it makes them uncomfortable.”

Sam gave the thing a half smile but the curl in his lips betrayed his distain. A further wave of dizziness had his eyes closing in an attempt to prevent his stomach expelling its contents. There was no way he could stand; no way he could protect himself. Old injuries laced with new were making it impossible for the kid to even remain on his knees. It hadn’t even been a week since McGill and Amory had kicked several shades of crap out of him.

Then, without warning, Sam was suddenly lifted onto his feet. He slammed into the wall with an unnatural force that took the air from his lungs. Finally finding his voice he managed a yelp as his arms pinned to his side and he was placed in some kind of invisible grip. The brutal movement of his right shoulder elicited a stomach curdling scream from Sam. He couldn’t help it. It felt as if the limb had been ripped from his body. The room swirled around him and his head dropped onto his chest as he took a ragged breath, blinking though the fog that would not dissipate.

“I’ve been looking for you for quite some time, Sam,” the man continued, his footsteps echoing through the sparse room. “I have to admit your daddy taught you well. You were always one step ahead of the game. You gave me quite the run.”

Unable to move, Sam did the only thing he could. Words became his weapon.

“Go to hell!” Sam growled through painful breaths. It didn’t have as much bite as he would have liked but it stopped the younger man feeling completely impotent.

By all accounts mouthing off was a mistake. He should have stayed quiet. He was fond of telling his brother that his smart assed remarks would get him into trouble one day. Sam wished he had listened to his own advice.

The demon curled his lip, his eyes turning black once more.

White hot fire ripped through Sam’s body, burning every nerve in his system. His vision wavered, the colours washing into one another once more. The pain was unrelenting and unbearable. Every inch of his body screamed for a reprieve that never came. Sam almost wanted to die just so it would end and then, just when he thought he could take no more, it stopped, leaving him gasping for air, tears caressing his cheeks. He sagged in the invisible grip. It was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Sam had no illusions that he would be eating the floor without it.

“I don’t want to have to do that again, Sam.” The demon spoke as if he was telling him about the weather, his glib tone adding fuel to Sam’s fear. “Don’t piss me off. Not all of my kind are that inclined to keep you alive, I could just give into their demands right now.”

“What… the hell… do you want?” Sam struggled to pull air into his constricted lungs, his throat burning with each breath. Each word pained him to speak but Sam would not cower to this thing – he was a Winchester after all and he had his pride. He would not let this bastard see how scared he was. He would play the game, throw the gauntlet down and give the son of a bitch as good as he got. If he was going to die he would do it valiantly. He wasn’t about to lie down and let a demon strip him of his dignity as well.

“Oh, I don’t want anything.” The demon gave him a half-cocked smile. “I’m just the messenger.”

Without warning a shot rang out. It echoed around the room, slicing through Sam’s aching skull like a physical blow. For a moment Sam’s confounded mind went blank. He half expected to feel the burning sensation of a bullet wound, half expected his vision to cloud again but nothing happened.

Hazel eyes lowered to his torso, expecting blood but found a clean – albeit it slightly dusty shirt. Baffled Sam raised his gaze in time to see the demon jerk suddenly, mouth opened in surprise as he slid bonelessly to the ground.

“Don’t you know the messenger always gets shot asshole?” Dean growled.

Sam rolled his eyes to where the voice had come from and was amazed to see his brother was on his feet, one arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen, the other holding a rifle. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, masked only a little by a dull pain.

Sam’s eyes were pulled from his brother abruptly as the invisible bonds were released. Unprepared – and a little surprised – he didn’t manage to lock the joints in time and his legs buckled beneath him. For a second Sam lay on the ground shocked by the unexpected pain. In fact it was optimistic to think he could do anything other than lie there.

“Sammy?” Dean’s strong, familiar hand was on his shoulder, green eyes searching his face as he dropped down next him.

“Dean…” Sam breathed a sigh of relief, overlooking how tired and weak his own voice sounded, “You ok?”

A grin crossed the older hunter's face but it was layered with a grimace. “Yeah, kiddo. I’m ok.”

It was a lie but Sam was content to let Dean have it - for now at least. They could argue injuries later.

“Can you get up?” Dean asked, worry betraying his furious expression. Sam nodded slowly, wondering how much truth there was in the statement. Every inch of him hurt and his head was still fuzzy.

Together the two brother's managed to get Sam onto his knees. The younger hunter swayed violently as his six foot three frame straightened, blood rushing to his head. The new injuries on top of Sam’s existing ones had taken a heavy toll on his body. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. They burnt with the need to close but Sam forced his broken frame to ignore the desire. He could sleep later. Right now they needed to get the hell out of there and hit the road at break neck speed.

“Easy…” Dean steadied him, gripping Sam’s shoulders. The younger hunter groaned at the pressure and was relieved when Dean released his hand from the right side, dropping to his chest instead.

“Dean… it’s a… it’s a demon,” Sam muttered thickly absently dragging his sleeve across his forehead. He wasn’t surprised it came away blood smeared.

But Dean didn’t get a chance to respond.

The demon was on his feet, oblivious to red river trickling from the steaming bullet hole in his head. Before Sam even had time to yelp a warning, his brother screamed, his head sinking so low it was almost on his knees. Alarm shot through the younger sibling as blood pooled from Dean’s mouth, running down his chin in dark crimson rivulets. Dean raised his head a little, seeking out his younger sibling, fear and incomprehension briefly flickering in the older hunter’s eyes. It was followed by a look of agony, his face contorting as he doubled over once more, clutching at his stomach.

“Stop it!” Sam yelled, making a one handed grab for Dean who almost pulled him onto the floor as the older man reeled backwards. Dean swayed and then sagged forward into Sam’s unsuspecting grasp.

Sam wasn’t sure how he managed to keep them both upright. It was taking every muscle in his hurt body to do so. Panic burrowed into his spine and crawled up to his brain with icy determination as he tried desperately to help his brother, hands skimming over his back, hugging him closely to stop him hitting the deck.

The demon rotated his head towards the younger Winchester and mercifully whatever was happening to Dean halted.

“Stop it?” The demon sneered, moving towards Sam, his older brother momentarily forgotten. “You think I am just some child you can order around? I am older than even this earth, little boy. I am the light and the dark. I am Bael, the commander of the legions of the morning star!”

Sam ignored him and flicked his eyes over his brother’s shoulder trying to ignore the coppery smell of blood mixed with sweat – Dean’s blood. His brother’s rifle lay on the floor just beyond his reach. The irony of it made his skin itch. One second, just one second and he could grab it and fire a volley of salt into the bastard. One second…

He wanted that gun so badly, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted the demon to suffer in the same way Dean had. However his physic abilities that had supposedly saved him from McGill seemed to have shut down and no amount of willing was moving the damn weapon. Sam carefully tried to push his brother’s dead weight off him, desperately wanting to reach the life raft that was mocking him but the gun was too far away and Dean wasn’t exactly light. Sam was trapped like a fly in a web, waiting to be eaten.

The demon folded his arms across his chest, amusement splaying across his bestial features.

“Are you thinking of shooting me, Sammy?” He laughed and plucked at the blood stained neckline of his shirt before fingering the still steaming head wound. “I think we’ve established that doesn’t work.”

The demon moved closer so that he was directly in front of Sam. The hunter pulled his brother closer to him, seeking comfort and also trying to protect the older man from the thing but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Black soulless eyes stared into Sam’s hazel irises as the demon lowered into a crouch, his face inches from Dean’s back.

“Playtime’s over, Sam.”

The younger man swallowed convulsively. This was going to end badly.

Chapter Twelve:

Stick and Stones

Sam clung to his brother, ignoring the pain it caused his shoulder to hold him so tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes momentarily and wished Bael would disappear when he reopened them. It didn’t happen however. Black eyes were still inches from his face, a twisted smile playing on the demons face.

He tried to maintain a grip on his brother, hands fisting into his shirt, but it was no use. Sam couldn’t do anything other than watch helplessly as Dean was pulled cruelly from his grasp, and flung through the air like a rag doll. He cringed as the older man hit the floor on the other side of the room with a heavy thud but had little time to think about it as the demon moved closer.

Sam melted back against the wall, blood pounding in his ears but he had nowhere to go, no escape. Bael had him cornered and Sam had no way to fight the bastard. Cradling his injured arm to his chest he closed his eyes once more and tried to block out the current predicament. It was difficult; he could feel Bael’s hot breath on his skin. It made his insides crawl.

“Open your eyes Sam,” the demon growled and Sam found his eyes opening of their own accord and against his will. He gulped as his gaze locked with Bael’s.

Sam didn’t really understand what happened next. It was as if his fear opened a door in his mind. His brain fuzzed - that was the only word he could use to describe it - like he had pins and needles and for a moment Bael looked quizzically at him. Then, without warning or preamble, the demon’s face contorted and he screamed. Sam jumped at the sound, completely taken back. He had no idea what was going on and his shock caused the door to slam shut.

Staggering to his feet, clutching his head, Bael groaned for a moment before whatever was happening to him passed. The demon took a shuddering breath before straightening up and turning back to Sam. The look he gave the young hunter made his heart stop. It was callous, malicious and murderous. Sam’s jaw trembled under the gaze, shifting uncomfortably. He wanted nothing more than to get up and run. He felt like a child for thinking such a pathetic thought but Sam was terrified. It was emitting pure rage.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Bael said quietly.

The assault that smashed through his mind was the worst thing Sam had ever experienced in his entire life time. It felt as if his head was being torn in two whilst having boiling acid poured into every inch of his brain. His vision blacked out completely for a moment and his heart felt as if it had imploded within his chest. Breathing was so painful he almost held his lungs still, fearing the agony it caused. He lurched to the side, everything rolling around him, his senses searing as they were overpowered.

Slowly, it abated, leaving the sour taste of bile in Sam’s mouth.

As his vision cleared he wasn’t surprised to find he was sprawled face down on the floor. He was astounded he had managed to stay upright for as long as he had. He felt so weak, trembling on the ground like a new born kitten, like all the strength had been sucked out of him.

From his vantage point Sam could make out Dean’s still form. Slowly and carefully Sam dragged his hurt body across the floor. If he was going to die at the hands of Bael he would do so at the side of his brother. It seemed strangely important in that moment to have Dean close to him. Sam didn’t want to die alone.

As he crawled across the floor, his shirt rose up, the wooden floor cutting into his skin but he didn’t care, didn’t really notice. It was just one more niggling pain to add to a long list of other injuries. The rest of his body was already pulsating.

He didn’t get far.

Bael wasn’t going to let him die in peace; demons were rarely content to allow any last feelings of hope - however morbid that hope was. A heavy foot pressed into his spine. Sam yelped and squeezed his eyes shut as pain spiked through his ribs. He couldn’t ignore this agony no matter how hard he tried to.

“I imagined more from you, Sam Winchester,” Bael snarled. “We’ve waited centuries - millennia - for you and I have to say I’m a little disappointed. You don’t live up to the damn hype.”

The pressure on his back relinquished a little, just enough for Sam to drag in a breath. It was welcomed; his lungs were burning and light-headedness was swooping into his peripheries.

“Screw you, asshole!”

Bael smiled at the wretched attempt to fight back. All in all it really was pathetic. Sam sounded like a scared child, even despite the venomous words he had thrown down.

“That’s the fighting spirit, Winchester.”

Sam slowly rolled onto his back as the foot was removed completely and lay still, panting and gasping as the pressure release allowed him to pull air into his bruised lungs. His chest was aching and the room swirled, but at least he was free for the moment. It was a small consolation. Death was a willing visitor, waiting in the wings for her grand entrance. Sam could do nothing but except the final bow. It didn’t mean he had to play mouse to the oversized, wall of pain cat stalking him however.

“If you’re gonna kill me then just friggin’ do it already!” Sam ground out, his fear over his impending doom overridden by the need to have this thing over already. Waiting for the inevitable was only making his anxiety worse.

“Kill you?” Bael sounded mildly amused. Bestial lips drew into a quirked line. “I’m afraid death is not to be your fate, little Sammy.”

A hollow sensation took up residence in Sam’s stomach. His words implied more – so much more – and suddenly death didn’t seem like such a bad option. There were other ways to break a spirit and demons knew the handbook inside out. Sam wondered fearfully what Bael would do to him.

“What the hell does that mean?” Sam demanded shakily.

“I told you, Sam,” Bael’s smirk sent chills up Sam’s spine. It was a look of pure undulating hatred and one Sam would never forget. “I’m just the messenger and someone wants a word with you.”

The room went cold suddenly, icy cold, like the depth of winter. The flesh on Sam’s arms prickled, the hairs standing on end as he shivered. His breath ghosted as the chill settled into every muscle, every bone in his body and then everything went black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was dark by the time Jacob arrived at the rundown, abandoned house. Gun loaded with rock salt, he carefully crept up the path towards the front door and gave it a gentle push. He wasn’t surprised that it opened, although he probably should have been.

As he stepped into the house the stench of sulphur mixed with blood threatened to overwhelm him. He took a sharp in take of breath and instantly covered his nose with his sleeve, gun raised, eyes flicking around.

The room was empty but a small groan from the corner caught his attention. Moving quickly he pulled back an upturned couch, freeing a young man from its weight. He recognised the kid instantly. Dean Winchester…

He glanced around quickly, searching for the younger brother but the room was deserted. Jacob briefly felt fearful but a small whimper brought him back to the boy at his feet.

Dean was lying face down on the ground, blood pooling around him, smeared sticky hand prints ingrained on the wooden flooring. He was barely moving but the slight whistle of air between the kid’s teeth told Jacob he was at least breathing.

It was a small consolation. The kid looked like crap.

Carefully the older man rolled the dirty blond hunter onto his back and carefully probed his clammy skin for any wounds. There were a multitude of cuts and bruises to his torso but nothing life threatening and nothing that explained the blood crusted into his shirt.

Jacob frowned and, as he traced his fingers over the garment, he opened his mind. He had barely scratched the surface when he pulled his hand back as if he had been burnt and hissed.

Bael.

He could feel the demon’s presence clearly, like it was burnt into the very fibres of the shirt itself. He flicked a glance over his shoulder, noting the blood on the far wall, the sulphur on the ledges and the broken lines of salt at every entrance. Salt was nothing to a thing like Bael. It probably hurt like a bad cut but Bael could get passed that. He shook his head, wondering how two renowned, well-trained hunters couldn’t even protect themselves from a demon. Didn’t they realise that there were some things that just didn’t work on creatures like Bael? Salt, holy water and exorcisms were just a few.

Slowly Jacob got to his feet and moved over to the nearest boarded up window. Along the rotted sill thick sulphur was sprinkled like yellow snowflakes. He pushed two fingers into the substance before rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. This was not good. If the Hierarchy had Sam…

It could only mean one thing and Jacob wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for that yet – wasn’t sure he would ever be ready for that.

He wasn’t blind however, he knew things were moving. Omens were growing. Sins were increasing threefold. The world was coming apart at the seams and Jacob was helpless to stop it. An entire lifetime of work was threatening to unravel and he was the one who had essentially opened Pandora’s Box.

He should have done more, should have taken more precautions. He should have watched Sam Winchester more closely; he should have found him more quickly after the Devils Gate was opened. He could have prevented this and that admission was a bitter pill to swallow. The fate of the world was inexorably in his hands and he had failed… again.

Jacob sighed and dragged a hand through his unruly mid-tone hair before moving over to the kid lying on the floor. He crouched down beside him once more and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled face. It was hard not to do something right there – Dean was still out of it and completely helpless - but Jacob reminded himself he had bigger problems than Dean Winchester and that thought drove him to his feet again. He had already lingered here too long. He had to get moving again, find the kid and put an end to all this shit – once and for all.

Hastily Jacob strode across the room towards the front door and left without a second look back. His truck, a heavy set black SUV, dented across the front bumper following his altercation with McGill and Amory, was parked in the next street. He all but jogged the distance and was relieved when the vehicle appeared in his line of sight from behind a tall red brick building.

The street was more of an alley way, small enough for only one lane of traffic and completely closed in by buildings. There was also a scattering of dumpsters placed around the back doors of the businesses or residencies that backed onto the street.

In the musty orange street lighting, Jacob threw a glance over his shoulder, checking he wasn’t being tailed and was relieved there was no one around. He wasn’t usually given to paranoia or fear but the last month had been stressful; the last three years had been worse. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was pushing his luck these days. He knew he had pissed off a lot of people on both sides and it was only a matter of time before they decided to take him out of the picture permanently. God knows they had tried before – and almost succeeded.

He shook his head, pushing back the dark thoughts that were encroaching on his mind. Now was hardly the time for a trip down memory lane. Especially considering how dark and twisted that road had been. People talk about going through hell but Jacob wondered if they really understood how bad hell could actually be. It was something he never wanted to experience again. The things he had seen in those few years, the things he had done. It was unbearable and it was a nightmare that would never let him go.

Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he stopped suddenly. He was no longer alone. Pulling his top lip between his teeth he turned and, in a fluid motion, pulled a long handled dagger from the sheath at his waist.

The figure that had been stalking him was silhouetted against the backdrop of light filtering from the mouth of the alleyway, hiding his face in the shrouding darkness but Jacob knew who it was. He didn’t need to see his face. He could feel his presence.

“Bael.” He growled the name like a curse.

The Demon moved forward with slow, purposeful steps, stopping at the trunk of the SUV. He knew better than to come any closer. The knife wasn’t just for show and Jacob knew how to use it. Bael was aware of that fact.

“Jacob...” He rolled the word off his tongue and took a long drag on a cigarette, the red embers casting an eerie glow across his face. “The name is not truly yours.” Was all the demon said.

“It fits well enough,” Jacob replied, shifting his grip on the dagger. He had not had the name for long but unlike all the others it felt almost like it could belong to him.

“I suppose it does,” Bael agreed.

“Where is your half-breed bitch? Does she know you’re here?” Jacob couldn’t help the taunt. It was petty and childish but he despised the thing stood before him. It got the desired reaction however. Bael snarled.

“I didn’t realise this was personal.”

“It’s always been personal, hell spawn.”

Bael shifted his stance and leaned against the back of the truck. To an outsider he looked calm, composed even, but Jacob knew Bael too well. The bastard was simmering.

“I’ll let that slide. I understand how hard today must have been for you.” Bael laughed a deep raucous sound. “It’s not everyday your entire life’s work goes up in fire and brimstone.”

He didn’t want to get drawn into a discussion with the demon but Bael had a way of pissing him off and Jacob wasn’t one to back down.

“You would know. How long were you a resident downstairs? Does the smell of hellfire still keep you awake at night?” He goaded.

Bael curled his lip, growled and then smoothed his features.

“And how are your dreams, Jacob? Candy-canes and fairies?”

Jacob couldn’t help the curse that rolled off his tongue. He shouldn’t let the thing drag him into this. There were more important matters at hand. He forced himself to come back to his task.

“You have the Winchester boy,” Jacob stated darkly.

“Yes.” Bael let a bestial smile encroach his smooth features. “She was pleased with my work.”

Jacob snorted. “She meddles in things she does not fully comprehend.”

“She is finishing what Azazel started.”

Jacob laughed loudly and sincerely. Demons were nothing if not stupid.

“You think unleashing Sam and his gifts on the world will earn you both a pat on the back? A place at His table?”

“Perhaps…” Bael smirked, “but we do not do this for the morning star.”

“I never suspected you did – as I doubt he does either,” Jacob replied. He was too far from the Demon to make a move but he still kept his knife raised. If the opportunity presented itself he would take him out.

“Stay out of this,” the demon hissed. “This is not your fight, Watcher!”

“And it is yours demon? When did the Hierarchy become lapdogs to the Fallen?” He barked, unable to control his temper. They were messing in things that they did not understand. “But then I suppose that is the only use anyone could have for a half-breed whelp.”

The demon shrieked angrily.

“Be careful what tone you use! I am not one of the younger. I will not take insults from your kind.”

The scarred man merely smiled at the threat.

“Just give me the boy. I will handle the mess you and your bitch have created.”

“You cannot stop what is in motion. You have no choice but to watch as we rise, Jacob!”

“There is always a choice, Bael. The balance -”

Anger flashed on the demon’s face, a low snarl forming in his throat.

“Screw the balance, you sanctimonious bastard! He belongs to us! It is preordained.”

Jacob almost rolled his eyes like a belligerent child. Were they all really that stupid? Did they believe in prophecies and the ramblings of crazed monks? Had they really fallen so low that they were grasping at straws? Looking for any hope – no matter how ridiculous – they could find? The thought made Jacob laugh. How pathetic and weak they had become. He couldn’t resist the bite back.

“Is that what you were told?” Jacob shook his head. “Is that the poison that Azazel filled your minds with? That this boy is some kind of messiah?”

“Is it not you that trembles beneath the promise of his coming?”

“Many of the others do not see it that way, Bael. Most of the Hierarchy – even the lower levels - levy for his position. How do you propose to keep him in place once you have exalted him?”

“The others?” Tthe demons voice dripped with venom. “Hybrid children with no minds of their own! They are fools. No other can do what he can.”

Jacob’s sigh was born of exasperation. They were idiots, all of them. The man decided to try another tact, certain that the demon could not be reasoned with.

“You are aware that the Order is closing in on you, aren’t you?”

“I am well aware that Escott’s hounds are following us.” Bael sniffed, and shifted his shoulders indifferently.

A sly grin formed on Jacob's face. He would add gasoline to the fire and watch Bael burn.

“Hollister is coming in from Nevada, Cross and Walton from the east coast and Bryman is no more than a day in front of me. I’m not entirely sure what path he has taken but he will eventually catch up with you.”

Bael shrugged nonchalantly, dropping his finished cigarette to the floor and smearing the embers into the asphalt.

“He will fail, as the others have.”

“Sure does feel like the walls are closing in though, doesn’t it?”

“They are as likely to kill you as they are me. From what I’ve heard you made Escott's shit list. Congratulations.” Bael grinned suddenly, “I did, however, enjoy your show down with McGill and his dog. Most entertaining.”

Jacob schooled his face, not wanting to show weakness. He did regret what he had done to the two men – he didn’t kill in cold blood lightly – but they had left him little choice. He would not allow them to kill the Winchester boy. His death would cause too many irresolvable problems.

“It was necessary,” Jacob murmured finally. Bael rolled his eyes and scowled, his voice dropping into a raucous hum once more.

“Do you really think when this is all over that you are guaranteed a place upstairs? Your soul is more tainted than mine! You’ve got about as much chance of getting into the Country Club as I have of sprouting wings and a fucking halo.”

“Wings went out of fashion in the middle ages, old man.”

Bael merely snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re out of your league, kid. Leave the games to the grown ups.”

Jacob glared at him from under heavy lids, his patience and reserves gone. He was bored of bantering with the creature.

“I will find you and your bitch, Bael,” he threatened, “and when I do, not even all your legions will be able to protect you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean felt his mind reboot with slow cautiousness. He tried to open his eyes but they wouldn’t comply. In fact his whole body felt as if it had been hit by a truck and then run over by a bus. He ached in places he didn’t know could ache.

Slowly, as his consciousness returned to him, he realised two things. Firstly that he wasn’t dead – if the dull throbbing in his skull and chest was anything to go by – and secondly that the last time he had seen his little brother he was at the mercy of a demon.

That was all the incentive Dean needed to open his eyes. He forced his lids apart and wished he hadn’t as his surroundings dripped into one another. Nothing held still and it made his stomach clench painfully. Pushing down the nausea he tried to rise onto his elbows but his battered body refused to comply. He settled for lying still and pleading for the world to hold steady.

After a moment he risked opening them again and blinked lazily as the room came back into focus.

He took a moment to orientate himself before his eyes roved the room, searching for any sign of his freakishly tall brother. Sam was nowhere to be seen however. The panic that raced through Dean was electric. He suddenly felt like a little fish in a big pond and the sharks had taken his baby brother.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him but finally – albeit shakily – Dean managed to push himself into a sitting position, sinking back against the wall with a grimace. He hadn’t noticed the amount of blood that was staining the top of his shirt before –due to eating the floor – but now he could see the crimson stain clearly. He sluggishly probed his chest with gentle fingers but there was no pain there; the majority of his tenderness was in his lower abdomen. He vaguely recalled that he had been projectile vomiting blood like a waterfall before he had bit the ground. It didn’t bode well but Dean only gave it a fleeting thought as the room lurched around him once more.

It was a couple of minutes before he was actually able to move his arms again. Where the hell was Sam and what the hell were those things doing to him? His fear inched towards hysteria. He needed to find his brother.

With blood slicked hands he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Twisting the small handset in his hands, Dean was grateful it was still in one piece. It wouldn’t be the first phone he had broken on a flying-hunt.

Despite being fuzzy headed, Dean managed to dial the number and hold the handset to his ear. Crimson liquid smeared the screen, transferring onto his cheeks but he didn't care about his blood. He needed to find his brother right now. The urge to kill or maim something was overwhelming him. When he found that damn demon he was going to rip its head off and -

“Dean?” Bobby Singer’s voice rolled down the line, a mixture of anxiety and relief. Dean almost felt bad about taking that from the old man.

“Hey…” his voice hitched in his throat and he inwardly cursed his own weakness.

“Dean? You ok?” There was panic in the mechanics tone now.

Winchester coughed harshly, his chest rattling like a money jar. “I need your help, Bobby…” he took a rasping breath before he was able to continue, “… I need to know how to track a demon… and kill the stupid son of a bitch.”

 Chapter Thirteen:

Hell Hath No Fury…

Bobby was pissed off.

The five and a half hour flight from South Dakota to Utah had driven his stress levels over the edge. The mixture of annoying holiday makers and business suits on the plane had almost driven the mechanic to perform a couple of exorcisms right there. He was sure half of them were possessed.

They had to be.

There was far too much over the top squealing from teenage girls and boys heading to the state for summer break and the suits were throwing their weight around as if the world owed them a fucking favour. Bobby’s frayed nerves were ready to snap, like a wire being pulled too tightly.

By the time he had collected his bags and exited the terminal he was seething.

Salt Lake City Airport was bustling as he emerged into the dry heat, his shirt instantly clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes were shielded by the cap he had pulled over his head but even so the sharp glare from the sun was brutal and he found himself squinting.

Quickly flicking his eyes around the pick up point he stopped on a heavy-set red GMC truck. Glancing up the road, he manoeuvred his way through the traffic, avoiding a yellow cab hurtling towards the entrance, and crossed to the parking lot.

As he approached the vehicle a tall man stepped out of the car and smiled. He was wearing a white v neck t-shirt and a pair of dark demin jeans, offset by a heavy brown set of boots. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and the rest of his face was hidden behind long, dark, chestnut coloured hair that trailed across his cheeks. Bobby recognised the man immediately and felt a wave of familiarity run through him. He should do, he had known the kid for years.

“Singer.” Joshua smirked with full dimples, his heavy southern drawl as much a part of him as the ridiculously long hair and goofy smile. “You don’t call, you don’t write and then I get a call in the middle of the night demandin’ my damn truck and my ass at the airport. What gives?”

“You were the closest,” Bobby grunted, and the only one in the whole country with a ridiculously large knowledge of demonology. The kid was a friggin’ mind field of information.

Bobby had used him in the past for Intel and Joshua had always come through with the goods. He had never let him down and Bobby figured they needed as much damn help as they could get.

As the younger man pulled him in for an embrace Bobby allowed the moment for a second before roughly disentangling himself from his grasp. Josh hadn’t changed much over the years. He was perhaps a little more heavy set and he looked younger than his thirty-eight years. However there was a worn edge to him that came only from dealing with the kind of shit they did.

“So what’s the deal?” Joshua asked with a brow flick.

“I need your expertise,” Bobby told him, examining the car.

It was practically brand new, a year old model. Buffed and shimmering in the sunlight it was obvious the kid spent most of his time polishing the damn thing. Bobby couldn’t help the eye roll. What is it with these goddamn younger hunters and their cars? As long as it got him to his destination in one piece Bobby didn’t care if his truck fired rainbows out of the friggin’ exhaust.

Joshua grabbed his arm as he turned to put his bags on the backseat.

“Oh, that’s not gonna cut it old man,” Joshua told him. “If I’m lendin’ you my baby – not to mention my expertise - then I wanna know what the hell we’re gettin’ into.”

“Damn it Josh!” Bobby growled. “Nothing’s gonna happen to your damn car!”

The dark haired hunter studied him for a moment. “You in some kinda trouble?”

“No.” Bobby exhaled heavily, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. He really didn’t have time to hold the kid’s hand

“So why the cloak and dagger bullshit? And why the hell d’ya need me? I was en-route to a friggin’ possession when you called.”

Bobby couldn’t fail to notice the bitterness in his tone. His request for assistance could have essentially cost an innocent life. Bobby felt momentarily guilty about that but quickly pulled it into perspective. John’s boys needed his help and that was as good a reason as any to drop everything.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Joshua continued, “demon activity is the highest its ever friggin’ been. My diary was kinda full, old man.”

“You gonna help me or not?” Bobby demanded, eyeballing the kid with his best glare.

Joshua hesitated, still searching his face; Bobby wasn’t entirely sure what he was hoping to find there.

“I dropped everythin’ to get here Bobby, so yeah, I’m helpin’… but I’m drivin’.” He pushed passed the older man and sank into the driver’s seat, before pointing an accusatory finger at the mechanic. “And I want some goddamn answers before we get to this friggin’ hunt.”

Bobby glowered at him, wondering if it was a mistake to bring an outsider in. He had known the man for years but with everything that was going on he wasn’t sure if he trusted another damn hunter around Sam. Was it really worth the risk for the extra brain power?

Both Bobby and John had worked with the kid in the past - back when he really had been a kid no older than Sam was now - but it was a long time since he had seen Joshua and Bobby wasn’t sure how far loyalty ran amongst the hunting community any more.

In fact, truth be told, Bobby wasn’t sure he trusted anyone at all these days. Even in the past the list had been small – John, Jim Murphy, Caleb – he could count them on one hand. They were all dead however and Bobby’s friends within the hunting world had died with them. He knew Joshua and his father well, but Russell was as cagy as a grizzly and Joshua was far too excitable. However time was short and Dean had sounded desperate on the phone. No one knew how to find and track a demon like Joshua.

“You’ll get answers,” Bobby reassured him.

Joshua fixed him with a level stare, one leg hanging out of the driver’s door, the other tapping in the foot well impatiently.

“I know you old man. Takes a lot to get you out of that damn scrap yard. Something’s going down – something big.” When Bobby rolled his eyes the kid merely shrugged. “I watch the news too, Bobby, I’ve seen the signs, I’ve even exorcised a couple of the bastards myself. I know things are comin’ and I’m guessin’ you do too. So what the hell is going on?”

Bobby felt like the cat that had got the cream only to find it was sour milk. Scowling he pulled his cap off, tossing it onto the back seat and dragged a hand over his head. His thinning hair was plastered to his scalp, sweat beading on his forehead.

The kid was pissing him off already and he had at least a two hour drive to contend with yet. Bobby was starting to wonder if it was worth bringing Joshua along at all. Dean was already going to throw a shit fit when he saw him. He was paranoid as it was and Bobby wasn’t stupid. He realised it had probably taken a hell of a lot for Dean to drop that irritating Winchester pride and ask for help at all. Now he was dragging another potentially trigger happy hunter along with him for the ride. His plan was beginning to look more and more flawed.

“You know there’s a war coming?” Bobby questioned, making a show of rooting in his bag for something.

“Yeah. Would have to be friggin’ blind not to.” Joshua frowned, “demons are goin’ nuts all over the place. Mean bastards they are as well this lot. Heard a hell of a lot of good men going up against them and never being heard from again. This rate their ain’t gonna be no hunters left to do anything about it either.”

Bobby glanced around, his bag forgotten, pulling his hat back onto his head. “I can trust you, cant I?”

Joshua gave him a perplexed look; hurt flashing across his face at the accusation. “What kind of damn question is that?”

Bobby ignored the kicked puppy dog look Joshua was sporting right now and eyed the kid scrupulously.

“You can come with me on this hunt, kid, but you follow my rules and you do what the hell I tell you to do. I swear to god you don’t do as you’re told and I’ll bloody well shoot you.”

Joshua flicked his brow into his hair line.

“Jesus, Bobby. When the hell did you turn into Harry-fuckin’-Callahan?”

“Trust me when I tell you this job really is the shit end of the stick and I need to know your not gonna unravel on me.”

Joshua’s expression melted into confusion and then became quizzical, losing the previous hurt look.

“What the hell is the job?”

“You know the Winchesters?”

“John’s boys?” Joshua asked with a frown. “Last I heard they’d fallen off the grid after that incident in Wyoming.”

“Yeah.” Bobby rubbed a hand across the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Wyoming was always a sore point of contention. There were a lot of hunters out there who, thanks to Gordon Walker, were convinced Sam had been behind the whole incident to open the Devils Gate. Absently he wondered if Joshua was one of them.

The mechanic studied the kid carefully, searching his face for any trace of his true feelings. Joshua’s expression, however, was still a mixture of confusion and irritation.

“Thing is, Josh, people sling enough mud and it starts to stick. You get me?” Bobby said meaningfully, hoping the hunter would understand the unspoken words. From the hard expression being shot at him, Bobby guessed Joshua knew exactly what he was getting at.

“You asking me if I believe the crap circulating ‘bout those two boys, Bobby?” The younger hunter asked, raking his dark hair back from his face and finally removing his shades.

Deep blue eyes met Bobby’s own, eyes older than their years, eyes that said they had seen and done everything. Bobby wondered when the hell Joshua had stopped being a kid and become the man before him. He would always see that gangly, awkward twenty year old lad however, would always think of him as a child. Some habits never died.

“I knew John Winchester a hell of a long time before he died, Bobby. Never met a man more committed to killin’ evil,” Joshua sighed regretfully, grief simmering just under the surface of his hardened features. Bobby understood it; he felt it every time he set eyes on either Sam or Dean. They were so like their father. “I knew his boys too. Met them on a number of occasions – even worked with Dean on a couple of cases over the years. So if you’re asking me whether or not I think Sammy Winchester is the devil incarnate… then ask. Don’t bullshit me.”

Bobby shifted his feet, pulling his gaze from his bag to the hunter.

“Do you?”

Jacob exhaled deeply.

“If he is then I’m the fuckin’ pope and for the record, the only church I’ve ever stepped foot in is Jim Murphy’s - and trust me when I tell you that didn’t involve a whole lot of prayin’.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing more than a bunch of crazy assholes caught up in a well spun story. I mean, those boys have taken out more supernatural things than most hunters have in a life time. Don’t do that if you’re on the other side now, do you?”

Bobby let out a rush of air he had been holding back.

“Let’s get going.”

The mechanic moved around to the passenger side and slipped into the seat, dragging his seatbelt on. Joshua paused for a moment before shutting his door and starting up the engine.

They drove in silence for just over half an hour, the dull hum of the radio the only sound. The air was humid and Bobby was thankful for the air conditioning unit that was blasting out cold air as they sped down the highway. Joshua’s car didn’t seem that bad in hindsight. The air con in his own truck involved winding down the damn window. Sometimes he wished he could get over his loathing of technology and move with the damn times.

Finally it was Joshua who broke the quiet.

“I take it this has somethin’ to do with demons.” Joshua flicked a glance at the mechanic. “C’mon, I’m not an idiot, Bobby. I mean, I know I’m a seasoned hunter, but my expertise…?” He glanced at him, brow raised deep into his hair line. “Well we both know where that lies.”

“Honestly, kid? I have no idea what’s going on.” Bobby said softly, removing his gaze from the landscape flying passed the vehicle to look at the southern man. “I’m hoping Dean will be able to tell us more when we get there.”

The mechanic didn’t miss the sceptical grunt.

“You know more than you’re lettin’ on, old man and I don’t like being in the damn dark when it’s potentially my ass on the line.”

“Quit your whining, Josh, I told you, you’ll have answers.”

It was nearing two in the afternoon by the time they pulled up outside the address Dean had given him.

“You sure this is the place?” Joshua demanded, sounding unsure as he craned his neck to look out of the windscreen, his torso pressed against the steering wheel.

Bobby glanced down at the scrawl on the paper and back up at the building frowning. It was hardly Seaside. In fact it screamed demolition. Bobby was fairly certain he had given the boys enough cash to at least stay out of places like this for a time. That could only mean one thing; they had been running scared.

”Yeah,” Bobby released a long breath, “this is the address Dean gave me.”

Joshua cut the engine, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head, looking somewhere between a Versace model and an actor. It was hard to see him as a hunter in that moment and Bobby couldn’t help the small smile that graced his face.

“Welcome to the Karma Hotel…”

Looks like heaven but could be hell. Bobby grimaced; Joshua wasn’t far off the mark.

“No wonder they needed help,” Joshua muttered under his breath.

Slowly the demonologist climbed out of the vehicle, eyes roving around the deserted yard and Bobby followed a moment later, his bag clutched in his hands.

The house itself was relatively secluded. Surrounded by tall conifers it was next to impossible to see it from the main road. In its day it had probably been a lovely family home, but the chain iron railing that surrounded the property now made it seem more like a prison.

Nose still wrinkled, Bobby watched as Joshua pulled a handgun from his waistband, and cranked the safety back before he turned and dragged a shotgun out, offering it to the mechanic. Bobby took the weapon, checking the barrel before he cocked it.

He had no idea what lay in the building and that heightened his anxiety. Dean hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the phone and his chipped message had been brief. Bobby had tried to call him back but had only succeeded in getting his voicemail. Sam’s cell wasn’t even ringing out and that worried Bobby.

Together the two hunters moved up the steps cautiously. Like lionesses stalking their prey they were silent and yet stealthy as they reached the door. Joshua glanced at Bobby, dark bangs falling across hard blue eyes before taking the handle and pushing it open.

The heavy set oak door swung inwards with a creak that could have come right out of a Wes Craven movie. Joshua stepped into the darkened room first, gun clamped on the palm of his left hand as he swung around. Bobby was close behind him, shotgun ready.

The stench of rotten eggs and blood was poignant, stagnating in the air, but it was the scene in the middle of the room that sent chills racing through the mechanic.

Tied to a chair was a girl in her late twenties, her long dark hair was covering her face, her wrists rubbed raw from the ropes. Various cuts adorned her pale skin, and her vest-like shirt was patched with water and what the mechanic suspected was blood. Below her was the Key of Solomon, scratched into the wooden flooring.

“Jesus…” Joshua muttered, his arm coming to his nose as he tried to block out the stench of death and decay, his eyes taking in the girl briefly before resting on Winchester himself.

Dean was sat on a low backed, cushioned chair opposite, leaning forward, a gun clasped in his hands in front of him. He had removed his shirt and was sat only in his jeans and boots.

His chest was a smattering of purple and black mixed with nicks and cuts. Dark smudges rimmed his eyes and dried blood had crusted down the side of his face and neck. The gauze hastily taped to his left side told the mechanic he had tried to patch himself up at least, but it was messy, and had obviously been done in a rush.

There was a holdall on the floor at Dean’s feet, opened, weapons littering the floor as if they had been quickly pulled out. in fact everything about this scene screamed rushed job. It didn’t bode well.

The mechanic moved forward a little, cautiously stepping further into the room but maintained his distance from the girl and her captor.

“Dean…?” He threw out uncertainly, his gaze wandering the room before coming back to the twenty-eight year old man.

Winchester glanced up, a dead look in his eyes. Bobby didn’t mind admitting he was a little frightened of the expression adorning the usually jovial boy’s face. It spoke louder than any words and those words screamed vengeance.

“You’re just in time to help,” Dean said in a quiet voice, gesturing towards the bound girl with his gun, “this bitch won’t tell me a goddamn thing.”

Lions, Tigers and Demons… Oh My…

Negligently, Dean threw a glass of water in the demon’s direction. She screamed, her head thrown back, hissing like a feral animal as smoke poured off her body. Bobby couldn’t help but wince. Underneath the demon was an innocent girl. He hoped Dean hadn’t lost sight of that.

Forcing his gaze from the demon, Bobby glanced at Dean. It had been at least seven hours since his call. What the hell had happened in that time to lead to this? All Dean had told him on the phone was that he needed to track a demon. He seemed to have managed that by himself. Nothing was making sense and Bobby didn’t like the baffling maelstrom he was caught up in.

“Dean…” Bobby repeated carefully, unable to gauge what kind of reaction he was going to get. The kid seemed cagy and that made the mechanic nervous. He briefly shifted his eyes around the room, searching for Sam but the lanky man was nowhere to be seen.

“He took him, Bobby,” Dean growled, as if he had picked the thought out of the mechanics brain.

Took him?

The words didn’t completely register with the older man for a moment. Dean hadn’t mentioned anything about Sam being missing on the phone. What the hell was going on? Dark thoughts plagued his mind, his stomach clenching and turning into wood beneath the fear.

He had just assumed this was about a job; that the two boys had gotten in too deep and needed help but this was something more. An almost a primitive rage that was both uncontrollable and unrecognisable raced through the younger hunter, seeping through every pore like poisonous miasma.

Bobby didn’t even attempt to move towards Dean, holding his position near the door. He didn’t want to push the kid over some kind of proverbial edge; Dean looked just about ready to take that leap on his own. In fact he wasn’t sure if the younger hunter was about to explode or break down. Either seemed likely but neither occurred. It was as if by stubborn will Dean was keeping his emotional meltdown under check and had, instead, found solace in deep-seated fury. In all honesty Bobby wished the kid would just cry; it would have been easier to deal with.

“Who took him?” Bobby asked cautiously, afraid he already knew the answer. The anxiety that ran through him as he awaited a response was palpable.

“I dunno… some fucking demon. He didn’t exactly stop to give a name.” Dean sounded bitter, anger rolling off him like a squall. “I promised him Bobby! I fucking promised him I’d keep him safe…” He trailed off, tongue running over his lips.

A brief flicker of wretchedness was well-hidden under a stoic glare. It was a small crack in Dean’s walls but it was enough to show Bobby how badly this entire situation was affecting the man.

The mechanic felt rather than saw Joshua move in behind him and risked taking his eyes off the younger hunter for a moment. He couldn’t decide if the demonologist was worried for the host the demon was possessing, for Sam, or about how far Dean was willing to take this – the girl was already blood splashed. In fact he was finding it difficult to read anything on the chestnut haired hunter’s face at all.

“You look like crap, kid.” Joshua’s voice brought Dean’s head snapping up. “Why don’t you sit this one out - let me and the old man handle it?”

For a moment Winchester stared at the hunter, recognition, confusion and then finally irritation bleeding onto his face. Bobby almost reached out to pull Joshua back, wanting to somehow warn him of the dangers of prodding a potentially dangerous – not to mention armed - Dean but the southern man’s attention was focused on the girl bound to the chair.

The older Winchester sibling dropped his gaze back to Bobby, an accusing glare in his eyes.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“He’s here to help,” Bobby assured him, “Joshua knows about this stuff, Dean. He knows how to find demons and track them.”

“And what their kryptonite is,” Josh replied, his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes shifting between the kid and the girl.

Dean flicked his gaze to the southern man, his eyes steeled.

“This isn’t gonna be a walk in the park, dude.”

“Never expected it would be,” Joshua replied, unfazed by the biting tone directed at him. “Nothin’ with the name Winchester attached to it could be.”

Half smiling but with no real mirth in it, Dean turned back to the demon, shifting the gun in his hands.

“Well thanks, but I don’t need your help. I can handle this.”

Joshua snorted.

“Yeah, looks like it. I’m sure torturing an innocent girl possessed by a demon is really gonna help find Sam.” The deadpan caused Dean to flinch angrily and Bobby couldn't help but groan.

Josh had never been one to beat around the bush – Bobby was well aware the hunter was as blunt as a damn stick; he always had been. The problem was that right now he was using it to smack Dean with. Bobby didn’t exactly approve of Dean’s methods but he understood them. He knew all too well the amount of crap those boys had been forced to deal with over the last couple of years and he saw this show of anger as an outlet, a breaking point from which Dean had to be brought carefully back from. Joshua didn’t seem to care if the kid was unravelling however. He didn’t recognise the danger of antagonising Dean further. He was playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded pistol; odds were he was going to get shot.

Dean snapped his eyes to the demonologist and growled, his heavy brow pulled down tightly.

“Don’t try and understand what the hell I’m doing! You don’t like it, then leave.”

Bobby’s eyes hadn’t left the younger hunters face. He was getting antsy, an uneasy sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the mechanic wondered if this was going to come to blows, wondered if he would have to step in between the two hunters and stop the blood shed that seemed almost certain. Dean was beyond reasoning with at this point and Joshua’s moralistic hard-headedness was in danger of getting them all into deep shit. He was almost grateful when the demon moaned and Dean’s attention was diverted back to her.

“Hey, bitch!” Dean moved over to the chair and fisted his fingers into her hair, dragging her head up. “You still with me?”

The demon glared at him, her jaw clenched.

“Bite me.”

“Cute...” He shot back, ungraciously releasing his grip on her dark locks with a slight shove.

The demon shook herself as if disgusted by his touch, her dark hair partially occluding her sickly smile.

“You’re never getting your brother back Dean. All this…” She gestured to the ropes binding her to the chair with a slight dip of her head. “…is pointless. I ain’t telling you a damn thing.”

Her skin was still steaming from the holy water but she seemed oblivious to it. She retained a hard, level stare, her black eyes resolute. She wasn’t going to roll over and play nice. Bobby wished – for her sake as well as Dean’s – that she would.

“Oh you’ll talk.” Dean snarled, his gun raising a little as he spoke.

“Or what? You’ll send me back to hell?” She goaded, laughing sharply. “You’re gonna do that anyway so why don’t we save the boring monologuing and tough guy routine and just get it over with already.”

“Dean,” Bobby breathed, “where in the hell did you find her?”

“Sam’s research,” Dean replied, his eyes still on the girl. “Dumb bitch was easy to track. She isn’t exactly Sydney Bristow.”

Joshua snorted and moved away from the scene to examine the nearest sill, flashlight in his hand. His entire stance radiated distain, and Bobby wondered if he had moved away to stop himself from lashing out at Dean. Whatever his reasoning, the mechanic was grateful that he had removed himself from Winchester's sights. It gave him the chance to try and diffuse the situation.

“You been researching?” Bobby probed hopefully, his eyes falling on the stack of paperwork that blanketed one of the empty chairs. Silently he prayed that Dean hadn’t had this girl tied up for the last seven hours. A demon could withstand a hell of a lot of pain but humans were more fragile.

“It’s Sam’s stuff,” Dean muttered thickly, taking a deep breath. “He was looking into demon activity last night before-“

He broke off, Adams apple bobbing up and down spasmodically. Bobby wondered if he was about to well up but somehow Dean managed to hold it together. The mechanic had to admire his strength. He knew how much Sam meant to him; the kid meant just as much to him.

“Did he find anything?”

“Weird deaths… the usual demonic bullshit,” Dean ground out, pulling himself together, his dark mood resurfacing, “nothing really substantial. Helped me find this bitch though.”

Bobby was having difficulty keeping up with the younger hunter’s conflicting emotions. Anger was prominent but it was followed closely by an overwhelming sense of failure.

“May I?”

Bobby half turned, not realising Joshua had left his examination of the window sills. The demonologist gestured at the stack of research on the couch, and waited for Dean’s curt nod before touching anything. Evidently Joshua had realised that it was safer to tread lightly around the younger hunter. Bobby was thankful for that. There was enough blood splashed around the room as it was.

The long haired man narrowed his brow thoughtfully as he perused the untidy pile of paperwork, sinking onto the couch to read.

“Huh… Sam did this?” Joshua questioned after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean replied waspishly, his eyes still trained on the demon.

“You got something?” Bobby asked hesitantly, still eyeing Dean.

“I’m not sure.” Joshua also took a moment to glance at Dean who had taken to pacing the space in front of the demon with short steps before continuing. He looked like a caged lion, awaiting his chance to maul his captor. “Some demons have specific traits noted in the lore. Most of it’s shit but sometimes there’s truth behind it. Sam’s linked a number of events… I’ll have to check the Pseudo… see what that turns up but it’s as good a startin’ point as any.”

Bobby nodded. It was something at least. For the first time since stepping into the house, Bobby felt a surge of hope. Between them they could come up with some sort of plan to find Sam.

Dean turned back to the girl tied up and gave her his trademark shit-eating grin.

“See. Don’t even need you.”

She merely glared at him. “You think whoever took your brother is stupid enough to leave a trail?”

“You were,” Dean reminded her smugly.

She shrugged nonchalantly.

“I got sloppy. I haven't been topside for over a century… couldn’t help myself.”

Winchester smirked at her, steely eyes unwavering.

“Yeah, well now you’re getting a first class ticket back to hell.”

He reached for a heavy leather-bound book in his weapons bag and pulled it out. Skimming over the pages until he reached about a quarter of the way through, he stopped and began reading.

“You won’t find him.” She twitched a little as the Latin rolled off his tongue easily.

Dean ignored her and continued the chant. His voice was hard and unforgiving. Bobby had the feeling that if she wouldn’t talk, Dean would exorcise her and find another demon that would.

“You don’t even know what your brother is,” she added, and then moaned as some unseen hurt ran through her body, her face contorting painfully.

The Latin cracked through the air like a storm; thick and humid, heavy and close. She moaned again.

“Please…” Her pitiful pleading fell on deaf ears. Dean continued the incantation with renewed ferocity.

Throwing her head back, dark hair falling over her shoulders, the demon thrashed as the words poured from the younger hunter’s mouth. She closed her eyes and screamed. It was blood curdling, almost animalistic, so much so that Bobby couldn’t believe it had come from her. White knuckles clenched the arms of the chair as she braced her body against the banishing ritual but she was completely helpless against its power. Her screams intensified as the ritual continued on, her thrashing more pronounced, more desperate. It was almost like watching someone burn from the inside out.

Bobby couldn’t help but cringe. There was still an innocent under that thing and he hoped to god she was still alive.

“Bael!” She shrieked finally, her chest heaving, her words wheezing out of her mouth. She dropped her head onto her chest, her body tipping forward in the chair as she struggled to control her pain-riddled body.

Dean stopped reading and glanced up from the book.

“Bael?” He repeated the name.

She nodded sluggishly; her eyes squeezed shut as she took a shuddering breath. Agony was engraved in every line on her face. Exorcisms were never pleasant, but then they weren’t supposed to be.

“Bael took him…”

Dean glanced at Jacob quizzically. The demonologist had sat up a little straighter since hearing the name, the notes in his hands momentarily forgotten.

“That mean anything to you, Josh?” Dean demanded.

Joshua nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah it does.”

Bobby noticed he had gone a little pale around the corners of his mouth and wondered just how much the thirty-eight year old man actually knew. Personally he had never heard of Bael but then Bobby wasn’t all that interested in demons; his expertise lay elsewhere.

With a brief curl of his lips, Dean had already turned back to the demon and was staring at her, unfazed by the black, soulless eyes boring into his face.

“And where would Bael have taken my brother?” His tone was hard, like uncut granite, slicing into the cold air.

“You think I’m gonna tell you that?” She demanded, panting brokenly as her head rolled forward onto her chest again.

Her whole body sagged in the chair, precariously tilting to one side. Bobby suspected that the ropes around her wrists and feet were the only things keeping her upright.

Dean snarled.

“Wrong answer.”

He continued to read.

Once more her screams and whimpers filled the room.

“Stop!” She pleaded, her voice horror-filled.

Dean did, leaving his finger on the page to signify where he had got to, before glancing at her expectantly.

“You ready to talk, bitch?”

“He won’t hurt Sam…” She whimpered. Her blood caked cheeks made her look pitiful rather than a creature to be feared. “He needs him…”

Bobby wasn’t the only person in the room to frown at that statement. What the hell did she mean by that? But Dean was already asking the unspoken question.

“Needs him for what?”

“I don’t know!” She snapped, lurching forwards in the chair, her head nearly touching her knees. When he raised the text again she yelped, black eyes widening with real fear. “Really! I don’t know! The Hierarchy doesn’t exactly share their plans with us.”

“Us?”

“The younger. The lower levels! We’re just foot soldiers. Supposed to follow orders and not ask questions.”

“But you do know where he has taken my brother?” Dean persisted.

“No, I don’t.” She rolled her head back, her body slouching against the chair. She stared at the ceiling, her torso contracted with each painful breath. “You’re really barking up the wrong goddamn tree, Dean. It’s not us you should be worrying about.”

“What the hell does that mean?” It was a demand for an answer and his tone said he was going to get one. Thankfully, the demon recognised the threat as well and didn’t hold back.

“Enoch’s Order… they want your brother dead. We’ve tried to protect him!” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

For the first time since Bobby and Joshua had entered the room, Dean sounded unsure of himself. Brow pulled in tightly he faltered as he spoke.

“And why the hell would you do that?”

Bobby was wondering the same thing himself. Demons rarely did anything out of the goodness of their hearts. If they were protecting Sam then there was a damn good reason for it. It didn’t bode well for the kid.

“Because we need him!” The demon shot back, her voice dripping with hatred. “We need your goddamn brother!”

“For what?”

She managed a scowl even though she was twitching in the seat like she had been electrocuted.

“I don’t know! I’m not in the inner circle. I just do as I’m told.”

She blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her mind before she was able to speak again. When she finally found her voice it was quiet but layered with malice.

“You ever been to hell, Dean?”

She was trying diversionary tactics. Bobby recognised her game plan immediately but he wasn’t wholly convinced that Dean did. His entire stance suggested he was losing control of himself – and the situation.

“It’s like your worst nightmare every day,” she continued, a sickening smile spreading across her face as the hunter jerked a little at the mention of his impending future. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough but, just for you, here’s the inside scope. Demons – they don’t like it down there. It’s not home sweet home for us.”

“You wanna tell someone about your goddamn sob story, go on fucking Oprah,” Dean growled, but he didn’t seem quite as certain as he had before.

Bobby wondered how much her words were affecting the young hunter. In eleven months hell would become his fate. It was hard to over look that fact – especially when he had a previous resident sat in front of him telling him horror stories.

The demon wasn’t fazed by his outburst, however. Perhaps on some level she realised she was getting to him and so she pushed further.

“Why the hell do you think we spend so much time trying to get out of there, Dean? We got the shit end of a very shitty deal and after millennia of being tied to that poisonous wasteland we want out. Is that so difficult to understand?”

Dean gave her a dry smile.

“Yeah, and whilst you're topside you play Jeffrey Dahmer with people?”

“We tried to assimilate but humans…they’re so goddamn easy to corrupt. All that hatred, self-loathing, guilt…you’re all weak, pathetic specimens. I’m surprised you didn’t go extinct centuries ago. Seriously, it’s like taking candy from a baby.”

“Not really plugging your cause here, sweetheart,” Dean bit out.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but you will. Once you’ve lived it you will understand.”

Dean flinched again but somehow he managed to keep hold of his stoic expression. Bobby had to admire him for that. He was finding it difficult to hold himself together and he hadn’t made the damn contract.

“Yeah, well tell everyone I said hi and I’ll see them real soon,” Dean said with a sardonic smile.

The demon tilted her head to one side, considering him momentarily.

“Poor Dean Winchester. You’ve spent your whole life trying to protect your family and you failed. Must hurt like hell knowing your daddy died for you and what your brother will give up to save you.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” He barked. “Swear to god I’m gonna hunt every single one of your friends down and kill them all!”

She raised her brow at his loss of control. Up to now Dean had seemed relatively focused. This was quickly spiralling into chaos.

“Better make it quick, Dean. You’ve only got eleven months.”

He growled an expletive under his breath and just when Bobby was readying himself to stand in and drag Dean bodily out of the situation the kid surprised him. He had already lowered his gaze back to the book, the demon’s words forgotten for the moment and continued to read. His strength amazed Bobby, even left him a little overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure he would have had the resolve to block out her words.

“…Ablegatio alauda malefactor…”

“No!” She screamed, thrashing against the bonds. “You can’t do this! You’ll never… you’ll never find Sam!”

Dean seemed to shut out every thing apart from the page in front of him. His deep voice cracked in the air with each word he spoke; the demon’s echoing screams blocked out.

“Dean! I can help you!” She continued her pathetic plea. “I can take you to Sam.”

A slight stumble over a phrase was the only sign Dean gave that he had even heard her as he continued to read.

“… spiritus recedo elleboum!” He closed the text with a resounding thump, the last word shouted.

The demon wailed and then threw her head back as black smoke erupted from her mouth, circling the key before evaporating.

Her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she toppled forward, ropes biting into her wrists. Bobby made to start forward but Dean was already there, dropping to his knees in front of her, his strong hands on her shoulders keeping her in the chair. Cautiously he reached out and gently raised the girl’s head.

“She alive?” Bobby asked, his mouth dry. It was the first time the mechanic had spoken in over five minutes and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Yeah, she’s alive,” Dean replied with a small sigh that could have been relief. Bobby wasn’t sure.

Winchester straightened from his crouch and turned to Joshua who was flicking through a large book; the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. It was almost as good a source for demonology as the Key of Solomon. If it contained any information on the current situation, Josh would find it.

“You know who this demon is?” Dean inquired as he stood from his crouched position in front of the dark haired girl.

“Bael? Yeah. Nasty son of a bitch.” He grazed the page once more before glancing up. “He’s part of the second tier of hell – what your possessed girl referred to as the Hierarchy.”

“Hierarchy?” Dean asked, moving across the room towards them.

Joshua pulled a face, sucking on his lip thoughtfully.

“Kinda like a government, I guess.”

“Hell has a government?” He demanded somewhat sceptically, glancing over the slightly shorter man’s shoulder, his eyes grazing the page.

“She wasn’t lying when she said they aren’t that different from us, Dean.”

“Ok, so this Bael guy… anyway we can track him?”

“The Pseudo doesn’t say but I’m pretty sure the Lesser Key of Solomon will. It contains hundreds of summoning rituals.”

“Good,” Dean said, nodding firmly, “look it up.”

“Dean-“ Joshua began, but broke off, glancing at Bobby. The demonologist looked uncertain and more than a little apprehensive. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Why not?” Winchester fixed him with a level stare that held a host of emotions; irritation was prominent however. However Joshua’s own temperament didn’t cope too well with confrontational, arrogant kids. This was going to end badly. Bobby braced himself, ready to step between them if necessary.

“Bael isn’t a low level demon, dumb ass,” Joshua snapped. “He’s right up there, below old yellow eyes himself. That kind of power-“

“I killed yellow eyes. I’ll kill this son of a bitch as well.” The challenge was like a gauntlet being thrown down. It cracked around the room, stealing all sound from the atmosphere, drenching the air in silence. It was Bobby who eventually broke that stillness.

“With the colt,” Bobby reminded him quietly.

“Screw the damn colt!” Dean glared at the mechanic, an insolent tone in his voice. “He has Sam! I’m not gonna stand by and do nothing! I’ll take the world apart stone by stone if necessary!”

“We’re not saying you should do nothing,” Joshua countered, but his eyes were still locked on Bobby, pleading almost for him to stop this insanity. Bobby wasn’t sure he could however. Dean wouldn’t go for half measures when it came to his kid brother. He would do whatever it took to get Sam back – no matter how stupid that whatever was.

“We need a plan,” Joshua persisted. “Going in half cocked is only gonna get us all killed and you’re no use to your brother dead.”

“I’m already dead.” Dean glared at him under sallow, sunken lids, but it was the vapid expression on his face that scared Bobby the most. It was like Dean didn’t care what happened to him anymore. Without Sam, it was probably true. He would never admit it but Dean needed his brother as much as Sam needed him. It took all of Bobby’s resolve not to go over and shake the kid out of the self-destructive mindset that was painted across his features. “You shouldn’t have brought him, Bobby.” Winchester muttered under his breath.

It was enough to make the mechanic snap. Dean was being stubborn, not to mention a complete ass right now. Couldn’t he see they were trying to help him and Sam? He hadn’t given up on either of them. He was here, after a seven hour journey, trying to put this right and there was no way in hell Bobby was doing it alone. He needed to pull the man out of the self-pity abyss.

“Josh has spent his whole life hunting demons, you moron! He’s our best chance of findin’ your brother! If you just stopped and listened to him for a damn second we might actually be able to figure out a way to fix this whole mess!”

Dean scowled, but then his face softened, his brow tightening. Yet again another change in his temperament that left the old man reeling.

“It’s just… this whole situation has ringings of Cold Oak to it.” He raised grief-stricken green eyes to the mechanic, a tormented expression wavering across his face. “I can’t do that again Bobby… I can’t lose my brother. I won’t do it.”

Bobby’s chest constricted painfully. God these boys were going to be the death of him.

“Sam will be fine,” he said quietly, hoping it was true and that he wasn’t giving the kid false hope.

Sam had to be fine. Bobby didn’t know how the hell to fix Dean a second time if the boy wasn’t and Dean didn’t have anything else to offer in return for his younger brother’s life.

Chapter Fifteen:

Tricks of the Mind

Sam came around in the midst of a shivering rage that was terrorising his entire body. He was so cold he ached. Every nerve in his body seemed to be sensitive to the elements and his skin prickled as he trembled uncontrollably.

The first thing he realised was that he was curled on his side on a cold floor. The second thing was that he was lying in a thin layer of water, and that his jeans and t-shirt were dripping wet. In his hazy mindset none of that made sense and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that had melted into his brain.

It took several moments before he was able to fully wake and appreciate his surroundings.

The room was dark apart from a thin slither of light streaming in from a gap in a boarded window on the far wall. He could smell stagnating water, hear it dripping in the corner but couldn’t see the source of the leak through the murky blackness. In the poor lighting he could make out shadowed structures of various shapes but he couldn’t put a name to anything and his shimmering vision wasn’t complying enough to try.

Dragging his face across the waterlogged concrete floor, water seeping into his long bangs, Sam tried to see more of the room. His first thought was it was some kind of basement – it would explain the darkness – but after a moment he wasn’t so sure. It didn’t seem to have any of the features of a basement. No stairs, no small hatch window. In fact as Sam’s eyes adjusted to the dark the more he thought his initial assessment was wrong. It didn’t help to provide him with a location however.

Giving up on his surroundings, Sam focused on himself. He tried to move but his arms were bound behind his back. His shoulder gave a spike of agony as he attempted to free himself from the angry ropes that were cutting into his skin, burning the flesh around his wrists, but it caused his sight to wobble frantically. Sam closed his eyes as bile crept up his throat, and swallowed repeatedly, forcing the acidic substance back down with some difficulty.

As he came more into awareness other injuries began to make themselves known. His ribs ached, his head hurt at the crown, stung like it had been cut, and his legs were complaining angrily about being bound together. In fact, if Sam was being truthful, he would have admitted that his entire body exuded pain.

A noise from the side of him caught his attention. Cracking his eyes open further, he cast a sluggish glance along the length of the floor. His heart almost stopped as a set of heavy boots moved into his line of sight. Water dripped from the soles as the figure took another step closer before coming to a halt. Sam tried to lift his head to gain a better view but it felt so heavy. He barely managed to clear it from the concrete before the side of his face sunk back into the waterlogged puddle.

A familiar face appeared beside him as the demon crouched down. Bael was smiling, his face contorted into an ugly smirk.

“Mornin’ campers.” Sam shifted a little away from him but his current predicament didn’t allow for much in the way of movement. Even that slight shuffle threw his bruised body into shockwaves of red hot pain that had his vision wavering once more. “How you doing, Sammy?”

“…Don’t think much of the hospitality,” Sam muttered dryly, tasting coppery blood in his mouth.

Carefully he ran his tongue across his teeth checking they were all still there. Thankfully they were. The blood must have come from another source but Sam was too exhausted to figure out where.

“Yeah well the bonds were reassurance - needs must and all that.” Bael flashed a grin, standing slowly. “Couldn’t have you making like Steve McQueen and hightailing outta here, not when we’ve got work to do.”

“I’m calling in sick,” Sam shot back, wondering how the hell he was managing to keep up the banter without his voice wavering. It was the Winchester way however. Hide all emotions – even fear – behind humour. It worked - for a time - but Sam couldn’t stop the cold sensation that had collected in the pit of his stomach. It was difficult to remain detached when a psychotic demon had him tied up like a spit-roast pig on the floor.

Memories of what had happened in the abandoned house came flooding back, hitting him like a physical blow. His panic and dread moved up another notch. Sam rolled his eyes around the darkened space and felt his heart drop.

Where the hell was his brother?

The last time he had seen Dean he had been in bad shape. Sam vaguely recalled the feeling of helplessness he had experienced as his brother had been cruelly dragged from his grip and tried to brush it off. There was no point dwelling on that. Sam could not have stopped Bael even on full form. The guy was a fully-fledged, pissed off demon.

Sam shuddered, his mind coming back to his brother. He didn’t want to think worst case scenarios but Sam couldn’t help it. The dry voice in the back of his mind tormented him with unanswerable questions: was Dean still alive? Was he too injured to gain help? Morbid thought after morbid thought assailed his frightened mind, offering no solutions to his fears, until Sam could stand it no longer.

“Where’s… my brother?” Sam demanded anxiously.

“Quit worrying about Dean.” Bael’s guttural voice echoed around the room, scoring into Sam’s aching head like nails down a chalk board. The hunter found his eyes squeezing shut just to escape the obnoxiously loud sound.

“What do you want from me?” The words in his head had sounded somewhat more forceful, brasher. In reality they stumbled from his lips untidily and sluggishly.

“You have a gift Sam,” Bael said softly, “but you’ve tried to quash that potential. You’ve tried to ignore it. If you just opened up… the things you can do…? The power you have…?”

The shiver of apprehension that raced through Sam almost overwhelmed all his other senses and left him dizzied, like he had stood up too quickly but he didn’t even have a chance to respond.

Suddenly white hot pain raced through his body. His head felt like a melon being cleft in two as fire lanced through his brain, his vision flickering on and off. His eyes squeezed shut as his body convulsed, shaking spasmodically with every electric shock that fired through the sensitive synapses. Every instinct in his body wanted him to pull his head between his hands in some attempt to curb the agony but his tied hands wouldn’t allow the movement.

Sam willed himself to be stronger but the pain was so intense that he couldn’t concentrate on anything other than taking shallow, ragged breaths. His stomach threatened to rebel and clenched tightly as sharp knives stabbed along his abdomen, finally embedding their hard blades in his head. He yelped and whimpered, curling his legs up to his chest as burning heat crawled up his skin.

And then it receded, leaving him trembling on the ground.

“You could have stopped that Sam.” Bael’s voice cracked into the air, mixing with Sam’s laboured breathing.

Even through the hazy fog settling in his brain, Sam heard the bite in the demon’s voice. He sounded angry but for a brief moment Sam was convinced Bael was angry with him personally.

A wave of nausea halted Sam’s thoughts. He swallowed hard, hoping to dispel the bitter taste lining his tongue but the foul flavour remained, burning his throat as it crept further up his digestive system into his mouth.

He was barely given any respite as a second attack assaulted his body with renewed ferocity. Sam couldn’t help it. No will in the world could stop it. He screamed, curling his legs into his chest, sobbing as his head threatened to explode.

He hadn’t imagined he could feel pain worse that what he had just experienced but he was wrong. Convulsion after convulsion racked him, his head smacking against the concrete floor as he seized. Iron-liquid pooled in his mouth and, for a brief moment, Sam’s only thought was that he was going to die choking on his own blood.

The attack was, thankfully, short lived but it took Sam a long time to recover from the assault. His surroundings dripped into one another as he tried to regain focus on the room. He was pretty certain there was blood running down his chin from his mouth. He had seen a similar thing happen to Dean and Sam hoped he had the strength to come through this – for his and his brother’s sake. He wasn’t sure Dean had the strength to bury Sam once more.

Sam groaned. His stomach ached, felt like it was rotting from the inside out like a bad apple. He found some comfort in curling up into a ball but it was short lived and his pained body made its grievances known in full force.

It was a couple of minutes, after persistent blinking, before Bael came back into clarity. As grateful as Sam was that he could now see straight, a part of him wished he had remained out of it. Ignorance was bliss after all, especially when Bael wasn’t finished with his torture.

The demon moved towards the hunter in one quick stride, grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him up off the floor. Sam’s injured body protested violently at the movement, his head rolling as his bound hands fumbled behind his back in an attempt to keep himself from lurching over. Bael’s grip, however, was unrelenting and firm as he pulled him close to his face, his stale breath unbearably warm on Sam’s clammy skin.

“Fight… Me!” The demon growled. There was urgency in his voice that Sam couldn’t fathom out.

Why the hell was the damn demon pushing him so hard?

It didn’t make sense and the exhaustion that was ravaging Sam’s injured body was making it difficult to think in straight lines. He gave up on his musing and let his head drop onto his chest, his vision spinning. It was taking all of his strength to fight consciousness.

A flash of disgust crossed Bael’s face and, with a snarl, he ungraciously released his hold on the younger Winchester with a slight shove. Unable to prevent his fall, Sam hit the ground with a whimper, his side jarring with the impact.

For a second the hunter lay still, taking huge, shuddering breaths as he tried to control his nausea and gain a grip of his jolting senses. Sam thought he had a higher tolerance to pain than most people – god knows he had been dealt his fair share of injuries in the past – but for some reason he couldn’t take command of this. Every inch of him hurt. Limbs felt heavy and detached and his brain was throbbing angrily beneath his dark hair. It was totally pathetic but he wanted his brother so badly; more than he had ever wanted anything in his whole life. He wanted Dean to crouch down next to him and tell him he would be alright, to offer him the reassurance he desperately craved. Sam couldn’t see a way out of any of this. Bael meant to cause him pain and Sam was completely helpless to stop him. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Sam knew the next attack was coming before it arrived and, although he braced himself for the expected agony, it wasn’t enough. This time was worse.

Sam lost the contents of his stomach before it was over, barely managing to raise his head before the burning, acidic liquid splashed onto the floor. He was reduced to dry heaves once his body had expelled everything, his stomach aching with the convulsing force of vomiting. Sam recognised the symptoms even in his haze: his body was in shock at the assault, his mind unable to discern what was causing him such much pain. He lay trembling, darkness creeping into his peripheral vision like a teenager sneaking into the house way passed curfew. Sam willed unconsciousness to take him; at least then he could find solace from his pain. It never came however, his body stubbornly refused to give him the reprieve he prayed for.

“Bael! Enough!” A new voice cracked in the silence.

Sam forced his swollen eyes open but his vision wouldn’t hold still.

The voice was female. She was silhouetted against the thick darkness, painted onto the horizon in murky greys like a washed out watercolour.

Sam shifted a little away from the newcomer but his current predicament didn’t allow for much in the way of movement. His bound hands aside, the slight shuffle he attempted threw his bruised body into shockwaves of agony, his breath catching in his throat. There was nothing he could do as she knelt down beside him, caressing his cheek with a cold hand. Her touch, however, seemed to pull the fog from his brain and his vision cleared, like rain clouds parting to reveal a blue sky. Sam wasn’t sure what she had done to him but he was almost grateful that the nausea and pounding in his skull had abated. He raised his gaze to the woman and roved swollen eyes over her, seeing her clearly for the first time.

She was small, no taller than five foot five. Her dark hair was pulled up at the nape of her neck but dark strands had escaped and trailed the side of her cheeks, softening her face somewhat. Full lips were drawn into a tight line and petite delicate shoulders were exposed were the scarlet top she was wearing had slipped off her slender frame. She was pretty, like a white rose in full bloom, but her features were marred - tainted even - by her eyes. Under a perfectly sculpted brow and chiselled cheek bones were two deep abysses of icy ebony. Sam could not prevent the hiss of air that escaped his lips. One demon was bad enough; two meant a definite death sentence.

“Oh, Sammy.” She spoke softly, fingers still trailing across his clammy skin. “You could have prevented all of this.”

Sam tried to pull back but he found himself once again subjected to her wandering fingertips.

“W-what… do you…want?” The words tumbled out, sticking to the back of his throat. His mouth was so dry. He licked his cracked lips, attempting to put some moisture back into them but it was to little avail. He desperately needed water but he doubted he would get it.

“I need your help,” she replied, finally pulling her hands away from his body.

“Why…?” Sam couldn’t help the confusion in his voice. He cleared his throat and when he continued he was grateful that his voice sounded stronger. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I can offer you something in return.”

“I don’t want a damn thing from you,” he murmured.

He wanted to sleep, needed it. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his heavy lids open and had no choice but to succumb to the gritty, aching sensation, closing his eyes slowly.

“Oh Sammy, that’s not entirely true now, is it? There is something you want. Something you want more than anything in the world and I can give it to you. All you have to do is ask.”

Sam prised a swollen lid open carefully, his brow narrowing as she rocked back on the balls of her feet. She was studying him intently, dark eyes locked onto his face as her black hair cascaded across her face even further. Sam’s mind wheeled. A number of conflicting thoughts bombarded his brain. She was talking about Dean; had to be.

“You break the Crossroads deal and Dean goes free?” He scoffed but he sounded sluggish even to his own ears. He cursed his own weak body. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch, Sam.” He grunted sceptically, but his heart gave a little flutter of hope. “I can give you your brother’s life back.”

Sam wanted to take her offer and save his brother but he wasn’t an idiot. She was a demon and, by all accounts, demons lied. He knew she would want something in return. He knew it was stupid to even humour her by listening to her proposal but his desperation won out. He couldn’t help it. He would do anything to save Dean’s life. The man had given so much for him in the past – too much. Sam had to repay that, he had to see his brother safe. Dean always thought it was his job to protect Sam but the younger sibling had spent his whole life secretly watching his older brother, reining him back in when he got out of control and saving his ass on the occasions when he got into trouble. Dean would never admit it but it was as much Sam’s job to watch Dean as it was Dean’s job to watch Sam. The problem was that Sam seemed to have a huge bull’s-eye painted on his forehead and Dean ended up saving his ass more often than Sam helped him. It was part of the reason why Sam was so determined to pull his brother out of this goddamn mess. This was his chance to save Dean for a change.

“How?” Sam asked. “Not to mention, why?”

“I have ways, means…” She purred.

“So you give Dean his soul back and then what? I help you destroy the world?” He didn’t mean to sound as bitter as he did and cursed himself for doing so. He didn’t want to show her any weakness. As it was he already felt pathetic lying on the floor broken and bruised and unable to defend himself.

She gave him a quizzical look, her brow raised.

“What a peculiar notion.”

“You’re saying I’m not going to lead hell’s armies in this war?”

“No… that was the general idea – at least that was what Azazel planned.”

“So what? You’re just carryin’ on where he left off?” Sam muttered sourly. He was sick of fate playing him, tired of his elusive destiny. He wanted answers and reasons for all the crap that had marred his life.

“In a word.” She rose from his side, her soft footfalls sounding abrasive in the room as she paced. “We’re just going to make the world a little better, Sam. Surely you can understand that?”

“Better?” Sam glared at her with a wry smile. “Your ‘friend’ unleashed hundreds of demons onto innocent people, how is that better?”

“Oh come off it, Sammy!” She scowled. “Are you really that naive? Innocent people?! There is no such thing as an innocent person! The people who walk this stinking planet are a hell of lot worse than some of the things I know - and trust me when I tell you I know some pretty nasty individuals.”

She had a slightly wild look, accentuated by a dark glare sweeping over her pale, serene face. She was a total enigma. Ebony pools that raged were offset by a pallid, calming smile. Sam wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her conflicting expression but he knew she was not offering assistance out of the goodness of her heart. Her insistence that she could save Dean made the younger man wary. In his experience nothing in life was ever free. Everything came at a price and Sam knew that price was usually high.

“I’m not going to help you,” he replied finally, his heart clenching painfully. A small tremor of fear ran through him. Had he thrown Dean’s only chance of survival down the grid?

The demon seemed unperturbed however. She smiled, a hint of humour behind her dark eyes.

“Oh Sam, you always did have a good heart but you’re a moron! You put your life on the line every day and do you ever get thanked? Appreciated?” She laughed, a short, sharp bark. “The FBI are hunting your brother down to put him in jail, your father was killed trying to stop a damn demon who liked killing innocent mothers, and now your brother is facing the rest of his days in hell – despite giving his life for you. I’m offering to help Dean. Take it. You won’t get another offer like this one.”

Sam wanted her help so badly that it physically hurt him. However demons lied and Sam had no illusion that she was lying to him right now. She needed his help for some reason and the fact she was resorting to bribery told Sam that she needed it willingly. Sam was loath to give it to her for that reason.

“We’ll find a way. Don’t need your help,” Sam maintained, but he could hear the waver in his own voice. Sam was no closer to finding a way out of the crossroads deal than he was of sprouting wings and flying out of here.

“A way?!” She bit back at him, her eyes blazing suddenly, anger lacing her voice. “This isn’t a Disney movie Sam! There isn’t a rainbow and a pot of gold! Dreams really don’t come true! And sure, you can keep praying to god every night before you go to sleep but God… isn’t… listening!”

She spoke the last few words slowly, drawing out each one.

“Your brother has eleven months and then he’s going to burn over and over in hell. The pain, the agony…? You can’t even imagine what it’s like. It’s one thing to put a brave face on it but an eternity down there? Well… it makes forever seem like a day. Can you really do that to your own brother? The man who practically raised you, always looked out for you, sold his soul for you? Isn’t it time you stopped thinking about everyone else, Sam, and looked after your own family? Dean is all you have left. When he’s gone…? You’re on your own kiddo. No mother, no father, no brother… just poor little Sammy Winchester, wandering this cold, dark earth alone, running away from monsters.”

Sam frowned deeply at her words, each one of them stinging like a physical blow. It was the truth but he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t need to be reminded that in eleven months time his life was going to unravel and that the one person he had left in the whole world was going to a fate so awful that it plagued his dreams every night. He didn’t need to hear that he had failed his family, that they were all dead because of him, because of his demon blood, because of his elusive destiny, because some higher power had decided to play with them. He closed his eyes to stop his brimming tears from over flowing. He would not cry. Not in front of a damn demon anyway. He had his pride but the stress and the pressure was catching up to him. Sam was running out of steam. He was grinding to an emotional halt. He had reached the end of his proverbial tether.

The demon softened her tone as she continued to speak, slowly running a callous hand down his face.

“All I’m asking for is one day. Just one day, kid and your brother gets the rest of his life back. He’ll live to a nice old age just for one day. Your little family can stay together and everyone – including myself – has a happy existence.”

Sam glanced up at her incredulously. Happy existence? Was she deluded? What on earth could be happy about giving demons free reign? All Sam could see was a lifetime of chaos and terror stretched out before the whole world if demons were given the run of the place. He could never allow that. His father had fought and died to protect people from the supernatural. His mother had been taken from them by Azazel and Sam’s death at the hands of the Jake meant Dean was next to join the list. They had given up so much to keep this world safe – to keep him safe. It would not all be in vain. He would not trample all over their work. This was for the greater good – at least that was what he was telling himself.

Not only that but Sam had quickly come to realise that there was no way this bitch was going to help his brother, not without a catch, and Sam wasn’t prepared to take that risk. He would find his own way to free Dean of the contract. Helping a demon was to go against everything his family stood for, everything they had sacrificed over the years. Sam wasn’t sure he could do that - no matter how desperate he was.

“Screw your happy existence,” Sam ground out, “and while you’re at it screw yourself!”

“Oh, but you don’t even know what I want you to do.” Her expression was sanguinary and filled Sam with dread. He pushed that emotion aside. They needed him for something and whilst they still needed him Sam was fairly certain he would remain alive. Whilst he was still drawing breath Sam would fight – no matter what they did to him.

“I don’t care,” he spat.

“You’ve never been to hell, Sam, so it’s easy for you to say no.” He shivered as she traced a cold hand down his torso, stopping at the top of his jeans.

He shied back from her touch, his lip curling in disgust. He felt violated by her and there was nothing he could do about it. It only increased his feeling of worthlessness.

Deep down Sam knew none of this was his fault but still he blamed himself for letting Bael get the drop on him and once again putting his brother in danger. He knew Dean. Knew him better than his brother probably knew himself and right now Sam knew Dean would be tearing Utah apart looking for him, pulling all manner of crazy stunts just to save his younger brother. It was just another pile of guilt to add to the growing stack.

“You want to see hell, Sammy?” She asked softly, “I’ll show you.”

Placing both hands on the side of his head she closed her eyes.

“Fasten your seatbelt, kid. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

Pain exploded through his skull, white hot and unrelenting. It was worse than any vision he had ever had, worse than the pain Bael had inflicted on him. Cold and callous, the agony was akin to having a hot poker shoved through his brain. A wailing sound, followed by a whimper surprised him, especially when he realised it was coming from his own mouth and then darkness slammed into his sight, momentarily leaving him blinded.

Then everything went black.
 

 Chapter Sixteen:

Severance

Sam awoke abruptly. He sprung into a sitting position, eyes wide and alert, heart pounding painfully beneath his ribs. As he came into alertness he realised there was something wrong with the scene he was greeted with.

"What the hell…?" He muttered under his breath, his eyes darting around.

Confused, Sam took a moment to drink in his surroundings.

A long, latticed window on the far wall was letting light stream in through the dazzling, white voile drapes hanging at the frames. A heavy set wooden dresser was pushed back against the adjacent wall, an oval shaped mirror hanging above it, and two gold candle holders with furled legs positioned at either end of the surface. Painted white wood panelling covered the walls half way up and the bare wall above it was painted in a soft lemon.

More surprising was the double bed in which Sam was lying. Silk sheets were wrapped around his legs, leaving his bare chest exposed, pillows stacked behind him. Sam frowned. He didn't recognise the room at all and yet he felt a vague familiarity, as if he should know it.

Here and there were little trinkets, souvenirs of someone else’s life: clothes left in piles from the night before, shoes at the end of the bed, a robe hung haphazardly on the back of the door. There was even a battered paperback thrown negligently on the nightstand.

Sam frowned as his brain took all of these images in. His last memory had been the dark haired demon grabbing hold of him so how the hell had he got here…?

Wherever here was…

Maybe he had passed out… been brought here by someone, but who? Who could have found him, gone up against two demons and brought him to this peaceful sanctuary? It didn’t make sense.

He didn't dwell on it however. His attention had been snared by something else.

Slowly Sam untangled his long limbs from the blankets and swung his legs out of bed, his toes curling into the heavy shag-pile navy rug. The wall opposite the bed was splattered with picture frames. Sam roved his eyes over the display, his mouth dry. There were several photographs of his parents together, in various different places and a couple of Dean looking carefree. Sam smiled. His brother looked happy in these pictures, his cheeky grin splashed across his face. It was a universe away from how the real world was. Sam couldn’t remember the last time his brother had smiled; probably when he had killed yellow eyes.

Sam lingered on the picture for a moment, consuming the image of his brother’s happiness before moving onto the next. Sam's heart froze in his chest, a sigh escaping his lips before he could stop it. He reached up and ran a trembling finger down the picture.

"Jess…"

He recognised the picture. It was the night of their first year anniversary. He closed his eyes, his hand still on the picture as he remembered every detail about that night. The way her hair had looked, pulled up at the nape of her neck, curled in tight ringlets. The crimson dress that had clung to her figure perfectly, hugging all the right parts of her body. Her perfume… he could still smell it now. Not too strong but a pleasant floral scent.

The image of her pinned to the ceiling flashed through his mind and Sam winced. He had tried to put it behind him but which ever way he looked at it Jessica’s death was his fault. He should have done more; he should have taken his dreams seriously. It hurt with a physical ache that Sam could not shift. She had been innocent in all of this, dragged into something that was nothing to do with her because of him. That guilt ate at him constantly and had done since the night she had died. She shouldn’t have suffered like that. It wasn’t fair. Sam almost wished he could take back Stanford, wished he had never gone. She would still be alive if he hadn’t.

Sighing deeply he reopened his eyes and continued studying the pictures.

"Sam?" The voice had come from downstairs.

Cautiously Sam moved into the landing, his eyes briefly roving over the wooden spindled banister to the hallway below but he stopped suddenly, his eye catching something. There was a picture on the wall of him, Dean, and their father. There was nothing abnormal about it, apart from Mary was in the middle, arms wrapped around an adult Sam and Dean… which was impossible. His mother had died before he had even reached his first birthday.

More than a little freaked out Sam pulled his eyes from the picture and moved across the galleried landing, taking the stairs two at a time. Something about all of this wasn’t sitting right and Sam wanted to find out what on earth was going on. What the hell was his late girlfriend, his parents and his brother doing on the wall of an unknown house?

There were four doors off the long hallway. The front door was a set of doubles, frosted glass bordering the frame and the other three, he presumed, led into rooms. The door at the bottom of the corridor was slightly ajar and Sam could hear someone – or something – moving about within the room. He flicked his gaze around the hallway and made a snatch for the only weapon he could find; an umbrella. It was hardly going to do serious damage to whatever was in the room but felt reassuring in Sam’s hands.

Slowly he crept towards the end of the corridor, his heart thumping, as another loud clunk came from inside. He paused at the handle, readjusted his grip on the makeshift weapon and pushed it open.

Something screamed – or rather someone. It was female, high pitched and familiar. Sam met her eyes briefly and felt the colour drain from his face, the umbrella slipping from his fingers.

"Jesus Christ…" He muttered under his breath, his lips parting slightly.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" The screaming woman demanded but Sam couldn't answer her. He couldn't find the words. In fact he couldn't do anything but stare. The surreal scene wasn’t quite registering with his higher mental centre. In fact nothing was.

"This isn't real," he murmured, finally finding his voice.

Jessica glanced up at him, wooden spoon in her hand, the pans boiling on the stove momentarily forgotten.

"Sam, baby. You ok?"

As she moved towards him, Sam took a step backwards. This was a dream. It had to be. Jessica was dead. There was no way she could be stood in front of him cooking. This was all in his head. The demon had done something to him, altered his perceptions. She wasn't Jessica. Sure she looked like her, right down to the freckles on her face to her blonde hair but this thing in front of him wasn't his late girlfriend. She couldn’t be. Jessica was dead. Sam knew she was dead. He had seen her burn. How on earth could she be here now, stood in front of him, cheeks dashed with flour, an apron wrapped around her tiny frame?

"Sam, you're freaking me out," the Jessica look-a-like said apprehensively when Sam didn't offer her a response.

"You're not Jessica." He shook his head vehemently.

The demon was doing this. Somehow. Sam didn’t understand how but the rational part of his mind told him that this was not possible. She looked real enough, but she was not Jessica.

She gave him a strange look, her expression baffled.

"Sam… I am Jessica." She moved towards him but he stepped back. This was a mind game, it had to be. There was no other explanation for it.

“Christo.” Sam blurted the Latin word out and prepared for her reaction. However her eyes remained normal, in fact she didn’t even flinch.

Not a demon… but what was she then? A shapeshifter? Sam needed an explanation for all of this. How the hell was his dead girlfriend stood in a kitchen baking?

“Are you drunk?” Jessica demanded, one hand dropping on to her hip, her brow narrowing.

"How… how's this…? You’re not real." He shook his head, fisting his hands into his hair, wanting to wake up from this mind-fuck. “I’m losing my mind. This isn’t right. You died. This is the demon. She’s screwing with my head. Making me see things I want to see.”

Sam couldn’t deal with this. It was too much. He had learnt to deal with Jessica’s death. It was the same way his family dealt with everything – he put it on that shelf of unresolved issues – but having her stood here, in front of him, alive… Sam wanted to block her out. He didn’t want to see her like this. It was too hard. He tried to pull back as she gently touched his arm, not even looking at her as he shifted back out of her reach. He couldn’t ignore the fact her hand had felt warm on his skin. Not a spirit then.

“I don’t know what you are, but stay the hell away from me!” Sam bit out disturbed a little by how hysterical he sounded even to his own ears.

She held her hands up defensively but did not attempt to move towards him.

“Sam, please calm down.” Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Stay away from me!” Sam’s voice was getting louder with each passing second but he couldn’t control himself. This was too much. It was salt in an open wound and his overloaded mind couldn’t carry any more weight. “It’s the demon… has to be… no other explanation…” He muttered under his breath, trying to rationalise this irrational situation.

“Demons?” Jess’ tone was incredulous, “Sam, what the hell are talking about? There’s no such thing as demons!”

She moved towards hum but Sam reached for the knife rack on the counter, dragging a long thin bread knife out, waving it at her.

“Don’t move!” He threatened. She halted suddenly; the fear crossing her face was gut-wrenching. He never wanted to see that look on her face again - demon spawn or not. “What the hell are you? Demon? Shifter? A spirit?”

She shook her head, confusion melting on to her face.

“Baby… your not… this doesn’t make any sense… let me call the doctor, please.” Her tone was pleading but it shook.

“Jess? Sammy?” The voice came from the hallway. Sam snapped his head around just as the kitchen door opened.

He almost laughed with relief. It was Dean. His brother. He would figure this out in a second. He would tell Sam he wasn’t crazy, that this impostor was not his dead girlfriend stood in front of him alive and breathing. But Dean’s wide-eyed gaze wasn’t focused on Jessica. It was fixed on him.

Sam frowned.

“Sammy…” Dean said with a sharp exhale of breath, his eyes gravitating to the knife in his younger sibling’s hand. “What’s going on, bro?” He asked carefully.

His brother side-stepped into the room and Sam realised he was putting himself between his knife-wielding crazy little brother and the fake-Jessica.

“She’s not real,” Sam blurted out, wondering why the hell his brother wasn’t understanding the severity of the situation. “She died, Dean! You saw it, you were there!”

“Sam, all I can see is you holding a knife to your fiancée and freaking out. Just relax, ok? Put the knife down.” His calming tone only fuelled Sam’s anger further.

“You pulled me out of the room! She was on fire! On the ceiling! Don’t you remember?” Sam voice broke as he flicked his gaze between the two of them.

They were sharing anxious looks. He suddenly wasn’t certain what he was saying. Had he imagined all of that happening? Jessica was here, stood in front of him, terrified, his brother wasn’t agreeing with him either and Dean had been there. Doubt overwhelmed him. Was he mad?

“Sam, c’mon man, just chill -“ Dean began but broke off as two more people stepped into the room.

Gaze snapping to the newcomers, Sam’s head spun as he realised who they were.

“Mom…?” He barely whispered. “Dad…?”

His parents were eyeing him with the same fear that had been present in Jessica and Dean’s eyes but Sam didn’t care. He didn’t relinquish his grip on the knife. The whole scene had just shot from surreal to off-the-wall crazy in less than thirty seconds. Sam was so confused. They looked real – Jessica had even felt real, but three of the people in the room were supposed to be dead. Sam couldn’t wrap his head around that.

“What the hell is this?” Sam demanded, splitting his gaze between the four of them.

“Sammy…” Mary’s soft voice drifted into the air. Sam glanced at her. He wanted her to be real. He wanted all of this to be real but there was no way on earth it could be. “Put the knife down baby.”

She stepped towards him and Sam shifted back but as she reached a hand out to him he didn’t react. He couldn’t. She was so close to him that he could smell her perfume, he could feel her warm breath on his face, her eyes gazing softly into his face – just like she had that night in Lawrence. It was too much and Sam’s resolve broke completely as she ran a hand down his cheek, her touch soft and warm. She felt real and he wanted her to be real so badly that he didn’t care if this was in his head anymore. His entire family were here, with him. He was no longer facing his life alone. He needed this love, this strong family unit more than he had ever needed anything in his life. Slowly Sam handed the knife over to his mother’s open hand.

“Son, what happened?” John Winchester’s deep gruff voice rang out, his face filled with apprehension, with such love.

His father… god all the things he wanted to say to him. All the apologies he wanted to make for nonsensical fights over the years. Sam stifled a sob and found strong arms wrapping around him. He resisted the hug for a second before he gave into it totally, breathing in his mothers scent as she held him. Sam had never imagined a single act could heal so many wounds, fix so many scars but for the first time in his whole life he felt truly safe. He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to stay like this forever.

"Are you real?" He breathed against her ear, tears freely flowing now. His head and heart were fighting against one another, trying to rationalise this whole thing.

She smiled at him.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m real.”

Sam glanced at Jessica who was watching him carefully. Reluctantly he pulled back from his mother’s embrace, studying his family incredulously. How was this possible? Part of him didn’t care, didn’t want to get to the bottom of it. This was what he had always wanted; normality. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact both his parents were stood in front of him. He almost reached out once more to touch them, to confirm in his own mind that they were really there and not just an illusion but he restrained himself at the last moment.

“I’m sorry, Jess,” he apologised.

The blonde girl crossed the kitchen, leaned onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. Sam started to pull back, taken aback by the gesture but the kiss was so familiar, so natural, just everything he remembered it to be and he found himself leaning further into it. Hundreds of memories came back to him. Nights him and Jess had slept together, romantic meals on birthdays, Christmases, valentines. The times he had watched her sleep, the times he had squeezed her and kissed her. The times she had reassured him and made him laugh. The hole she had filled at Stanford when he had felt so alone. So many different emotions assaulted him that it made his head spin.

His heart won the battle; logic went out of the window. He didn’t care how he was here; all that mattered was that he was.

"We… live here?" Sam asked carefully, when she finally released him.

Sam found his eyes wandering around the kitchen. This room was just as grand as the rest of the house. Granite surfaces covered overly expensive units; a large range was stood as the focal piece of the kitchen, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling.

"Did you hit your head or something?" Dean questioned in a manner that was so typically Dean.

"No…" Sam said with a small smile.

Maybe this was real. Maybe demons, ghosts, the last twenty-four years of his life had just been a bad dream. Maybe this – what was before him now – was reality. Sam clung to that notion, refusing to let it go. He needed to believe this was real.

He glanced around at the food preparations. “What’s this?”

“Christmas dinner,” Jessica said slowly, casting a glance at his family.

“It’s Christmas?” Sam asked, startled, noticing the potatoes on the stove and the tray of stuffing on the work surface.

“Well, yeah.”

“Are you ok son?” John inquired. The anxiety was back in the older man’s voice as he studied his youngest son.

“Yeah,” Sam said softly, “I’m fine, dad.”

“Why don’t we open the presents,” Mary suggested, breaking the tension in the room.

Sam snapped his gaze to her. “Presents? We have presents?”

In twenty-four years Sam could only remember a handful of Christmases in which they had exchanged gifts. Usually a hunt would take precedence. The idea of celebrating the holiday was foreign to him.

“Well not for you Rambo,” Dean chipped in. “Santa’s decided you’re getting coal this year.”

John slapped Dean upside the head, eliciting a howl of irritation from the man. Sam smiled. It was all just so… normal.

His family all headed into the adjacent room through a set of double doors off the kitchen and Sam almost swore under his breath. The living room was like a grotto. Tinsel ran across the top of the fire place, Christmas cards lined the shelves of a bookcase behind one of the couches but what really caught Sam’s eye was the six foot tree. Covered in baubles, lights and other decorations it was fabulous to behold. He felt like a kid in a candy store but he couldn’t stop gawking at it. He had never experienced anything like it.

“You ok?” Jessica asked moving in behind him, her hand slipping onto his shoulder as his parents and Dean sat down.

“Yeah,” Sam smiled at her, pressing his lips to her forehead, “I’m fine.”

Sam had never had a proper Christmas and as they exchanged gifts, laughing and joking as they unwrapped presents from one another, he felt a strange, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was everything he had ever wanted. Normality. His family all together. Dean happy. His parents alive. His girlfriend gazing at him with big loving blue eyes. He never wanted it to end.

“Well, this is nice.”

Sam snapped his head up at the voice and was on his feet before he realised he was moving. The yellow eyed demon was stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, his lips pulled into a wry smile. Sam glanced around at his family but they were still opening presents, seemingly oblivious to the man who was in the room with them.

“Christmas with the Winchesters…” The demon laughed. “You can be Tiny Tim if you want, Sammy. I’ll even bring a turkey.”

“Get out, now,” Sam growled.

“I don’t think so kid.”

Jessica’s scream brought Sam’s head spinning back over his shoulder. To his horror her body was being dragged up the wall and onto the ceiling. Sam’s stomach clenched.

“No!” He screamed, attempting to run forward but is whole body seemed paralysed. He couldn’t move. Frustration built within him as he raised his eyes upwards. A crimson stain was growing around her middle, seeping through the material of her shirt.

Sam almost threw up as blood dripped onto his face, huge fat droplets. He scrubbed his face, trying to remove the stain, his hands quickly becoming blood slicked as the liquid continued to pour down.

“Stop it!” Sam whimpered pitifully, “Please! Leave her alone!”

Jessica screamed. Not just a yelp of pain but a stomach-churning anguished cry of agony. Sam fisted his head between his hands, trying to block the sound out but it was impossible. It was seared into his brain like a scratch on vinyl.

“Say goodbye to the rest of your family, Sammy,” Yellow eyes taunted.

Sam glanced up just in time to see his mother pulled onto the ceiling as well, a similar stain widening around her abdomen. His father fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth, coughing and gasping as he choked on his own bodily fluids.

It was Dean’s death that hit him hardest however. He ignited, like a fuse covered in petroleum. Thick flames engulfed his entire body, his screams deafening. Sam closed his eyes, wishing this would stop, that it would end but he couldn’t block out their cries of pain. It was horrendous.

A hand grabbed his face and Sam’s eyes flew open. Hard yellow eyes were a few inches from his face.

“They’re dead because of you,” the demon growled. “You did all of this. If you weren’t here, Sammy, every single person you’ve ever given a damn about would still be alive.”

Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head, tears rolling down his cheeks, escaping from his eyes as they brimmed over his lower lids.

“It’s not real. All of this… it’s a dream.”

Flames erupted across the ceiling suddenly, and the stench of burning flesh lingered in the air. Sam screamed and then sobbed, a spasmodic shiver running through his body as he continued to cry.

“Stop this… please.” He pleaded. He had gone beyond dignity and pride now. Sam just wanted it to end. He couldn’t take any more. “STOP IT!”

The words died on his lips as everything in the room disappeared apart from him.

Suddenly able to move again, he spun three hundred and sixty degrees, searching for his family but they were gone. Confusion raced through his mind. What the hell was this? He dragged his arm over his eyes, wiping his tear stained cheeks, trying to make sense of this.

He had thought the nightmare was over but it wasn’t. In the corner of the room was the shadowed figure.

Sam hissed, his blood freezing and staggered backwards, his heart racing. He fell backwards, hitting the floor hard in his haste, and shifted back on his bottom, groping around for any kind of weapon he could use. His mind was racing. He had no idea what the shadow wanted but every time it had appeared to him something bad had happened.

The shadow stepped forward once more and as it did something weird happened.

The blackness began to swirl and melted into colours until finally there was a man stood before him.

“What the-“ Sam began but trailed off.

The man was over six foot tall with short tightly curled black hair, a short trimmed beard and piercing blue eyes.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the figure assured him, smoothing down his smart black pants before pulling at the collar of his white button up shirt.

“Who are you?” Sam demanded shakily. “Why the hell have you been following me?”

“I was watching over you, warning you that things were coming.”

Sam wasn’t sure what answer he had been expecting but it wasn’t that. His overwrought brain was having trouble keeping up with anything now and Sam had reached the end of his rope. He was tired of fighting.

“But… why?”

The man moved closer, his strong jaw line clenching as he let his eyes wander over Sam. The hunter felt completely exposed, like the guy was looking into his very soul.

“Because I can’t directly intervene. This is not my fight – not this time.”

“Are you a demon?”

The man laughed. “No. I’m not a demon.”

“Who are you then?”

“A friend. My name is Michael.”

“Am I dead?” Sam could think of no other explanation for all the things that had happened to him.

“You’re not dead.” Michael extended his arms out at his side. “This is Hell - at least a version of Hell… think of it as an interactive dream.”

Sam was puzzled by his words but tried to work through what he was being told.

“So none of this is real?”

“All of it is real. If you believe it is.” When Sam looked confused the dark haired man gave him a patient smile. “You were expecting Hell to be fire, and brimstone?”

Sam frowned at the man’s amused tone. Wasn’t that what they were always told about Hell? Demons complained that it was blood, bones, a prison of pure hate. Every description of Hell that Sam had ever heard involved fire.

“Well… yeah.” He admitted finally.

“Not all realms in Hell are physical.”

“There’s more than one part to Hell?” Sam asked, surprised.

“There are several parts actually. This is just one. They call this Amorpheus, the dream realm. It’s near the surface. People will stumble across this place by accident sometimes.” Michael explained, his nose wrinkling as he glanced around the perfectly average looking living room. “Ever had a nightmare that was so real? So awful that you woke clinging to your sheets? This is where you’ve been. Amorpheus is where all your worst fears become reality, so real you can touch and feel everything around you. A year here can seem like a lifetime. The hardest place to escape from is our own minds, our own doubts, our own fears. But it’s an illusion. All of it. Everything you see, everything you touch… nothing here exists and the key is knowing how to make it all disappear.”

Sam glanced around the living room that had moments ago witnessed the deaths of everyone he had ever cared about. It looked normal. He reached out and touched the couch, and was surprised when he felt the leather material under his fingertips. It seemed real enough.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, in time.”

“No,” Sam growled. He was fed up of being kept in the dark. “I’ve spent the whole of my life burying people I love, watching my family fall apart, fighting to save other people. If you have answers I want them. I think I’m owed that much.”

Michael considered him carefully, his head tilting to one side. “Things should have been different for you, Sam. Your life should never have gone this way.”

Sam frowned deeply at his words, trying to make sense of them but failing to do so.

“…What?”

“They should have taken care of you. They should have raised you to know what your destiny is. Helped to hone your gifts.”

“They?”

Michael smiled.

“Enoch’s followers. Their Order was set up to protect you, and all the children like you, Sam.”

“The psychic kids…?” Sam released the breath he had been holding. “But I thought we were supposed to fight on Hell’s side.”

“That was never your true purpose.” An angry glare flashed momentarily in his eyes. It was gone quickly however, as if it had never existed. “The Fallen interfered. Decided they could use you and the others for their own gain. They set the balance out of kilter and now the world is tipping on its axis. You have to put it right Sam. Only you can do it.” The man broke off glancing behind him for a long moment as if he was seeing something Sam couldn’t. “I don’t have much time left.”

“Wait-“ Sam grabbed Michael’s arm as he turned to leave. “You have to tell me what all of this means! Maybe if I can understand it I can-“ He broke off, too afraid to admit his own fears to the stranger.

“Stop from turning to the dark side?” The man looked amused. “These things are not black and white. It’s the choices we make that define us, not what we are told we are. Do you think you are capable of true evil?”

“No.” Sam replied immediately.

“There is your answer.” The man smiled. “Your fate is in your own hands, Sam. The other children chose paths that were not theirs and left you alone, to face this. It shouldn’t have been that way.”

“To face what? What were they supposed to help me with?”

“I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ve already lingered here too long. If she finds me here she will attempt to kill me and I don’t like fighting so early in the day.” He said with a whimsical grin that seemed somewhat out of place under the circumstances.

“Please, wait.” Sam groped for the stranger again, catching hold of his arm. The dark haired man turned slowly. “How do I help my brother?”

The man gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Sometimes all you can do is look death in the face. Then you will see the way out.” He glanced over his shoulder once more before turning back to Sam with a smile. “You will be ok, Sam. You are stronger than even you know. All you have to do is believe.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Sam admitted sourly. He wanted more answers. He wanted the man to tell him what the hell was going on. The look on Michael’s face told Sam he wasn’t going to get another word of reassurance however.

The man gave him a sympathetic nod.

“It is confusing but it will become clear.” He shrugged out of Sam’s grip. “It’s time to wake up.”

Sam frowned and opened his mouth to ask more. He didn’t get a chance. The scene swirled around him and suddenly he was slamming back into reality. His hurt body flaring with old and new aches as consciousness came back.

As he cracked his eyes open he was greeted by the female demon’s face. She was sat on her heels, eyeing him cautiously. Bael had moved from the back wall and was now stood closer too, glaring at Sam’s bound and bruised form lying on the floor. Blinking rapidly under heavy lids, Sam tried to push the vision from his mind whilst gaining clarity on the room once more. It was a difficult balance to maintain and it made him dizzy.

“It was just a dream…” Sam breathed heavily, trying to calm his pounding heart.

He knew it had all been some kind of trick which had fucked with his mind, but it seemed so real that he was having problems trying to come back to the real world. He had seen a lot of awful things in his life but not being able to escape from his own mind - his own waking nightmare - had been terrifying. He wondered if the man, Michael, had also been an illusion but Sam had found strange comfort in his words and he chose to cling to them, not wanting to let them go.

“That’s Hell, Sam,” the female demon said softly, “and that’s what every day of your brother’s existence will be if you don’t break that deal.”

Sam’s chest constricted painfully as he tried to drag air into his heaving lungs. It was one day. One small thing and Dean would never have to live through that. He could be free, have his own life without hunting and evil, be happy like he was in those photographs in his dream. Sam wanted that more than anything for his brother but could he really sacrifice the world? All those people who would suffer…

He glanced up at the demon, wet bangs sticking to his cheeks, matted with a mixture of his own blood and water. Conflicting emotions raced through his fragile mind as he made his decision. It wasn’t a decision he liked but stuck between a rock and a hard place, he made the only one he could. He loved his brother more than anything in the world and there was nothing he would not do for him but Sam could not bring Hell onto earth. He had eleven months left before the Crossroads demon would come for Dean and in that time Sam would figure out his own way to break the contract. He hadnt sunk so low he had to make deal’s with Demons.

“Go to hell.”

She snarled at him and straightened from her crouch, glaring down at his prone form.

“You do not want to piss me off little boy. I can make life incredibly unpleasant for you.”

“How? Torture?” Sam ground out. He had no idea where he was finding the strength to fight but every word that defied her made him stronger. “Think we’ve established that screwing with my head isn’t gonna make me do anything you ask.”

She smiled at him.

“Your brother’s still going to Hell Sam, and you’ve seen it now. Seen how terrible just a few minutes in that place can be. Imagine a life time.”

“I’ll find a way,” Sam maintained, “the crossroads demon can-“

“The Crossroads demon?” She mimicked him in a sing-song voice, laughing. “You think that pitiful little bitch has any say in this? That if you ask her nicely she will relent and give your brother’s soul back? It is not her contract to break. This isn’t a playground, Sammy, we all work. All of us have someone to answer to, someone above us. Someone more powerful than us. The demon at the Crossroads is no different.”

Sam frowned at her.

“Whose contract is it then?”

Bael stepped forward, his lip curling into a snarling smile.

“Mine.”

 Chapter Seventeen:

Pseudomonarchia Daemonum

“We’ve got a bigger problem than Sam being missing.”

Dean glanced up from the chair he occupied, the laptop coming to rest next to him as his eyes locked on to the long haired hunter. Bobby had taken the girl to the hospital over an hour ago, leaving Dean with the demonologist – much to Dean’s displeasure. Bobby hadn’t exactly approved of his methods of information gathering but Joshua had barely been able to contain his disparagement. Dean didn’t care. He didn’t want the demonologist’s approval.

He could block out Joshua however, but his inner guilt was another matter. That could not be silenced.

Dean knew all of this was his fault. If he had done something differently… taken a different route… stayed at Bobby’s… Sam would still be here, with him, and not being held by a friggin’ torture happy demon. That admission cut the hardest.

The two hunters had sat in loaded silence for the last twenty minutes. Dean just wanted to find his brother and it was frustrating as hell that no one could offer him any quick answers as to where Sam was. He almost wanted to shake the location out of Joshua but decided that path was dangerous; Joshua would probably floor him.

“What?” Dean demanded, unable to keep the disgruntled tone out of his voice. He didn’t miss the sour look Joshua aimed at him however. The tension between them was still palpable.

“The things that demon was talking about… they ain’t just half truths and scare tactics,” Joshua replied, his gaze lowering to the paper in his hands. “We’re in way over our heads here.”

“What the hell you talking bout Josh?” Dean’s patience wore out and his irritation surfaced. He didn’t have time for riddles. Every hour they sat here with their thumbs up their asses was another hour Sam was at the mercy of some friggin’ psychotic demon.

After Dean and Joshua’s argument over summoning Bael – one that Joshua had won but only because Bobby had threatened to have Dean tied up and shipped back to his scrap yard – Dean had taken to the laptop and begun researching for alternatives. He had hit brick wall after brick wall and Dean was close to pummelling something. Sure, there was information on Bael, but Joshua’s grim determination not to summon the damn demon was inching Dean’s anger closer towards dangerous levels. He couldn’t see any option other than dragging the demon back to the house and forcing answers from the bastard by any means possible. Although Dean wasn’t even so sure that was a good idea. His mind didn’t seem to be thinking the way it should at the moment and Dean wasn’t sure he trusted his own judgment.

“Well I looked into the Order of Enoch… it’s not the Breakfast Club, Dean. It’s serious shit.”

Winchester sat up straighter, wincing a little at the sharp pain that shot through his stomach. For the hundredth time that day he wondered what the hell that demon had done to him and decided Bael was going to take an excruciatingly long time to exorcise.

“The Order of what?”

“Enoch’s Order, your uh demon chick mentioned them.”

“So…?” Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.

Joshua gave a frustrated snort before jumping into an explanation. Dean didn’t have to even look up to know the man was probably glaring at him. Joshua was as predictable as the day was long. In many respects the chestnut haired hunter reminded him of Sam. The demonologist had the same flare and enthusiasm for researching as his younger brother had. Two damn geeks in a pod.

He shuffled the bundle of research through his hands, his gaze wandering over whatever he had scrawled down.

“They supposedly started in biblical times. Set up to protect the world against the Fallen.”

Dean frowned.

“Fallen what?”

Joshua glanced up finally from the papers he had been perusing, his eyes shifting around the room a little before locking onto Dean’s face.

“Angels.”

Dean removed his hand from his eyes and flicked his brow.

“Angels?” He deadpanned.

“You believe in hell but not a heaven?” Joshua sounded surprised.

Dean wanted to point out that his life hadn’t exactly been a bundle of laughs. He had lost faith in any kind of higher power when he was four. Dean couldn’t imagine any God allowing a demon to kill his mother. Not only that but there was too much shit in the world, too many evils, too many horrendous acts that halted Dean’s belief in God or an angelic hierarchy. Despite all the impossible things Dean had witnessed he was highly sceptical of certain things; angels being one.

“I’ve seen demons, Josh. Exorcised them, shot them… in all the years I’ve been doing this shit though I’ve never seen a damn angel.”

The demonologist half shrugged, half scowled.

“Well I ain’t never been to Disneyland, kid, don’t mean it doesn’t exist.” His southern twang drawled sardonically.

“Angels? Come on, Josh, its bullshit! Angels don’t exist.”

“That’s not exactly true. According to Christian mythology the Fallen are essentially the angels that went with Lucifer when he was kicked outta heaven. I mean, it’s not that clear cut - there are different levels within that - but they were the starting point. Even your yellow eyed friend, Azazel is said to be one of the Fallen.”

“That yellow eyed son of a bitch was once an angel?” That admission confirmed to Dean that angels were definitely not real.

Joshua shrugged. “Is it that impossible? Every day we see things that most people would call you damn crazy for believin’ in and yet they exist.”

Dean pulled a face. “You’re telling me angels are real?”

Joshua pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes rolling upwards pensively.

“Truthfully…? I’m not sure. Facts have a way of becomin’ embellished over time, and time eventually gives way to legends…” Joshua trailed off, his attention deviating back to his notes. “I mean, there’s no proof, no witnessed accounts – apart from a couple of nut jobs from time to time, claimin’ to do things ‘cause God told them to – but even so…” He hesitated, frowning, “there’s twice as much lore on angels as there is on demons. Not to mention most demon doctrine stems from angelology. ”

“God…” Dean muttered closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Please tell me you haven’t spent the last hour chasing a friggin’ pipe dream.”

“Look, smart ass, I wanna find your brother too but I can only work with what I’ve got. And right now all I’ve got is a stinking pile of nothin' so that’s what I’m workin’ on. You find anythin’ more, you let me know.”

He growled inaudibly under his breath but Dean was sure he heard something about ‘John’ and ‘damn stubborn Winchester’s’.

Knowing it was pointless to piss Joshua off and that he really did need the hunter’s help to track Bael, Dean forced his charming side to the front seat, pushing his belligerent, irritable persona into the background.

“Ok, so this Order… just supposing for a moment that we assume angels exist…“ He rolled his eyes a little. He was trying to humour Joshua but the notion of a higher power was almost laughable to Dean.

“Fallen angels,” Joshua corrected. “And from what I can gather they ain’t really angels in the halos and wings sense of the word.”

“You lost me.”

“They call them the Grigori. They ain’t really angels but they ain’t demons either. Kind of cut from the same grain but different.”

Dean was frowning before he had even finished speaking and Joshua looked almost as baffled by his own words as the younger hunter did.

“Great, now we’ve cleared that up...” Dean drawled. “What the hell does any of that mean, Josh? And what the hell does it have to do with Sam? He’s been missing for nine and a half hours and all you can tell me is a load of bullcrap about angels and friggin’ legends!”

Joshua’s expression was scathing. It spoke volumes. It told Dean he was an ungrateful bastard and that Dean should be kissing the floor beneath his feet. Not that Winchester blamed him. Joshua had spent the last hour pulling every article, calling every contact he knew to gain this meagre scrap of information and Dean wasn’t exactly flowing with gratitude.

“You think this is my idea of a good time, Dean? Rummagin’ through tonnes of goddamn research that doesn’t make a lick of sense while tryin’ to translate languages that most people haven’t even fuckin’ heard of?”

Dean jumped a little as the older hunter slammed his research onto the floor, pushing himself to his feet. Anger rolled off the man in heavy waves as he paced a little, his hands dropping onto his hips.

“You know what?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, his gaze coming back to Dean. “You’re just like your goddamn father! Always demandin’ answers but never wantin’ to wait for them! I can’t just pull thousands of years of demonology out of my damn ass! These things take time and if I get it wrong, I get it in the neck! I have both yours and Bobby’s lives in my hands – and not to mention if I don’t figure this fuckin’ whole damn mess out in time your brother’s! So yeah, this might not be what you wanna hear, Dean, but this shit – all this damn background readin’ about secret Orders and friggin’ angels - is necessary if we’re gonna figure out what the hell you two dumb asses are involved in!”

Silence filled the air. Dean risked a glance at the older hunter. Josh looked about ready to explode again. Winchester felt like he was playing Jenga and removing one block could bring the whole stack crashing down. Joshua had to be handled carefully. Dean had no illusions that he was tough but Joshua wasn’t exactly a kitten. Last thing he wanted was to aggravate him.

“Sorry man,” Dean apologised, hoping to placate the man. He really didn’t want to piss Joshua off. “This whole thing is driving me crazy. I wanna find him, Josh. I can’t stand thinking what this demon is doing to him.”

Joshua gave him a sympathetic nod that almost had Dean out of his seat and throwing punches. He didn’t need pity right now; he needed an address and a gun full of rounds. He would have settled for knowing his kid brother was still alive however. He controlled his temper, unwilling to start another slanging match that would resort in them killing each other or Joshua walking out. Neither scenario helped Sam.

“I know kid and we will find him. This seems like the long way round but if we don’t get the research right then we’re gonna wind up dead.”

We still might, Dean thought sombrely. It was a very real possibility. Their line of work was hardly hazard free. Dean had lost everyone he had ever cared about in his entire life to this crusade. Even Joshua had suffered personally due to hunting. No one in this underground world came out unscathed. Sometimes Dean wondered if it was worth it.

“So this Order…?” Dean said, holding an olive branch out.

He was impatient for answers, but Josh was right. They needed to find out as much as they could before they dove in head first.

Joshua took a shuddering breath, retrieving his notes from the floor, a slight flush in his cheeks. Dean smirked a little. It wasn’t often one of them threw a tantrum like a teenager. They prided themselves on being tough guys.

“The girl – she said the Order was lookin’ to kill your brother…” Joshua pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. Dean wasn’t entirely sure if the man was talking to him or to himself any more. He largely suspected both. “…this Order was set up to help the Watchers stop the Grigori from returning to earth after they were trapped… It’s mostly ramblings and legends. Whisperings of prophecies – the usual psychobabble bullshit…” He broke off perusing his notes once again. “…guess it depends what you believe man.”

“What’s all that even mean?” Dean asked with an irritable sigh. Joshua was making less sense as the conversation progressed. “Why the hell would some Order be tryin’ to kill Sam?”

“I have no idea.” Joshua shrugged, a baffled expression wavering on his face. “I’ll need to do more research.”

“What about the demon? This Bael guy?” Dean pressed, itching to do something more productive than research. He eyed his weapon bag, wanting nothing more than to summon Bael and blow his friggin’ head off. He needed to find his brother quickly. God knows what Bael was doing to him.

“I found a number of things.” He finally reclaimed his seat, brushing his chestnut hair from his face. “Your guy Bael is a high rankin’ demon. Near the top of the Hierarchy as far as I can figure. Got a number of legions at his command as well. Last record I can find of the bastard was back in the eighteen-thirties… caused a hell of a lot of havoc in his time.”

“How do you know it was him?” Dean inquired, curiosity temporarily overcoming his need to pummel something. John had always taught him the importance of knowing your enemy and it was a lesson that was ingrained in every fibre of Dean’s personality. Some habits were hard to break.

“There’re signs. Markings. They’re noted in a journal I have that belonged to a hunter - a guy named William Hayes. Kept extensive lists of all the shit heads he fought over the years. Your guy Bael made the front page.”

Joshua pulled a small, leather-bound book from amongst his research and handed it to Dean. It was old and the material was well worn, scuffed at the binding and some of the pages were water stained. Carefully Dean opened the book and cast his eyes over the illegible inked scrawl. It reminded the younger hunter of John’s journal. Similar drawings of supernatural creatures. Pages of incantations, rituals, some in Latin, others in English. The first entry began around the eighteen-twenties and the last was marked as May second, eighteen-thirty-six. Dean was almost tempted to read it but impatience stilled his interest.

“Dude, where the hell do you even get this crap from?”

“I’m a collector, asswipe – and it’s not crap.” He snatched the book back from the hunter waspishly before continuing somewhat reproachfully. “This hunter, Hayes, wrote that he defeated Bael, banished his sorry ass into the deepest, darkest pit he could find before sealin’ it up and puttin’ as many goddamn protection charms in place as he possibly could.”

“Obviously didn’t work,” Dean grunted sourly, sinking back against the chair. His legs flopped into the middle of the room.

“Worked for long enough. Can’t find any accounts of Bael ‘til last week.”

“Does that thing tell you the places Hayes tracked him to?” Dean asked, hoping the demon had some kind of pattern to his movements - certain places he frequented. It was a long shot but it could help find Sam now.

“Uh…” Joshua flicked through the book, running his eyes over the text for a couple of minutes before he spoke again. “Hayes tracked Bael from Arizona, an’ across to Kansas. Last entry in the journal says he was headin’ north and Hayes was goin’ after the sonovabitch.”

Something in Joshua’s words tickled the back of Dean’s mind, stirred a memory. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to pull it from his brain. It took a couple of moment of harder thinking than Dean usually liked to partake in but finally he remembered. He made a grab for Sam’s research pad.

“Sam said demon activity was heightened around central Arizona, near Lawrence in Kansas, Southern Wyoming and on the east coast…” He finally located the page he was looking for and roved his eyes over it. “Jesus…”

The cogs in Dean’s mind seemed to roll and click into place suddenly as he read Sam’s work. It was like he had an epiphany, only Dean had never had one and he was pretty sure they didn’t come with dull, throbbing headaches.

“What?” Joshua asked apprehensively.

“It’s the same as Wyoming…”

“Dean…?”

“The Devil’s Gate…” He muttered under his breath. “Arizona, Phili, Lawrence…These areas are all surrounded by demonic omens but the centres are clean… not even so much as a goddamn spirit causin’ trouble.”

“You sayin’ these places are encircled by demons but the centres are demonic…” Joshua groped for a word, his mouth working for a second before he finally managed to force words out of it. “…demonic black holes?”

“Yahtzee,” Dean muttered. “It just happens that this Hayes dude tracked Bael north from Kansas, then supposedly trapped him, put protection rituals in place to keep him there…?” Dean raised his eyes, his expression sour. “Wyoming was surrounded by the biggest goddamn pentagram I’ve ever seen.”

Joshua frowned deeply. “You’re saying that this dude, Hayes, trapped Bael in the Devil’s Gate…?”

Dean wasn’t sure what he was saying. It couldn’t be coincidence that these other areas were displaying similar signs as Wyoming had just before Jake had opened the Devil’s Gate. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this son of a bitch was stuck in a hole and left to rot. It couldn’t be a coincidence that nothing was heard of Bael until three weeks ago when the gate had only been opened for four.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between a finger and thumb, Dean tried to remember everything he had ever been told and put it into some semblance of order.

John had said the colt was made in eighteen-thirty five; the colt that could kill anything and was also the key that had opened the gateway in Wyoming. He had said that the gun was made for a hunter, a hunter who used a dozen bullets and then disappeared, the colt along with him – at least until Daniel Elkins got hold of it.

Was it that implausible that William Hayes had been involved in all of this? That perhaps he had laid the pentagram around the cemetery in Wyoming? That Samuel Colt had made the gun for him? Was this – the omens, the demons, the Order - just history repeating itself? Had this happened before, back in the nineteenth century?

Hayes’ last entry was May eighteen-thirty-six. Had he trapped Bael in the gateway – along with hundreds of other demons – set the protection pentagrams down and then what? Gone hunting? Dean frowned.

“Lemme see the journal…”

Joshua offered the book to him. Dean flicked through to the last page and read it. It was written like a diary entry, the date hastily underlined. The inked scrawl was difficult to read in places but Dean managed to translate most of it. It talked about leaving Kansas, that ‘he’ was moving and Hayes had tracked ‘him’ north. It didn’t say who this ‘he’ was but Dean was willing to bet it wasn’t Bael – he had been vanquished three entries back. He gave a frustrated snarl that it wasn’t more specific, that was no more information than that.

“What you thinkin’?” Joshua asked.

Dean shrugged. “I dunno man. You’re the friggin’ college graduate, come up with a theory.”

“Could just be coincidence,” Joshua replied, but didn’t sound sure of himself.

“Well I’ve definitely never been to Disneyland and I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“You think there are other gates? Like the one in southern Wyoming?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. But the similarities…?” Dean broke off with a shrug. They were hard to ignore. However something didn’t sit quite right. Jake had used the colt to open the last gate, and yet when Bael had taken Sam he hadn’t even touched the antiquated gun. It was still safely tucked in the bottom of the weapons bag. That in itself didn’t make sense. Dean had been out of it for a while. Bael would have had plenty of time to search for it. It was almost as if he didn’t want the colt… or need it. That was unsettling.

Joshua scrubbed a hand over his face, looking profoundly weary. “Swear to god you Winchester’s are gonna be the damn death of me.”

Dean studied the demonologist carefully. his memory filtered back to a couple of hunts in which Joshua had essentially saved his ass, back when Dean had been green as grass and believed in his own immortality. In a way Joshua and his father, Russell, had been as much a part of Dean’s life as Pastor Jim or Bobby. Friends in the hunting world were hard to come by and, despite his father’s sour temperament, John had still kept a handful of people close.

Dean had almost been eight the first time he had met the self-assured eighteen year old Joshua at Jim Murphy’s rectory. Even back then he had been a geek. He spent the whole weekend with his head in a book and from what Dean could remember he had done most of the research for the hunt John and Russell were working on.

Joshua had popped into Winchester life intermittently over the intervening years, usually on a fly-by visit to Bobby’s or Caleb’s to collect ammunitions but never for long. Dean knew that John had worked dozens of solo cases with him but Dean had only hunted with him on two occasions. The first time Dean met the demonologist properly was in 1996.

Dean had just turned seventeen and was heading a hunt for a werewolf. Joshua, Caleb, John and Russell had been involved. The whole thing had gone south from the start.

Caleb had been taken out of action early on in the game, and John and Russell had been focused on hunting the female wolf. They hadn’t realised she had a younger pup following her, recently turned and filled with anger. Joshua had saved Dean’s life but had broken his arm in the process. It had been a frightening gig but Dean would not forget what the demonologist had done for him that day. In many respects it surprised Dean when people went out of their way to help him. In a strange, maudlin way Dean didn’t really believe he was worthy of that attention, of someone other than Sam caring about him. They’d been alone for too long, been shut off from people and the rest of the world for too many years. Dean wasn’t sure he could let anyone – even Joshua – into his tight circle now.

“You can still leave man. This isn’t your fight. I wouldn’t think any less of you if you did,” Dean said quietly.

He wanted to give the guy a chance to walk away. He didn’t want Joshua’s blood on his hands when this whole thing headed up shit creek – which considering their past history was bound to happen.

Jacob glanced down at his hands, his eyes spacing at the clump of paperwork he was clutching.

“Your daddy saved my life on more occasions than I can remember kid.” He favoured Dean with a small smile but there was no humour in it; just sorrow and regret. “Be a poor way to repay him if I just walked out when his boys needed my help.”

Dean wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that and so he remained silent, shifting uncomfortably. Joshua returned his gaze back to his research, seemingly unperturbed by the almost chick-flick moment that had just occurred.

“So uh…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly “Can we use Hayes’ notes to track this demon? To find Sam?”

Joshua glanced up at him and smiled. “Yeah. We can.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Well that was a whole bundle of fun,” Bobby said with a sardonic smile as he stepped in through the front door, pulling his cap off as he moved into the room.

The mechanics face was glistening with sweat from the late afternoon heat outside. Dean was grateful the boarded up windows of the abandoned house provided them with enough shade to keep it cool.

“Problems?” Joshua asked, twisting on his knees to glance behind him at the mechanic.

The demonologist had a large map spread on the dusty floor and was knelt in front of it. With a red pen he was marking off points at random intervals, his gaze flicking between Hayes’ journal, and Sam’s notes. Sometimes he would pause for a couple of minutes and simply stare at the points he had highlighted before sketching a finger across the map, muttering under his breath. Dean had been watching him for the last twenty minutes and was grateful Bobby was back. He was getting twitchy. The book Joshua had shoved in his hand to read had long since been discarded, lying across his chest, spine in the air. He couldn’t concentrate on the words any longer.

“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.” Bobby snorted. “Cops round here aren’t as believin’ as they are back home.”

“We’re not gonna get a not-so friendly call from the boys in blue, are we?” Dean asked offhandedly but there was a tinge of anxiety in his voice that he could not withhold.

They had enough problems without the police tailing them as well. Not to mention Dean was a wanted felon. A long haul in prison was definitely not on his priority list.

“I fed them some cock-n-bull story bout findin’ the kid beaten in a backstreet. By the end of it they were paintin’ me as some kind of friggin’ hero.”

Dean almost snorted, imagining Bobby as some kind of neighbour Spiderman figure. He quickly schooled his features however as the mechanic shot a dark look his way.

“Where you pair up to then?” Bobby was already moving towards the seating arrangement where Dean and Joshua were sprawled out. “Found anything more?”

“A whole host of dead ends…” Dean muttered sourly. “Oh and some organisation that’s committed to terminating angels.”

Bobby’s expression was a mixture of amusement and irritation. “You bang your head when you fought that damn demon?”

Dean scowled. “No. It’s some whacked out theory Josh has come up with.”

Joshua’s expression could have wiped out small towns. “You want me to lay your ass out on the floor Winchester?”

Dean raised a brow. “Take your best shot. Hey, I’ll even give you the first punch free.”

“I was hunting shit when you were rolling round your bedroom floor with plastic guns kid!”

“Boys!” Bobby snapped, essentially cutting Dean’s comeback off. “How in the hell is this macho bullshit helpin’ Sam?”

Joshua looked suitably chastised and Dean found it somewhat difficult to see him as a thirty-eight year old man in that moment. He looked like a naughty school kid - not that Dean hadn’t adopted a sheepish look, but he looked nowhere near as contrite as the demonologist. Bobby, Dean had noticed, seemed to bring that reaction out in a lot of people.

“Start explaining what you’ve found,” the mechanic demanded, successfully halting any further retorts from either man.

Complying with Bobby’s request, Joshua began to reel off all the information he had just told Dean about Enoch’s Order and Bael’s past. The younger hunter rose to his feet and moved away from the older men, not wanting to hear it again.

Dust kicked up off the floor as he moved, the blood smears from the tussle with Bael still evident. Dean knew he had to be patient, that he had to let Joshua complete his research if they were ever going to find his brother but it didn’t stop him feeling inept. He had promised the kid that nothing would happen to him and now Sam was at the mercy of a blood-thirsty demon. It didn’t sit well with the hunter at all.

Staring for a moment at the thick sulphur trails lining the sill of the window nearest to him, Dean frowned deeply. He had saved Sam from the yellow eyed demon only to hand him straight over to Bael. The irony of it ate at him. He shook himself, clearing the cobwebs that were weaving scenarios throughout his brain. Sam was alive – he had to be. Dean figured he would know if his brother was dead. He would feel it. Of that he was certain.

As Joshua finished reiterating his research a stunned quiet settled over the room. Dean glanced over his shoulder, unable to stop the grin from forming. Bobby’s brow was nearly in his receding hair line and his lips were twisted incredulously beneath his facial hair.

“Angels?” Bobby demanded sceptically.

“Told you he had a whacked out theory,” Dean muttered turning back to the window.

Joshua snorted, flicking his hair of his face, his eyes dark.

“That’s just what the damn books say! Why bother askin’ me to do the damn donkey work on this if you don’t wanna hear what the hell I’ve found?”

Bobby held his hands up defensively. “Look kid, I don’t mean any offence but you gotta admit this sounds pretty far-fetched - even in our line of work.”

“I looked in the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum to confirm this… there’s pages of this stuff, all about angels and demons. Most of its crap. Some of its not, but I didn’t write the damn thing,” Joshua growled, “I can only tell you what it – and about a dozen other damn books – say. This subject isn’t an exact science!”

“Simmer, dude,” Dean said, receiving a level glare. He merely smiled back at the demonologist.

Joshua looked like he was going to start an argument but then he took a shuddering breath instead, lowering his gaze back to the map.

“I think I found your demon anyway.”

Dean straightened, immediately moving closing to the demonologist.

“Where?” He demanded, his irritation forgotten instantly. Joshua evidently hadn’t. He still sounded sour as he spoke.

“Well I tracked the omens – where the deaths occurred, electrical storms… the usual crap. Most of its centred around small towns in Arizona and Philadelphia but there’s also a lot of hot air blowin’ round your home town kid.”

The mention of Lawrence made Dean wince. It was always a sore point. He brushed it aside harshly, refusing to dwell on the past. The present was kicking him in the face and taunting him already without adding more issues to the pile.

“Dude, that’s like a needle in a two thousand mile haystack,” Dean exclaimed, his desperation and frustration evident in his tone. Joshua hadn’t provided answers; he had merely given him more problems.

Joshua gave him a smug look. Dean wanted to smack it right off his face but Bobby was eyeing him, a brow raised. Dean took the warning and moved on. He could take on Joshua but him and Bobby…? Dean wasn’t so sure about that one.

“Yeah it is. ‘Cept I ain’t an expert in this crap for nothin’, Dean. Most of it’s low level stuff – kinda just rockin’ the boat, child’s play – but your guy Bael has a distinct style. I found a number of deaths in Sam’s research that I’m sure are his handiwork.”

That sounded more positive. Dean perked up.

“Where?”

Joshua beamed. “Nowhere near any of these other omens.”

“You saying they’re a division?” Bobby asked, flicking his gaze between the map and the demonologist.

“Not exactly… there’s definitely something going on around these places. Something pretty similar to your Wyoming case but whatever it is Bael ain’t there.” Joshua shrugged. “Maybe he ain’t interested in whatever they’re doin’.”

If Bael wasn’t interested in potential Devil Gates then what the hell was he interested in? What was he doing? More importantly why the hell did he need Sam to do it?

“Where’s Bael then?” Dean asked impatiently.

Joshua’s haughty smirk was beginning to severely irritate Dean.

“Not to far from here. About fifty miles south, off the I-70. All centred around here...” Dean leant over as Josh pointed to a spot on the map.

Dean studied the area carefully. There didn’t appear to be much in the way of civilisation surrounding the spot and this was accentuated by heavy woodlands running for about five miles in either direction. He pulled a face.

“Christ Josh, there’s nothing there but a shit load of trees! How in the hell are we supposed to find Sam in that?”

“Follow the sulphur trail, Dorothy, all the way to Oz.”

“Can you do that?” Dean asked, surprised.

Joshua gave him a level stare, his left hand dropping on to his hip. He looked more like an irate mother at that moment than a demon hunter. Under different circumstances Dean would have laughed at him. However he couldn't bring himself to joke around. Not when Sam was still missing.

“Did I not just say I’m a damn expert?”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean replied nonchalantly, glancing at the map once more. It was still an hour’s drive away. He hoped Sam could hold on for that long. He reached down and grabbed his weapons bag, carefully slinging it over his shoulder, wincing a little. “Let’s hit the road.”

Dean was going to find his little brother and when he did Bael was going to roast slowly over a nice hot spit.

Twist of Fate

Sam Winchester had felt every kind of pain imaginable in his short but eventful life. He had been shot, stabbed, beaten, strangled, thrown into walls, floors, doors and every other surface imaginable. In fact there wasn’t really any part of his body that hadn’t experienced pain. He could suck it up, deal with it, get passed it. This, however, was not like any injury he had ever received in his life.

The mental torture had continued for what seemed like a life time – it could have been longer, he really wasn’t sure. Images of everyone he loved dying had become a horror movie on loop and each vision seemed to step up a notch, finding worse ways to damage his already fragile mind. But there was more; worse to come.

In one vision his father had been taunting him, telling him how useless and worthless he was, reminding him that he had killed his mother, and would soon kill his brother. In another his mom had been pleading with him on the ceiling whilst she burnt, cursing him for being born. There were others of Jessica asking that dreaded question, ‘why Sam?’ and finally images of Dean burning to death whilst telling him how much he hated his younger sibling.

Sam wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He was stuck in a perpetual nightmare and he had no way of stopping it.

Then he would wake, and come out of the dream state, his soul frayed and torn. The female demon and Bael were always there, standing over him like vultures waiting for a dying animal to finally choke its last breath so they could eat it. Sam’s desperation and despair was becoming a running theme. He wanted to be saved from this mind fuck but no one came. No one threw him a life raft. No one dragged him out of the swirling river threatening to pull him under and drown him. He was alone; alone with the haunting memories that assaulted his heart and mind continually.

The physical beating he endured at the hands of Bael was a welcomed relief from the darker parts of his dreaming. At least the pain reminded him which reality was real… for a time. After a while Sam stopped being able to separate the two worlds. They both seemed to drip into one another, creating some kind of swirling vortex of nonsensical events that he couldn’t put into any kind of order. In his hazy state he could hear someone telling him fight back but he didn’t know who was saying it. If he had known Sam would have pointed out he didn’t know how to fight what was in his head.

As the hours crawled by everything melded into a blur of images, confused thoughts, and soul destroying feelings. None of them were good. Time lost all meaning and he didn’t trust his own eyes to tell him the truth any more. So when Sam came around on the floor of the almost-basement room he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still dreaming or not.

After a moment of straining his ears to listen he thought he must have been. The voices speaking seemed oddly distorted and far too distant to be real. He wasn’t given much opportunity to dwell on that however.

The sharp kick to his ribs that exploded into agony throughout his whole chest brought him painfully back to reality. He coughed weakly, blood dripping down his chin, splashing onto the floor beneath his face. He was hurting everywhere. He was pretty sure was bleeding internally. The amount of blood in his mouth pretty much confirmed it for him.

“Stop…” The broken, cracked voice confused him until he realised it was his own.

He hadn’t meant to speak.

At least he didn’t think he had. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing any more. He splayed his contracted, numb fingers onto the floor behind him, needing to feel something solid, wanting to connect with reality again. The bindings on his wrists cut deeply into the already raw skin but it didn’t deter him. He needed to know this was real.

The ground felt cold and wet but firm… but then so had everything else he had touched. It didn’t solve his confusion.

A hand, strong, firm and hard grabbed his face, lifting it off the water logged floor, his body following with it. He was now sat up but he had no way of steadying himself. He lurched to one side, the ground below him hurtling nearer. He closed his eyes, bracing his body for the jarring pain that he knew would come as he hit the floor but it never happened. The crushing grip on his jaw had kept him upright.

Sam struggled to focus his gaze, his hair dripping into his eyes. Blurry was becoming normality but at least this time his sight did eventually clear.

Deep sunken black eyes and dark hair silhouetted pale skin as the female demon came into focus. Her grasp was brutal and painful. His cheeks hurt under the pressure of her fingers. He felt bruised - more than bruised - his face ached like someone had taken a hammer to his jaw. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

“Stop? You forgot to say the magic word.” Her voice dripped with scorn, perhaps something more. Maybe it was just the ringing in his ears making him hear tones that weren’t really there. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. It didn’t work. His head still felt congested.

He flicked his heavy, swollen lids from her face. She was difficult to look at. He felt like she could suck the very happiness from his soul.

As he let his sluggish gaze wander around the room, trying to catalogue his surroundings as much as he could, he noticed candles first. Dim flickering flames fanned upwards, spluttering in the draft, bathing the room in a freaky orange glow. He wasn’t entirely sure if there had been candles earlier. His mind refused to comply at the moment.

Then he noticed the floor.

The waterlogged concrete was scored with some kind of marking that engulfed him and the female demon both. Sam didn’t recognise it but knew he should have. His befuddled mind tried to make sense of the image he was seeing.

Two circles within one another, a host of jagged text – Latin he though detachedly - and various illustrations. He couldn’t make out the pictures properly however. His vision was wavering again. Slowly shuttering his eye lids, his sight momentarily came back into focus enough to finish his scan.

At the top of the circle was a triangle with an oval shaped within it. On top of the oval was a silver bowl. Sam couldn’t see what was in the bowl. He didn’t really care; his eyes were burning once more.

Heavy lids struggled to stay open, reduced to nothing more than half-mast slits, his eyes gritty under the puffy skin. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. Exhaustion was embedding further into his body but she would not let him sleep. She never did.

Sam wished he could see more but dizziness was overtaking him once more.

“You know what to do, Sam!” She growled, frustration biting in her voice. “Fight! Be all that you can be. Open your mind!”

She had said those words to him a hundred times it seemed. He remembered that at least. They didn’t make any more sense now then they had before. What was he fighting? How could he fight any of it? He had tried anyway; it didn’t work. He knew a number of times he had attempted to fight the dream visions, to stop one of them dying. It happened no matter what he did. He was thwarted at every turn. It was a perpetual game of cat and mouse and he was cheese; the bait.

He tried to pull back out of her grip - his face was really hurting now - but she wouldn’t release him; she held him tighter if anything. Sam tried to brush it off as nothing more than a minor irritation. Like a horse, shaking off a fly. It wasn’t easy; she wasn’t being gentle.

“…How?” His thick tongue stumbled over the small word pathetically. He was sure he wasn’t supposed to cower or be afraid. He was supposed to fight but he didn’t know how to. He had lost the will to stand up to her. He just wanted this to end.

“You know how, Sam.”

Sam… even the name sounded strange, disjointed, not really his. Not like it had before. Now it felt borrowed, foreign, like he was wearing someone else clothes that were a size too small. His head tingled like hot pins were stabbing through his skull. Nothing seemed real anymore.

“I don’t,” he assured her, hoping she would give him the answer. Somehow he knew if he worked this out he would wake up. He desperately wanted to wake up. He wanted the images to stop. He didn’t want to go back into that hell again.

“All you have to do is believe, Sam.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “Just believe in yourself.”

He frowned. The words triggered a memory, one that sat just out of reach. He knew it was important to remember it. He closed his eyes tightly. If he could block everything out maybe he could find the answer. He just had to believe.

It’s an illusion. All of it. Everything you see, everything you touch… nothing here exists and the key is knowing how to make it all disappear. All you have to do is believe.

The man, in his dream, Michael… He had told him to believe. Could Sam make it disappear? Maybe Michael had been an illusion too. He had seemed so much more than that though. He had felt different from everything else he had seen – everything apart from Bael and the she-demon. They felt real too.

The woman snarled at him, dragging his attention hastily from his musing.

“You know how to do this Sam! Just open up to your gifts.”

Hand still gripping his chin, he felt the synapses in his brain tingle. It was almost like that excited-scared feeling you got in the pit of your stomach when you were nervous, only Sam knew this was followed by the headache from hell.

As the pain began to roll in, like a wave on the sand inhaling before it let out a long exhale, Sam tried to pull his face out of her grip. He didn’t know if she was dragging him back into Amorpheus or if she was merely frying his brain with that electric pain she was an expert at. He didn’t care; he didn’t have the strength to undergo either scenario.

It wasn’t his choice however.

Like a flash-flood, red hot knives stabbed through his whole body. He convulsed in her grasp, lurching sideways as he crashed into the floor, the momentum jolting his entire right side. Twitching violently, agony lanced through his skull suddenly. The abruptness took him off guard and a carnal yelp of pain shot out of his mouth before he could curb it.

His body shook over and over, lightning pain threatening to swallow him whole. It was unbearable. Biting down on his lip until he tasted bitter metal in his mouth, mixing with stale blood from earlier, he tried to ignore the fire ripping through him with each paroxysm. Distantly he could hear a voice droning, saying something but he couldn’t make sense of the words. His head was swimming and his ears felt stuffed full of cotton wool. The pressure against his windpipe as his neck snapped back and forth was increasing painfully and the hunter’s vision wavered. His lungs burnt with the need to inhale, to get even a small amount of oxygen in, but he couldn’t. He was suffocating.

And then it stopped, leaving him gasping on the floor. The voice had stopped talking as well. He curled his bound legs into his torso, his heart racing so fast he thought it might burst out of his chest and tried to breathe through it.

As the pain in his head receded to a dull throbbing, Sam found himself grateful that she hadn’t thrown him back into another nightmare. He could deal with physical torture to an extent. The mental persecution was another matter.

“C’mon Sam! Play the game!” She snapped impatiently.

“I… don’t know what you want…” He replied between ragged gulps. “What do you want me to do?” Sam hated himself for speaking those words. He loathed his own weakness. He should have told her to shove it up her ass but he was tired and hurt. He just wanted it to end.

The female demon smiled, her lips contorting into a ghastly grin.

“Maybe you don’t at that.” She tucked her dark hair behind her ear, still eyeing him. “The Circle you’re lying in is a Key. Think of it as a giant cell phone receptor to downstairs.”

“Yeah? Who you calling?” Sam muttered listlessly, slurring the words. He was too drained to give it the bite it should have had.

“I’m not calling anyone, Sammy, you are. You’re the only person walking this stinking earth at the moment who can do this.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one in your generation still alive. The others are too young.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice sounded thick in his own ears, his thumping heartbeat was beginning to drown out all other sounds.

She knelt beside him. One knee was on the ground, her other foot flat on the floor. Resting her elbows across the step-like limb, she leaned over him, running a hand down his clammy cheek. He wanted to pull away, repulsed by her touch, but he didn’t have the strength to move.

“Poor baby… all hurt and exhausted. I can make it all stop, you know? The pain… the suffering… all of it. I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted back, Sammy. All you’ve gotta do is a little favour. If you do this for me, my friend Bael will rip that little contract into pieces like it never existed and you and your brother can carry on with your pathetic lives like all of this was just a bad dream.”

He didn’t answer her. He was too busy trying not to throw up. His throat was already burning, a sour acid taste mingling with the coppery taste of blood. He was sure he had vomited earlier; he could smell it in the air. It lingered, like a pungent poison, sickly and vile. It made him gag a little. She took his silence to mean he wasn’t interested however.

“You know, Sam, considering we hold your brother’s life in our hands, you’re not exactly being co-operative.”

Sam ignored her, closing his eyes tightly. Everything was moving again. Nausea was creeping in like a silent thief, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down his throat, hoping his contracting stomach would settle.

“Do you even want to save Dean? Or are you just going through the motions, making the right noises at the right times?” She demanded.

Sam snapped his eyes open and glared at her, ignoring the way the room was tilting to one side. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to save his brother, but he had a feeling her price was going to be too high; she would want too much from him.

“Dean got lucky kid.” She continued, “He got a much sweeter deal than he should have. Your dad didn’t even get an hour. You never wonder why Dean got a year?” She laughed a short sharp bark under her breath.

What the hell did she mean by that? Sam wanted to ask her, wanted to press her for answers but he was scared of being pulled into another battle of words when he wasn’t able to defend himself.

“Just how far would you go to save your brother, Sammy? Would you die for him?”

In a heartbeat. Sam would willingly give his life for Dean’s, however he kept his silence. He didn’t want to give her any more ammunition. She already had enough as it was.

“Would you give your soul, Sammy, in exchange for Dean’s?”

Sam lowered his gaze to the floor. He didn’t want his brother to go through this torture. Dean sacrificed so much for him and this demon was offering a way out. Sam wanted to take it. He wanted to save his brother like he had saved him so many times before.

Guilt and self-loathing washed over him in heavy squalls. What would it matter if he died? Sam was the weaker brother. The pain in Dean’s ass. Every problem they had ever had was caused by Sam. He had killed their mother. John had died because of Sam’s links to yellow eyes. Gordon Walker had hunted them because of Sam’s psychic powers. Even McGill and Amory’s trigger happiness had been because of Sam. The younger hunter couldn’t help but wonder if Dean would be better off without him. He attempted to still the tears that wanted to escape from his eyes but he couldn’t prevent them. He blinked heavily, wanting nothing more than to wipe his wet lashes but his bound hands prevented that. He felt disgusted by his own weakness.

“You know, the silent treatment is really starting to grate on my nerves kid. You don’t wanna piss me off. I can always shorten that contract,” Bael growled from the wall.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat, his tear stained cheeks momentarily forgotten as he snapped his head to the dark haired male demon. He broke his silence.

“You can’t!” Sam blurted, Bael’s words sparking anger and fear in the young hunter. “You made a deal! You gave him a year!”

The female demon laughed and glanced over her shoulder at Bael. “He seems to think you’ve got morals.”

Bael shrugged, grinning as he traced a finger over his lips.

“Morality is overrated.”

“At least I’m not playing lapdog to a dead has-been demon.” Sam muttered, attempting to gain some control of the situation. He wanted to bring the conversation back to a level playing field.

“Azazel?” The female demon’s lip curled. “You think this is about him?”

“Isn’t it?” Sam demanded harshly, running his dry tongue over his cracked lips.

He was tired but he wouldn’t give up and roll over. He was a Winchester and crying like a pathetic child was only enforcing his father’s words. Sam wasn’t weak, he had never been. He just wasn’t the person John wanted him to be. Sam had come to peace with that and he wasn’t going to let two demons shake his foundations any longer. Sam was strong. He could fight this. He just had to believe he could. It was easier said than done but for a moment it gave him a false sense of confidence. It gave him the strength to resist a little longer. It gave him a renewed ferocity when he spoke again.

“I know about the other gates… You want me to open them, like Jake did in Wyoming.”

Sam had pretty much put two and two together whilst he had been researching. It didn’t take a genius to work out what the omens meant. There were too many similarities between the other areas and Wyoming. He wasn’t sure why him and the psychic kids were the only ones who could open these gateways to Hell but Sam was damned if he was going to do it. He wished he had told Dean all of this but everything at the house had happened so quickly that there hadn’t been time. Hopefully he would figure it out from his research but Sam wasn’t counting on it. He knew his brother was clever but Dean wasn’t going to be thinking in straight lines at the moment. Sam prayed to god that his brother figured it all out in time… before Sam did something he regretted.

“Clever,” she murmured. Her raised brow belied her stoic expression. She was surprised. “You figured all that out by yourself?”

“Wasn’t exactly difficult,” Sam muttered, “you left a trail so big a five year old could have figured it out. Only, I’m not doing your dirty work. You want those gates opened you get the colt and you do it yourself.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and smirked down at him.

“Only one problem with your thesis, kid. You’re assuming that I’m finishing Azazel’s work.”

“Aren’t you? Isn’t that what this whole goddamn show is about? Isn’t that why there are groups of demons running around these areas were the gates are?”

“Not really. Think of them as a diversion,” she replied. When Sam gave her a puzzled look she continued her explanation. “Oh come on Sam, I know all about your brother’s reputation as Super-Sam protector! I knew as soon as Bael took you the kid would be looking for you. Had to give him something to do while we were getting this party started. I figured demon activity across four States would keep him busy enough.”

“So the demons in Arizona, Kansas, Phili, Wyoming… they’re just a distraction?” Sam asked sceptically. He was sure he was on the right lines with his gateways to Hell theory. He had to be… didn’t he? But he wasn’t so sure. She was making him doubt himself.

“In a word. If they succeed in opening the gates then good on them but I highly doubt they will. They don’t have the magic touch.” She said cryptically.

“So if it’s not about opening the gateways then what the hell is it about?”

“You Sam. It’s always been about you.”

Sam blinked rapidly, his brow furrowing deeply.

“What? Me? Why?” Sam asked thickly, his voice hitched as he spoke. He ignored how pathetic he sounded, how scared he was, but his fear was starting to consume him.

“Because of who you are.” She smirked grotesquely. “Azazel thought he could use you to open the gateways but he never saw your true potential. He never realised what a gift you really are. Your blood… it’s what makes you so special. Your generation isn’t like any of the others.”

Sam frowned at her words, not really understanding what she meant. She was talking again however.

“I guess he hoped with a little help you could all be persuaded to fight on our side, you know? Turn all that nasty demon bigotry somewhere else. It worked too - for some of you.”

It explained a lot. After a year of wondering it gave Sam a reason why so many of the psychic kids had turned to a darker path; Ava Wilson, Max Miller, Ansem Weems, Jake Talley - they had all murdered people using their abilities – and it was because of the demon blood in them. Azazel's blood. Were there more kids like them that had given in to the corruption the female demon was talking about?

Ava had mentioned others that had turned up at Cold Oak over the five month period she had been there. Yellow eyes had also mentioned other generations in Sam’s dream. How many others like him were there? How many others had Azazel had tried to inflict his poisonous blood on before Dean had finally killed him in Wyoming?

The demon leaned forwards, her lips close to his ear, halting Sam’s musing. Sam’s stomach was doing rolling summersault, his head was doing worse.

“But not you, Sammy,” she whispered softly, “you were the hardest to break. No matter what Azazel did to you, no matter who he took from you, you never gave into the darkness in your soul. Poor mommy, little Jessica, your daddy… and now Dean. You just resisted that carnal instinct to kick back and go Jack Torrance on the world.”

Sam winced at her words.

“But you could have stopped it all. You could have saved everyone you ever cared about if you had just opened up to your gifts instead of pushing them down and trying to ignore them. Isn’t that the rub huh?” She laughed gutturally.

He ignored her scathing words, not wanting to believe what she was saying. It hurt too much to think he could have stopped all of this. It hurt enough when Sam had realised his dreams before Jessica’s death had been visions of the future. Now he was being told he could have saved his father as well. Sam wanted to fist his hands over his ears and block out her words but he couldn’t. His guilt was insurmountable and if what she was saying was true Sam would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

“All you have to do, Sam, is let your abilities stretch their legs. The key will do the rest and then all of this-” she gestured around the room haphazardly, “-will disappear. The pain, the dreams, the guilt… all of it. You get to go back to your brother and whatever you kids call normality these days. Hell, go to Vegas or something, celebrate him being a free man.”

“So you release Dean… but what about me?” Sam wavered. This could be the answer to the whole deal and Sam wasn’t about to push her request aside; at least not until he had heard it. He was keeping a tight hold on his flailing emotions with some difficulty.

“You just have to be a vessel.” She pulled back from him, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Think of it as a loan. All I need is your body… just for one day. Just to release my friend. Then you get to go on your merry way… so to speak.” She finished ambiguously.

“Your friend? Who is your friend?”

“Oh he’s someone very special, Sammy, and with your gifts, your blood…? Well… it’ll certainly give him a jump start in life.” She broke off with a smirk.

“So what? You pull him outta hell and he hitches a ride in me? Then what? He gets bored and moves out again?” Sam couldn’t keep the scorn out of his tone. Demon’s lied, Sam knew that and he had doubt in his mind that she was lying to him right now. There was no way he was getting his body back if he did this. He wasn’t stupid.

“Well ok, I might have exaggerated the one day part. I mean, I doubt Vegas will be on the cards any time soon, but isn’t that the whole point of sacrifice? There aren’t any winners, Sammy, only losers but isn’t it worth it if it means your brother gets his freedom back? Aren’t you willing to give up your life for Dean’s? Hasn’t he given enough for you? He’s lost everything because of you and what you are. Aren’t you willing to do something selfless for him for a change?”

You’re my big brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and I don’t care what it takes. I’m gonna get you out of this.

Sam’s own words came back to haunt him. There was nothing Sam wouldn’t do to save Dean but her price was too high. Something screamed in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right, that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to save Dean but Sam wasn’t supposed to die doing it. Dean would never allow it. Sam knew giving in was wrong and yet if this offered Dean a reprieve from the hell Sam had just experienced...? Sam wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He had an answer to the problem but he hadn’t envisioned that breaking Dean’s deal would mean his own death. Confusion rolled through his brain as a myriad of thoughts overwhelmed him. Sam shook himself physically, trying to dispel her words from his mind. He had more questions and he wanted answers.

“Who is this he?” Sam demanded. She raised a brow at him as Sam continued. “Well if you want me to give my damn body up, least you can do is tell me who is getting it.”

“He’s known by many names but I know him as Semyaza.”

The name sounded familiar. Sam was sure he had read it during his research into Azazel. More than sure in fact but the memory sat just out of reach. He racked his brain and then it hit him. It was like walking into a speeding car; painful, quick and potentially lethal.

“He’s one of the Fallen…” Sam muttered as realisation set in. he snapped his gaze to her. “You want to release one of those things?” Sam demanded stunned. “One of those… Grigori? Like yellow eyes?”

“Azazel,” she corrected with a snarl. “He has name. You might want to remember it, kid, considering how friendly he is with your whole damn family.”

“Had,” Sam replied coldly. “He had a name.”

He gave her his best glare but in his current state it came out more as a squint. Her expression however was frightening. Sam swallowed convulsively, fear spiking through him painfully. Then the expression dropped off her features hastily however and was replaced with an impassive stare.

“You’re right. Azazel got sloppy and it got him killed but Semyaza is in a whole other league to your little yellow eyed friend.”

“Yeah? Then why’s he need me?” Sam retorted but it sounded weak. He was losing his will to fight. Confused thoughts and guilt whispered in his mind. Sam tried not to listen to her words, her taunts, but he couldn’t help it. His defences were low and he had reached the end of his rope. He didn’t have any fight left in him.

“When the first war between the Grigori and the Seraphim ended things got a little messy. Semyaza wasn’t exactly well behaved. Caused a lot of shit amongst your kind.” The female demon smiled fondly at the memory. “The Seraphim didn’t like it. You see, most of the Fallen were simply trapped in the earth, placed in the deepest darkest holes that Michael and Raphael could find but not Semyaza.” She rocked back on her heels again, arms wrapped around her knees. There was a fired glaze in her eyes that put Sam on edge. “They knew he was powerful and that no prison would hold him indefinitely so they tore his corporeal body apart, scattering him into the four corners of the world. His soul though… they sent that to Abbadon - the deepest realm in Hell - so that even if he escaped he could never become whole again. But as with all great plans there are always loop holes - if you know how to find them.”

“Me…” Sam said slowly, realising were all of this was going. “I’m the loop hole… that’s why you need my body…”

“Yeah.” The female demon smiled like a patient mother would to a young child who had discovered something without the aid of an adult. “You see, Sammy, in order for Semyaza to come back there are a number of obstacles to get over. You solve the majority of them.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you need me. Why not someone else? The world is filled with people. Use one of them as a damn vessel.”

“Oh if only it were that simple,” she said softly. “Luckily for you kid I’m feeling generous enough to give you a history lesson. Pay attention. It’s not exactly bedtime reading.”

She sucked on her lip thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.

“After the great war between the Grigori and the Seraphim.” She shot a withering glare at Sam as if he was somehow personally responsible for that before continuing, “the Grigori were exiled, but Michael, Raphael and the others knew they would never stay contained, that eventually they would break free of their imprisonment ‘cause they were strong; maybe stronger than the Seraphim, I don’t know. I’ve never fought a Seraph before.”

Sam risked removing his gaze from the dark haired demon in front of him and glanced at Bael. The demon was leaning back, one foot of the floor, the other bent at the knee, foot pressed against the wall. His expression was uninterested as he examined his nails absently.

“But this is where the story gets interesting, Sammy, so listen carefully.” Her purring voice brought Sam’s eyes back to her face. “Michael created a back up - people that would be strong enough to fight against the fallen Grigori. They were his gift to the humans; to make sure the past could not repeat itself.”

She got to her feet slowly and glared down at him, her black eyes like onyx even in the spluttering candlelight.

“They call them the Watchers… only they don’t watch. They fight like nasty sons of bitches. No one really knows much about them apart from what the legends say and that ain’t exactly flattering kid. They call them demon executioners, killing machines, and they don’t give a crap who stands in their way as long as they get the job done. But I do know one thing about them and I know this for a damn fact. They are the only ones with the power to contain or release the Fallen.”

Even in his hazy mindset Sam knew what she was saying. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place and Sam didn’t like were they were falling.

“And you think I’m one of these… these things – these Watchers? That I can release this Semyaza guy?”

“I don’t think, kid, I know you are,” she replied. “And the thing is, Sammy, to do it you’ve gotta open up to your gifts. You can’t open the gateway where Semyaza's being held if you don’t.”

“So you need me to release him and then I’m supposed to let him kill me?!”

“Kill is a dirty word,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “Think of it more as borrowing your body with the intent of not giving it back.”

“Forget it,” Sam retorted immediately.

There was no way in hell he was releasing another demon like Azazel. Yellow eyes had ruined his life – and a lot of other people’s – Sam wasn’t going to be responsible for inflicting that same pain on others.

Her smile dropped off her face and was replaced with a snarl.

“Then Dean dies. Right now!”

“No!” Sam yelped, panicked. “You can’t! Please! This isn’t Dean’s fault!”

“Oh come on Sam! Why the hell do you think your brother got a damn year? If he’d of bargained long enough he could have got ten, twenty… whatever the hell he wanted! We needed that deal – no matter what!”

Sam frowned deeply at her words, not fully comprehending where she was going.

“What?”

“Your pathetic love for one another makes you weak! We needed you to help us willingly Sam and that was never going to happen. But Dean’s deal…? It gave us leverage. You Winchesters and your need to throw yourselves to the lions to save one another was the only damn way we were ever going to get you to do this! It’s kinda sad really. You’re going to destroy the world because you can’t stand to lose your brother.” She crossed her arms over her chest, her lips tugging upwards at the corner. “You have to make a decision, kid. Time’s up. Who will it be: you or your brother?”

“I’m not playing your sick games,” Sam mumbled but his resistance was weak. He felt like he was being herded into a corner.

“Then Dean dies!” She snapped.

“No!” Sam whimpered. “Please… don’t do this!”

“Come on Sam. This isn’t a game! You’ve got five seconds and then Bael’s going to collect your brother.”

She started to count down. Sam’s heart felt heavy in his chest, every beat a pained explosion. He didn’t want to make this decision. He didn’t want to choose between humanity and his family.

“Please…” Sam begged as she reached three, his brow furrowing deeply.

“Make a choice.” Bael’s voice taunted.

Four… the next number would be the decider. Sam had to choose. Panic, desperation… too many emotions assaulted him. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to make this choice. He felt overwrought, like a cloth that had been wrung out too many times. The demon had him over a barrel and she knew it. Sam would not sit by and let her take his brother to Hell. Not a chance. He would not let Dean die for him. Not this time. Sam had the opportunity to fix this, to put this all right. It was the one thing he could do for Dean. Sam just hoped his brother would be able to get passed this, to move on and live his life. It was a foolish hope but Sam couldn’t think about it. If he did, he wouldn’t have the courage to do what was needed. Sam didn’t care about anything else.

“Five.” She purred the number slowly, her gaze lingering on him. “Well? Time’s up kid. It’s now or never. What’s it gonna be? You or your brother? Your brother or you?”

Sam swallowed hard and raised his eyes to her face, ignoring the almost hungry expression she had adopted.

“Me,” Sam replied quietly, lowering his gaze back to the ground, “take me.”

She smiled.

“Good boy.”

Chapter Nineteen:

Russian Roulette

The dark haired female demon had moved from Sam’s side over to where Bael was stood. Her back to the room, she was speaking in low tones that he couldn’t pick out over the continuous thumping in his head and ears. He was glad she had moved away. He felt stifled under her constant gaze.

Carefully, he dragged his face across the floor, ignoring the burning pain racing through his skull and glanced around. He was scared - terrified, if he was being honest. He would willingly give his life for Dean but Sam knew this was it. This was the end. He was going to die and unlike last time he had far too much time to think about that impending doom.

He didn’t want to die. Sam didn’t remember much from last time apart from the pain. The pain had stayed with him even when he had been resurrected. However that fatal stabbing had been quick. There had been no time for fear, no time for regrets, just a longing to lie down and sleep. Sam wanted that innocence this time but he would not get it. He felt like he had been dragged to the scaffolding and told to put his head on the block. He could almost feel the cold axe blade on his neck as the executioner lined up the swing. His heart fluttered a little at that notion.

Physically shaking himself, Sam pushed those thoughts away. He couldn’t think like that. He had to be strong. He had to be brave. He had to take whatever was coming and deal with it. The alternative was worse. Sam knew he had been offered a way out here and he wanted to grasp it with both hands. Dean had been given another chance and Sam could not turn that down. Dean had given so much for him - had done so much for him - and now Sam had the opportunity to do something for his brother. Sam would not cower. He would take what was coming. He would suck it up. Was that not the Winchester way? Suck it up and get on with it? Sam would make his father proud. He would provide the ultimate sacrifice. He would prove that he wasn’t the weakest link in the chain. He had a lot less to lose.

If Dean died his soul would be dragged into hell. Sam could stop that. His own soul was clean. Sam knew he had nothing to fear in death. He would see his mother, his father…Jessica… His lips moved into a small smile, his eyes closing as he pictured her face. Death was not the end, merely a beginning. Sam could see that clearly now.

All you can do is look death in the face. Then you will have the answer.

Sam knew what Michael had meant by those words now – at least in his hazy mindset he thought he did. Death was nothing to be frightened of. It should be embraced. Sam would finally be free of all of this. Never again would he be hurt. Never again would he suffer. He could finally rest. He was tired of fighting a losing battle. Suddenly he understood what Dean had meant, why he was relieved that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. His brother wanted that feeling too but a lifetime in Hell was not the way to do it. Sam could give Dean his freedom back this way with no provisos. That thought gave him the strength to embrace his impending death. Sam could do this because Dean needed him to do this. This was the one thing Sam could do for his brother and by god he was going to do it.

“Not going to sleep on me here, are you kid?” A rough slap across the face pulled him cruelly from his inner musings.

Sam opened his eyes slowly, the female demon’s pale face coming back into focus. Both she and Bael were stood over him now, their expressions a mask of triumph. They had what they wanted. Sam would do what they had demanded of him. Under normal circumstances Sam would have felt angry about the situation, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. In a weird way he actually felt at peace. Twenty-four years of living in a traumatic bubble of demons and monsters was about to end. Dean would be safe from other hunters, from the problems Sam brought him. He could live his own life, without constantly having to throw himself in front of moving traffic to save Sam. It was reason enough for the young man to do this.

“No…” Sam’s voice rasped with the effort of speaking. His throat felt tight, constricted like a bunch of rubber bands had been forced down his windpipe. “What… what happens now?”

Sam was eager to have this over with. He didn’t want to draw this out; he didn’t want to lose his nerve. He was ready to do this now. He needed to do this now before his fear returned. Sam wasn’t sure he could keep up the pretence for too long. His stomach was already tingling with cold electric.

“The usual,” she replied haphazardly. “Some chanting, a lot of fancy gesturing and then you do your thing.”

Sam closed his eyes momentarily, running his tongue over his cracked, dry lips. She made it sound easy but she had conveniently missed out the part where a friggin’ demon took up residence in his body.

“How?” Sam asked.

She shifted her gaze to Bael, a sickly smile creeping onto her face but it was the male demon who spoke.

“You have to open the place where he is being kept.” Bael ran a hand over his dark facial hair, his face still contorted into a smirk. “She will guide you through it.”

Sam glanced up through swollen lids, his vision wavering a little as the female demon crouched down beside him, a finger trailing down his left cheek. The young hunter flinched at her touch but was helpless to stop her defiling him.

“Don’t worry baby,” she cooed. “Mommy will teach you everything you need to learn.” The patronising tone set Sam’s teeth on edge.

Bael began to chant in Latin. The words cracked into the thick air like swirling smoke. This was it – the end. Sam took a shuddering breath. He tried to find some kind of inner courage but it was hopeless. His fear stabbed through him, taking him by surprise. His heart felt as if it was in his throat. He was pretty sure a cough would force it into his mouth. His head felt fuzzy; hazy and heavy. Bile crept out of his digestive system. Nausea swept through him as his body tingled with anxiety and his pulse thumped heavily in his neck, pounding down through his aching chest.

“All you need to do, Sammy,” the woman murmured under the loud snap of Bael’s voice, “is imagine the gate… picture it in your head. Imagine opening it. The key will do the rest.”

Sam raised his eyes to her. He was going to die, and her expression showed no remorse at the fact. Worse still, he was going to unleash this thing on humanity. Sam wished he had the strength to say no. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted a way to stop this. He wanted a way out of this without Dean suffering the consequences. If it was just a simple exchange of Dean for Sam there would be no question in his mind but the entire world was going to suffer for this.

Sam tried to rationalise it.

Dean could stop this thing. They had defeated yellow eyes. This would be no different. Sam skipped over the part where it had taken twenty-three years to track and kill the Demon however. He had to hold on to some hope - even if it was a fool's hope. He had to believe he wasn’t doing this for selfish reasons. He had to believe that this wasn’t going to destroy the world. Otherwise he wouldn’t have the strength to do it.

Slowly and cautiously Sam did as she had asked. He built a picture in his head. He envisioned what she had asked him to. It was difficult. His wavering mind and vision made it near to impossible to hold anything in his head, let alone a complicated thought process. Every time he built the image it would disappear with a stabbing pain that lanced through his skull.

“If you want to play hide and seek, you should learn to walk without sounding like a tank.” The female demon’s voice echoed around the room. She snapped her head around, turning to look up the length of the room as if something had snared her attention. Bael’s reading halted also.

Sam’s heart fluttered a little as he realised she wasn’t talking to him. The picture dropped and his mind went blissfully empty.

Dean?

He hoped it wasn’t his brother. This demon was psychotic and Sam couldn’t face any more death scenes – real or not. Sam raised his head off the ground, ignoring how heavy it was, ignoring the shake in his neck as he struggled to keep it upright.

However the figure that stepped out of the darkened shadows of the room was not Dean. Sam’s heart gave a quiver of apprehension at the newcomer.

The man was tall, possibly a few inches shorter than Sam himself; it was difficult to tell from his position. He had longish, shaggy brown hair and the beginnings of facial hair; it was as if he had not bothered to shave for a while rather than by choice. The man moved forwards slowly, the worn waistband of his jeans partially occluded by a heavy leather belt that disappeared beneath a dog-eared brown leather jacket he was wearing.

“Jacob!” Bael hissed.

Sam’s head automatically turned to the demon, somewhat surprised at the revulsion in his voice.

The brown haired man didn’t even acknowledge the male demon, his eyes solely on the woman.

“You’re right,” he drawled harshly, “I’m getting far too old to play games, Eleksha.”

“I’d say I was glad to see you, Jacob, but I would be lying,” she replied rancorously.

The man, Jacob, favoured her with a thin lipped smile that did not reach his eyes.

“I know you think this is gonna make some big difference to your cause but you’re wrong.”

Jacob briefly shot a glance at Sam. There was something in that glance – however short – that Sam couldn’t figure out. Fear? Anxiety? Sympathy? He couldn’t get a read on his expression however before the man had snapped his gaze back to Bael.

“What’s the matter,” Bael snarled, his lips curling into a disfigured smile. “Hellfire getting a little too close for comfort?”

Jacob shot him a withering glare.

“All you’re going to do is replace one hell with another. Nothing will change!”

Sam felt the tension in the room growing like a poisonous cloud of gas, smothering the air, sucking the oxygen out of the atmosphere. He felt like he was imposing on a private moment, one that he had no right to witness, but tied up like a hog-roast on the floor didn’t really offer him any alternative.

“You of all people should understand why we are doing this, Jacob.” Eleksha’s tone was dark, hard even.

Sam noticed the tremor that ran through the man but the hard expression and grim determination in his eyes never wavered. Bael noticed it also however.

“I see some wounds never really heal,” Bael snarked. “Do they?”

Jacob flicked his eyes to the demon. Blue sapphires, hard as agates, unrelenting and bitter, glared out from under long, brown hair.

“Does it still keep you awake at night?” Jacob shot back, his brow disappearing beneath unruly, shaggy bangs.

Sam was surprised that both demons flinched at his words. The distraction however was a welcomed relief; he had been forgotten in favour of this stranger and Sam was grateful for the respite. He shifted his hands slightly, hoping he could loosen his bonds but they were impossibly tight, pinching his raw skin. His fingers were numb. He was beginning to lose sensation completely which worried him.

“Hell is bad enough for a demon, but for a Watcher…?” Bael snarled. “Every day must have been a nightmare.”

At those words Sam snapped his head to Jacob. He wasn’t sure what shocked him more – the implication that he had been to Hell or that he was a Watcher. He certainly looked the part from what the female demon, Eleksha, had told him about the mysterious group. Dangerous, cold, hard…

Sam’s head was still aching and his thoughts were becoming more muddled as he tried to make sense of this nonsensical event. He felt bombarded with information; overloaded like a bucket filled to the top, water was spewing over the edges onto the floor.

“I trapped you there once, Bael,” Jacob reminded him sharply, “do not think I cannot do so again.”

“Your time has come and gone, old man,” the demon growled. “A hundred and fifty years in that wasteland can really mess with your mind. Tell me, can you even use your damn abilities any more?”

A mirthless smile crept onto Jacob’s face that sent a chill racing through Sam.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

What happened next was so quick that Sam didn’t really comprehend it straight away. He barely saw the knife leave Jacob’s hand, didn’t even see where he had pulled it from.

Eleksha didn’t make a sound as her eyes dropped to the blade now buried hilt-deep in her stomach. Her mouth formed a surprised ‘o’, her hands coming to the protruding object. Horror filled onyx irises raised to the Watcher; questioning eyes, possibly even incredulous. She twitched, convulsing on her feet, her lips parting in shock. Her body swelled and flickered, orange light racing through her frame as she gasped her last rattling breath. It was exactly the same as what had happened to yellow eyes when he had been shot with the colt… only this wasn’t the colt, it was just a knife. Sam watched her tremble once more, her hands blood slicked.

And then she was falling.

Her legs crumpled beneath her like tissue paper. Bael moved in a heartbeat, fumbling hands catching her as she fell, her dead weight dragging them both to their knees. Sam was surprised by the amount of grief in the demon’s eyes as he pulled her torso against his own. The blackness bled from her irises, and melted into deep blue as her head dropped onto her chest.

Bael shook her, a strangled sob emitting from his throat. It was a low guttural sound but it held a wealth of sadness that Sam hadn’t imagined a demon could feel. Eleksha’s neck rolled backwards over his arms as he held her, her dark hair fanning out like waterfall, cascading onto the floor like a black curtain.

Sam swallowed hard. Bael was no more than three feet from him and the sorrowful look in his eyes was replaced with something else - a carnal animalistic rage. Sam wanted to move away. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and the demon. He scooted back a little on his side as Bael rose to his feet, gently lowering Eleksha’s body onto the ground.

“You sonovabitch!” Bael snarled. The demon moved quickly, flicking his hand upwards.

Jacob’s feet left the floor, throwing him through the air like he was nothing more than a rag doll. The Watcher crumpled as he hit the far wall with a resounding thud, a groan escaping his lips. Bael was already moving towards him, his expression murderous. Sam wanted to stop this; Bael was going to tear him apart.

Jacob stirred on the ground, struggling into a sitting position against the wall, blood trailing his face from somewhere beneath his hair line. His shoulders heaved as the demon came closer, his eyes flickering anxiously.

“No…” Sam murmured as Bael seized hold of Jacob’s jacket, dragging him to his knees. The man barely protested, long limbs trailing behind him as he lurched listlessly to one side as the demon released his grip. He didn’t hit the floor however.

In a swift motion, the Watcher was sailing through the air once more. A crash echoed offensively through the long room as the man collided with an old bookshelf, the wood splintering into fragmented section as he landed on top of it. Jacob writhed momentarily amongst the seas of debris, engulfed beneath a cloud of thick dust before he managed to rise onto trembling limbs. Viscous crimson liquid had congealed with grit and dirt around his left eye now and his split lip was pumping blood like a water fountain.

The Watcher flopped onto his back, dragging a shaky hand over his face, smearing the blood across his dirty cheeks as Bael approached once more. He scrambled backward on his hands even as he reached under his jacket with fumbling fingers.

Sam half shouted a warning as the demon stepped over the wreckage of broken furniture, wood cracking beneath his heavy feet, to reach the man. His face was murderous but Bael didn’t see the danger. He didn’t realise what Jacob was searching for under his jacket until it was too late.

Five gunshots resounded into the air. Each one was like a bomb exploding, each one reverberating around the pained vaults of Sam’s head.

Bael jerked in time with each shot before crashing to his knees himself, his boneless body slumping like a new born foal that hadn’t yet found its feet. His face found the floor as the last bullet was released from the chamber.

The man Jacob carefully but quickly pushed himself up, his left arm wrapping protectively around his torso, the other still holding the gun on the demon. Bael didn’t stir however, his prone form remained unmoving on the ground. Bullets… rock salt… whatever it was wouldn’t keep Bael down for long but it would at least buy time.

Seemingly satisfied that the demon wasn’t going to attack, Jacob limped over to Eleksha. He gave the female demon a brief glance and for a moment Sam was sure he saw regret in his blue eyes. If Jacob was sorry for killing her it was short lived. In a quick motion, Jacob placed a foot on her chest and, with the sickening squelch of flesh and muscle ripping, dragged the knife from her body. Sam grimaced at the action. There was still a person underneath the demon.

The man, however, did not seem to care. He glanced briefly at Bael’s still form on the floor and then at Sam, the knife clutched in a white knuckled hand. Blood dripped off the blade, splashing on to the floor in thick droplets mixing with the waterlogged floor to create a diluted blood pool but Jacob made no move to clean the knife. His gaze was already refocused on someone else: Sam.

The young hunter could almost see the indecision in his face as Jacob weighed up his next move. He didn’t like the look being directed at him and felt his body go cold all over. It was the look his brother got right before he took out something supernatural, only Sam was the ‘something supernatural’.

After the longest second in the world, Jacob stepped towards him, his decision made. Sam threw his tied legs against the floor, gaining enough friction to move him a foot or so backwards but the man had two working legs and Sam wasn’t going to out run him in this state.

As Jacob knelt down in front of him, Sam held his breath and kicked out his feet at the man. He hoped to knock him off balance but his body was too hurt and he was too exhausted. He barely grazed him. Sam wasn’t even sure if he connected with him at all. Jacob placed a firm hand on his legs, the knife shifting in his grasp. Sam bucked his body – or at least he tried to. He wasn’t going to give up that easily. It seemed unjust that he had been saved from death at the hands of the two demons only to have this man steal his last breath with a knife whilst he was tied up and helpless.

Jacob placed a strong hand on his legs and firmly held them, stopping Sam’s futile attack. There was nothing Sam could do but watch as the knife came down, the blood shimmering in the poor light. Sam closed his eyes and bit his lip, waiting for the pain. It never came. Instead his legs splayed out as the bindings on his feet were cut. Confused, Sam raised a wary gaze to the man.

“What the… who… what’s…’” Sam couldn’t put his befuddled thoughts into words as the long haired man stared at him.

“No time for questions now kid,” was all Jacob said as he leaned over Sam’s front and seized his wrists.

The smell of old sweat stung Sam’s nostrils as the man imposed further into his personal space and began sawing at the bindings. The pressure released suddenly, his anaesthetized hands flopping onto the ground behind him like a dead weight. Sam’s shoulders ached with the throbbing numbness of being stuck in one position for too long. For a moment he actually couldn’t move his atrophied muscles. That was all forgotten however – for the moment at least. Sam merely stared at the man – his would-be rescuer with suspicion and confusion. Was this man here to help him, or kill him? Sam wasn’t sure if this was some kind of trick. Maybe he was still stuck in a nightmare. Perhaps that explained how the female demon, Eleksha, had been killed. It wasn’t possible to kill a demon with a weapon… was it? He thought of the colt. It was the only gun he knew that could kill anything supernatural. Was it that unreasonable to think Jacob’s knife could do the same? Sam didn’t know and at that moment he didn’t care. His body was singing to him and it was an agonising solo.

“Think you can stand?” Jacob’s eyes bored into Sam’s face, searching for any sign of weakness. It was a look that said Sam was standing whether he could or not. Still a little weary of the man, Sam briefly studied him through pain-filled eyes before nodding.

“Yeah… I think so.”

Jacob nodded and re-sheathed his knife at his waist.

Gently, the man rolled his arm under Sam’s and started to drag him up off the floor. Lying down hadn’t been so bad. Sam’s pain had been relatively controlled in one position but moving was torture. So many different injuries made themselves known in that one movement that Sam’s vision completely blacked out for a moment. His ribs burnt, his shoulders ached, and his head spun on its axis, wheeling out of control.

As the room came back into focus, Sam realised dejectedly that he had only made it as far as his knees. Jacob fisted fingers in his t-shirt were the only thing holding him upright. Blue eyes watched Sam carefully as he took shuddering breaths, trying to control the dizziness rolling through his mind like a squall.

“Ok?”

Sam nodded slowly, his brain rattling within his skull at the small movement.

Getting to his feet was worse. Sam’s legs had been contracted for so long that they refused to hold his six foot four frame upright without support. Trembling beneath his weight, he was practically drooping onto the stranger, struggling to stand at all. His knees almost sagged back onto the ground but Jacob’s strong grasp kept him straightened as he rolled his shoulder under Sam’s left armpit to give more aid. Jacob avoided Sam’s right limb as much as he could – something Sam was grateful for. His shoulder was clearly dislocated again and hung at an odd angle at his side. It hurt like hell. It was just another pain to add to the extensive list of pains he already had.

“Easy…” Jacob murmured.

Slowly they moved towards the door on the far side of the room with measured steps. Each movement was agony but Sam tried to ride through the pain, pulling his lip between his teeth. His chest felt as if it had been crushed by a sledge hammer by the time they reached the exit but his legs were starting to feel a little better as the blood began to flow freely into the muscles once more.

A groan brought their attention back to the room suddenly.

Bael was beginning to stir, his fingers unfurled on the floor as he slowly drifted back into awareness. Sam felt Jacob tense and the older man turned to him.

“Go through this door, there’s a ladder right in front of you. Climb it. At the top you’ll come into a cabin. Take the furthest door into the main room and the front door is on the left. My truck is parked about half a mile up the track. Keys are in it.”

He was being offered a life line, a head start. Jacob was willing standing between him and Bael, giving Sam a chance to escape. Sam wanted to take it – he knew he would not get far before Bael woke fully, even with Jacob’s help – but this was suicide. Jacob could not fight Bael and live. It was impossible. The demon was too strong.

Sam stared stunned at the man for a moment and then flicked his eyes to the demon who was now on his hands and knees – albeit groggily. This man had saved his life, rescued him, there was no way in hell Sam was leaving him to face Bael on his own. Jacob latched onto his thought pattern immediately and untangled himself from Sam’s lanky frame, giving him an ungracious shove towards the exit.

“Go!”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be ok,” Jacob told him, “just get out of here, kid!”

When Sam didn’t move Jacob pushed him again and the younger hunter stumbled unsteadily through the door with the momentum. He turned immediately and glanced at the man. Jacob’s hard exterior had been broken down and the man stood before him wore a pleading glaze.

“You have to go, Sam. It’s you they need. Not me.”

Sam frowned deeply at the words, his brow wrinkling at the implications.

“Jacob…”

“If you don’t leave right now, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself!” Jacob barked, raising the gun at him, cocking it and pulling the safety back. Real bullets… rock salt… both would hurt like a bitch and Sam wasn’t sure his battered body could take either at the moment. “For Christ’s sake kid, just get the hell out of here!”

Sam stepped backwards into the vestibule, his heart pounding. He hated himself for doing it, for leaving Jacob to deal with a super-pissed off demon alone, but truthfully Sam wasn’t sure he would be any help anyway. He was barely managing to stand on his own.

Once he had cleared the door way, Jacob slammed it shut behind him. Sam jumped at the harsh sound and stared at the closed frame for a second before forcing his feet to move. He wasn’t entirely sure how long his legs would keep moving and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and Bael as he could in the meantime.

He threw a hand out, catching the ladder and steadied himself as another wave of dizziness washed over him. His eyes squeezed shut as he let his head drop onto his chest for a moment. His fingers tightened around one of the rungs of the ladder to stop himself falling down. When it eventually passed Sam opened his eyes, slowly blinking the spots dancing in his vision away and raised his gaze up the ladder.

The thing was old, metal and rusted in places. Wincing as he lifted his left foot Sam placed it on the rung and began the arduous one handed climb. Every step hurt, every step inflamed his injuries, but he didn’t stop. He forced himself to keep going. Freedom lay nearly in his grasp. If he could just reach the top and get to Jacob’s truck he could get out of here.

The hole became lighter as he neared the top and by the time he emerged he was wheezing and panting like an old man.

Carefully he hauled his body out of the hole and flopped onto the wooden floor, his exhausted body refusing to allow him a graceful exit.

He lay still for a second, his chest heaving as he struggled to pull in air but he only allowed himself a brief rest before he was dragging himself onto his knees.

He had come up through the floor into what appeared to be the kitchen of some kind of dilapidated cabin.

Old battered counters were still in-situ and the sink was rusted in the bottom. Cobwebs as thick as dream catchers lined the ceiling, shimmering as they caught the light. Sam pushed his hands into the splintered floor and forced himself onto shaky legs, staggering as he moved through to the next room.

It was just as filthy and neglected as the kitchen. Thick dust layered the bare wood floors and a granite hearth lay on the far wall. Although there was not a stick of furniture in the room, besides a rack of fire stokers and a wood bucket, Sam suspected he was stood in what must have been the living area.

Off the main room a set of double sliding doors were pushed back to reveal a second room – possibly the bedroom. The left door had come out of the runner and hung precariously on by a thread, threatening to fall at any point and the wood was as rotted as the rest of the building.

Sam ignored the room, recalling Jacob’s directions and headed in the opposite direction towards the front door. He half staggered, ricocheting off the walls like a pinball in his attempt to remain upright. It was proving somewhat difficult. His legs faulted beneath him, knees buckling, quivering like a bow string after the arrow had been released. He had to stop twice to gain his balance before he was able to continue. By the time he reached the exit everything was swirling around him like a maelstrom.

He threw a sluggish hand out, half guessing where the door was and gave it a push. It was rotted and swung open with only minimal protest, wood dust crumbling beneath his finger tips.

It was almost sunset. Sam shivered violently as a cool breeze brushed along his wet clothing, throwing his body into a cold shock almost. Despite that the fresh air was a welcome relief from the stagnant basement he had been locked in.

Forcing his feet to move once more, Sam stumbled onto the porch of the cabin, his left hand grappling for anything to stop him lurching over. From appearances, the building - or shack to be more precise - was completely derelict. There was no other word to describe it. Constructed entirely of gnarled wood, every inch of it was decomposing; crumbling into piles of dust at the merest glance. Old cream paint flecked the cladding but it looked like it hadn’t been renewed in years and only served to add to the rundown ramshackle appearance of the entire cabin.

There were no other buildings that Sam could make out and the house looked to be fairly isolated. Trees hedged onto the main lawn about twenty feet away and a dirt track disappeared into the woodlands ahead of him, swallowed by the waxing darkness.

Taking the steps down from the porch slowly, he grimaced and groaned. Each movement jarred his body and tore through him like red hot fire. He clutched his right arm across his chest, ignoring the shooting pains racing through the joint but it was his legs that gave him problems. They gave out on the last step.

A yelp was followed by a whimper as Sam face dived into the leaf tossed ground. Instinctively he threw his hands out but immediately regretted it. His right shoulder protested so violently that bile rose up his throat. Taking shuddering breath after shuddering breath was the only way he managed to prevent his empty stomach from convulsing. He wasn’t completely successful however and he managed a couple of dry heaves - all of which hurt his bruised ribs like a knife wound – before he was able to curtail the insurgent organ.

He willed his heavy body to move off the ground, knowing Bael could be hot on his tail right now but nothing wanted to comply. As much as he wanted to stay there and sleep it was not an option right now. He needed to get the hell out here, find a payphone and call his brother; his cell was in his rucksack which was with Dean...

Dean… God he hoped his brother was ok. His last memory of him wasn’t good. Sam recalled his unconscious form, blood stained, pale and in pain. Sam shivered, the earthy smells of the fallen leaves around him infusing his senses. He had to find Dean. He had to get up and keep moving.

Move your goddamn ass, Sam!

He repeated the words over and over and finally found the resolve to push himself onto his knees.

As he straightened his head spun, the world colliding around him but as his dizziness abated Sam realised something was severely wrong. He went as still as a rabbit caught in headlights. It wasn’t his body that had given up on him this time, it was his luck. Slowly and carefully he raised his eyes, glancing through his sodden bangs at the four figures stood in front of him and swallowed hard.

“Hello Sam.” The blond man who had spoken was grinning at him maliciously. The others were huge and hulking and to make matters worse all of them had handguns aimed at his head.

Sam gulped, his jaw trembling.

This could be problem...

Chapter Twenty:

Road to Nowhere

The blood red SUV hurtled down the freeway.

It was coming up to dusk and dusty pinks and watery oranges were washed onto the horizon as the sun sank lower on the horizon. The road itself was busy, cars dodging one another as they levied for positions in the lanes, overtaking slower vehicles whilst the landscape surrounding the highway zipped passed in a blur of pale greens and browns.

Dean followed Joshua’s car closely, the Impala barely breaking a sweat to keep up with the huge GMC tank in front. It just proved that bigger wasn’t necessarily better. Dean’s baby could out race most things.

Leaning his left elbow on the window ledge, his head resting on his fist, the other hand gripping the steering wheel, Dean felt profoundly weary. Every week it was something different; some new big-bad to fight. Dean just wanted to be left alone. He was tired of this shit following him and his brother around. What he would give for a normal existence! Well, if he had anything left to give. Parentless, friendless, homeless and soon to be soulless. He could have filled a book with the things he didn’t have.

In the back of his mind the dry voice that taunted him from time to time was telling him to pull himself together. This was not the time to break down and enter a therapy session about the ‘what-ifs’ of his life. Things sucked. They always had. Dean reckoned they always would. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand: finding his kid brother and bringing him out of this in one piece.

He wasn’t as good as he thought he was at hiding his feelings and putting all that emotional baggage on the Winchester shelf of unresolved issues. The thought of Sam provoked a tremor to run through the twenty eight year old man’s frame that was both potent and draining. How was his brother holding up as the captive of a psychotic demon? Sam had been missing for too long now and Dean was worried. God only knew what the demon was doing to him. Whatever it was Dean would do worse when he found the stupid son of a bitch. Much worse…

He pulled his spaced out gaze from his inward pondering and refocused his attention back on the road and the SUV he was trailing. They had been driving for just over an hour now and Dean’s impatience was growing like a storm on the horizon. He was eager to find Sam. It was nearly eleven and a half hours since the kid had been taken and Dean couldn’t help the fierce claw of fear that tore at him. He internally ached. His outward expression was – as always - stoic and unyielding to his emotional turmoil, but the closer they drove to where Joshua thought Bael was the more panicked Dean felt. He had no idea what to expect when he found Sam. He had no idea what the demon was capable of and Bael’s final words to him were more than unsettling.

“I’m just the messenger…”

Those words were playing hell with Dean’s mind. The messenger for who? The thought of demon Fed-ex almost provoked a laugh. It would have if the situation hadn’t been so goddamn serious. Dean had assumed that with yellow eyes dead the only things they would have to fear were other hunters like Gordon – other hunters wrapped up in conspiracy theories about Sam being some kind of anti-Christ. This whole stinking mess evidently went a lot deeper than Dean had ever imagined. It was a mess. Their lives were a mess. Everything that could go wrong in a lifetime had done so for the Winchester siblings. Bad luck seemed to follow them like a stray puppy only this one had teeth and claws. But then, that was them all over, wasn’t it? Most people travelled up shit creek without a paddle; they didn’t even have the boat.

“Dean? You ok?”

Dean cast a side long-glance from the SUV to the passenger seat.

Bobby was eyeballing him carefully, his arms crossed over his chest. It was a look Dean had come to recognise – a look that said bullshitting was not an option. Dean had, however, been playing the game for too long. He was the undefeated bullshitting champion and no one was taking that title from him. Instead of answering truthfully the dirty blond haired hunter shrugged half-heartedly.

“I’m fine, Bobby.”

“Bullshit!” The mechanic snorted, eliciting a slight eye roll from Dean. Evidently he needed to work on his act a little more. “I’m nowhere near fine, so I’m guessin’ you’re about as far from fine as its possible to be.”

Dean frowned deeply, and turned his attention back to the road. As always Bobby had managed to see into the heart of the situation but Dean was too drained to open up. He was on the verge of cracking as it was. Like the plates moving beneath the earth’s surface, readying for an earthquake that would swallow up whole towns, it was a crevasse Dean wasn’t prepared to open. Not yet at least. A gratuitous chick-flick heart-to-heart wasn’t going to help find Sam and right now that was all Dean cared about. He would deal with his fucked up head after his brother was safe. His guilt and self-loathing would only distract him and distractions resulted in loss of life and limb. Dean wasn’t willing to sacrifice that much just to ease his poisoned conscience.

“You think Josh can really track this demon?” Dean asked, avoiding Bobby’s question. Avoidance was another thing Dean was a champion at. He’d had enough practice over the years.

“Dean-“ Bobby began, a hint of irritation underlying his concern but Dean cut him off before he got into full swing. He understood what the man was trying to do but it was unnecessary. Dean didn’t need to talk about this. He really was fine. Well, as fine as it was possible to be knowing the only person you gave two shits about in the whole universe was at the hands of something evil. God his life was a joke.

“Bobby, I appreciate what you’re doing, but really I’m ok.”

Dean gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile but he had a feeling the mechanic would see right through it. Bobby had known both Dean and Sam since they were kids. He knew them both far too well – inside out, wasn’t that the phrase? Bobby knew them upside down as well. Keeping secrets from him wasn’t easy.

If the older hunter wanted to continue the conversation he didn’t. Thankfully he let it drop. Dean resisted the relieved sigh he had been holding in and instead rubbed a burning eyelid. Exhaustion was stalking him like a reaper; just out of sight but near enough that he could feel it biting at his heels.

“Josh…” Bobby said with a deep resounding sigh, “…he’s the best kid. I wouldn’t have called him in if I didn’t think he could help.”

Dean nodded slowly. He knew Joshua by reputation within the hunting world as well as on a personal level. If Sam wasn’t available to do the whole geek thing, Joshua was as good a substitute as any other. In fact, as loathe as Dean was to admit it, Joshua was probably just as clever as his brother. It eased his tension somewhat knowing the demonologist was here to help. Dean didn’t do the whole trust thing very well but he trusted Bobby and, on some level, he even trusted Joshua. The man had saved his life in the past. It didn’t mean he owed him a break, but Bobby’s assurance that he would come through for them now was enough – for the time being.

“Well, I hope his demon-senses are as good as he makes out,” Dean muttered.

This was the home stretch. They had located Bael. All they had to do now was exorcise its ass back to hell, grab Sam and get out of there.

Easy.

Dean almost laughed out loud.

Nothing they ever did was easy. Sometimes Dean was sure they were cursed. People talked about karma biting you on the ass but Winchester karma was a force unto itself. Dean wondered what the hell he had done in this life time to warrant such bad luck. It was like he had a constant cloud of crap following him around.

The SUV indicated a left turn, the orange lights blinking frantically as the tank-like car turned off the main road. Silence crept into the Impala again as Dean continued to mirror every movement Joshua took. Bobby hadn’t tried to force the conversation and had remained quiet, staring out of the side window as the landscape whipped passed. Dean wasn’t sure he could maintain the façade of a normal conversation without cracking up. His sense of failure was insurmountable. Once again he had let Sam down and the price had every chance of being too high this time. Dean had nothing left to give to save his brother if he died this time. He had nothing left to bargain with.

For the hundredth time since they had got on to the road, Dean scowled at the dark turn his thoughts seemed to be taking. The ‘glass half empty’ routine didn’t fit him well. Even when things fell spectacularly on their ass, Dean, somehow always managed to keep a positive view of things – outwardly at least. Wasn’t that his modus operandi? To hide behind humour? To fall back on inappropriately timed jokes? To crush all his pain and self-loathing into a series of well-strung together witticisms? Dean had to admit he was exceptionally good at doing so. Except at the moment he was finding it near to impossible to find anything remotely funny about this situation – fake or otherwise. It was still too soon after Cold Oak and Dean’s shelf was too full. Emotional baggage was beginning to rain from the sky in a blaze of fire and lightning that would have put even the upcoming apocalyptic end of days display to shame. And yet, somehow, Dean managed to school his features and retain that stoic, uncaring expression that had become a trademark expression from the age of four.

He nudged the wheel a little to the left and sighed deeply. The road twisted into the distance, snaking through heavy woodlands against the backdrop of the vast mountains. The sun was still on the horizon but it had begun to disappear behind the trees and the sky was starting to darken, the hazy reds fading into bruised purple. Absently Dean flicked the headlamps on as dusk clouded over the road and dragged a hand over his eyes. He was exhausted. How long had it been since he had slept? Dean didn’t even know. He didn’t care either. He wouldn’t stop until his brother was safe.

After another ten minutes or so, Joshua pulled the SUV down a small, narrow dirt track. Dean followed, carefully guiding the Chevy behind the red GMC truck. Nearly seven hundred yards down it the SUV ground to a halt, the red glowing brake lights dimming, before extinguishing completely as the engine cut. Dean copied the movement, twisting the keys in his hands as he reached for the door handle.

Hastily he climbed out of the vehicle as the chestnut haired demonologist approached the Impala.

“Why we stopping?” Dean demanded, his arms spread out from his side, palms upwards as he questioned the southern hunter’s motives.

There was nothing notable about the spot. Thick tree trunks with heavy green foliage lined the ill maintained road, dipping in the distance into a slight valley on one side. Unlike Colorado Springs there were no vast mountains standing like sentinels on the horizon but the rolling hillsides were a pleasant break in the landscape nevertheless. Dean preferred the image to one of looming skyscrapers and stark, uncaring high-rises any day.

Joshua didn’t seem to be listening to Dean’s questioning however. His gaze was lowered to a small black device clutched in his right hand. It was no bigger than a cell phone but bulkier, about the width of his palm. It was emitting a low whining sound that was akin to a mewling cat and a row of red LEDs were blinking frantically. It looked expensive - overly expensive. Dean knew what it was. He had seen enough of them over the years but it didn’t stop him from scowling at the demonologist’s indulgence. It probably cost more than a three course meal at a five star restaurant. He eyed the EMF meter with distain for a second before raising green eyes to meet Joshua’s lowered head. He wanted an answer.

“This is the place. EMF’s goin’ crazy,” Joshua murmured, raising his eyes from the device and peering through the trees lining the road. “I couldn’t get a good look but there’s a house down the bottom of the trail and coupla vehicles… looks like we got company waitin’ for us.”

Dean nodded, taking the information in with minimal reaction. He had never really expected this to be easy. It would be far too much to ask for. In his mind he had briefly hoped he could walk in, blow Bael’s ass into Hell, grab Sam and run. He should have known this was bound to be one of those ridiculously over the top perilous situations in which near death was bound to be a constant companion.

No longer content to stand still, Dean, was already moving over to the trunk of the Impala. He didn’t care who was down there. The National Guard, the Marines; Christ, the whole of NATO could have been lined on the front porch with guns, tanks and air support, it didn’t matter. If Sam was within the house Dean would take every single person who stood in his way apart.

Jiggling the keys in the lock until it gave way with a satisfying, almost melodic click, Dean pulled the trunk open and lifted the hidden panel. As he had done so many times before he jammed a shotgun under it and let his eyes wander over the artillery. He put up a good show of trying to decide what weapons he would need, but in all honesty Dean was trying to figure out a way to leave Bobby and Joshua here. He had never intended to take either man into this battle but he had a feeling neither of them were going to walk away either.

Realising he had been in the trunk for longer than was necessary, and that the illusion of rooting around in there with a purpose was quickly dissipating, Dean finally grabbed for a couple of guns and stuffed them into his rucksack.

“Thanks, Josh. You and Bobby head back into town,” Dean said casually, shoving a couple of rounds of rock salt into his jeans pocket even as he spoke, “I’ll call you when I’ve got Sam.”

Dean didn’t even need to pull his head out of the trunk to know the mechanic and demonologist were exchanging glances. Nevertheless he wanted to gauge their reaction and so he turned his head to the pair of them. Bobby’s expression was incredulous, but Joshua’s was unreadable. Dean couldn’t decide if he was pissed or relieved.

“I can handle this alone,” Dean added, shifting his gaze between the two of them.

“Dean-“ Bobby began, but Dean cut him off with a wave of his hand. It was easier to fight Bobby before he got onto his high horse. After he mounted he got a little unreasonable and Dean wasn’t sure he would have the strength to argue the point.

“Thanks for the help Bobby, but this is gonna be dangerous. I can’t do this if I’m worrying ‘bout you and Joshua.”

It was more than that. Dean couldn’t have their deaths on his conscience. He already had enough emotional baggage clipping at his heels as it was without adding more.

“Yeah,” Joshua said quietly, sucking on the inside of his cheek, pulling it between his teeth, “unfortunately, kid, it’s not your choice.”

Dean scowled at him. Did he not realise he was trying to save their lives?

“This isn’t a friggin’ game, Josh! You could get killed in there!”

Joshua shrugged, irritation brewing under the surface of his calm façade. It was like a windstorm swirling into a full-blown mean-assed twister; quick and potentially dangerous.

“And you’re suddenly demon proof, asswipe?” A roll of eyes was all Dean managed before Joshua was speaking again. “You think me and Bobby are just gonna let you walk into that buildin’ alone?”

His voice was hard and verged on obnoxiously loud. It grated on Dean’s already aching head in a nails-down-a-chalk-board kind of way.

“Not your choice man,” Dean threw back with a slight shake of his head.

He slammed the trunk shut meaningfully and shifted the bag onto his shoulder, the weight of the guns digging into the tender flesh. The pressure on his aching ribs and abdomen was unpleasant but not unbearable. Even if it had been horrendously painful Dean didn’t have time to deal with his own injuries. He was pretty certain he was keeping his pain at bay by nothing more than sheer stubborn will.

Dean started to move over towards the path, planning on leaving both men at the roadside, but unsuspecting, strong hands fisted into his jacket suddenly, throwing him against the side of the Impala. The force of it – not to mention the surprise – elicited a grunt from the blond haired hunter as the air was temporarily pushed out of his lungs.

“You stubborn bastard!” Joshua growled, slamming Dean once more against the metal frame of the car, his fingers curling further into Dean’s clothes. Dean flinched, struggling against the firm grasp.

“Take your goddamn hands off me, Josh!” Dean growled, bucking against the hold but Joshua was surprisingly strong. His extra height and girth gave him a distinct advantage over Dean and the younger hunter didn’t like it. He wasn’t used to being on the losing side and the demonologist wasn’t showing any sign of relinquishing his grip on Dean. In fact, he fisted his fingers deeper into the material, shaking him a little.

“What the hell do you think going in there alone is going to achieve, Dean?” Joshua retorted, teeth barred. He looked like a rabid dog for a brief moment. “All you’re gonna do is get your fucking self killed! What use are you to Sam dead?”

Dead? Dean snorted. Wasn’t that the rub? He knew he shouldn’t have retaliated – the man was just looking out for him – but the mixture of fraught emotions and raw anger coursing through his veins was not willing to be silenced. It came to the surface like a naughty kid, pushing a strung-out mother’s buttons to test the boundaries.

“I’m already dead, Josh!” Dean snapped, his angry gaze meeting Joshua’s furious one. “Didn’t you get the fucking memo? I got eleven months! What the hell does it matter if I go before schedule? All I care about is saving my brother! If something happens to me in the process, so fucking what? But I won’t let you and Bobby go down for this as well! This is my damn fight. Not yours.”

Joshua looked for a moment as if he was going to smack him in the face. His anger was a little scary. Dean pressed further into the Impala’s cold surface, wishing he could put more distance between himself and the long haired hunter.

“I care! Ok? I fucking care! You think that just because you made that stupid contract that your life means nothing? You think me and Bobby want to bury your dumb ass before your year is up?” Joshua shot back, his expression livid, a wild look in his eyes. “You think we want to explain to Sam why we let you go in there alone - to explain why bits of you are splattered all over some shit heap in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere?”

“Joshua!” Bobby, who had gone as still as a rabbit in head lights when Joshua’s temper had finally snapped, seemed to break out of his trance and was moving, his fingers grappling with the demonologists grip.

Joshua shrugged the older hunter’s hands off his shoulders as nothing more than an irritation and shook Dean again. The younger hunter, however, had already stopped fighting him. He was too tired to care anymore. He felt himself wilting in Joshua’s grasp.

“You’re not superman, Dean! You don’t have to do everything by yourself!” Joshua removed Bobby’s hands once more, his other still firmly gripping Dean by the collar of his jacket. “Your stubborn assed Winchester pride is gonna get you all friggin’ killed and we’ll be the ones who have to pick up the damn pieces!”

The words hit Dean heavily – harder than he would have imagined they could. It was more than fear, more than friendship; it was deep-seated love and care in the demonologist’s eyes. It was a promise to an old friend that Joshua planned to keep. Dean found himself wondering just how close this rangy, long haired hunter had been to his father.

“Christ sake, Josh! Let him go!” Bobby barked.

Finally the mechanic managed to pry the older hunter from Dean and drag him back, both arms clamped around his torso. The demonologist swung out of the mechanics hold, brushing his dark bangs out of his face, his lip curled angrily. Dean was a little taken aback by the attack and covered his shock by tugging at his disarrayed clothing, pulling it back into place.

“You wanna play the hero, fine, play it Dean, but I’m comin’ with you.” Joshua pointed an angry finger at him. There was so much rage, so much atonement even in that one gesture. It was as if the demonologist had the weight of a life time’s regret on his shoulders and was looking for a way to silence those inner demons. “You try an’ stop me and I’ll friggin’ tie you up and leave you here. Swear to god! I’m not just gonna sit by and wait for you to die!”

Dean winced at the resolve in the older man’s tone. He didn’t want Joshua to come with him. He didn’t want the man’s life in his hands. Dean couldn’t handle that. He didn’t need help. He could do this alone - like he had always done this alone. Sam was his brother - his responsibility. However, Dean wasn’t an idiot. He knew this had gone beyond his ability to control. Joshua wasn’t about to be cowed and Dean felt the mantle of power being removed – somewhat forcefully - from his own shoulders.

Joshua’s frame was heaving; his hands planted firmly on his hips as he took laboured breaths. Dean watched him carefully for a moment before shifting his gaze towards the mechanic. A side long glance at Bobby, however, told him this was not a fight he was going to win. He saw the same resolve in his eyes too.

“Bobby… please…” Dean tried to appeal, but the mechanic shrugged nonchalantly.

“I’ve known you boys pretty much your whole life, Dean. I’m not sure I could live with letting you go into that house alone knowin’ there’s a damn demon waitin’ for you.” The tone was quiet but firm.

Dean glanced between the two men and sighed. The hand had been dealt and the cards were not the right ones. Dean knew this was a game he had no chance of winning.

“Fine,” he sighed reluctantly. “Let’s go find Sam.”

Bad Bones

Sam’s head was reeling.

The metallic click of the safety being released on a handgun made him go cold all over, the pregnant pause that followed resounded in the air as if a shot had already been fired. Sam closed his eyes tightly and took a shuddering breath. Was nothing in his life ever simple?

He had escaped the clutches of a sociopathic demon with homicidal tendencies, only to end up on the bad side of four trigger happy assholes. This whole situation reeked of an unfairness that made him want to stomp his feet and throw a tantrum like a belligerent toddler. However, at the moment, it was taking all his strength to remain on his knees without biting the ground.

“Where’s the demon?” The voice was sharp, like a knife blade. Sam slowly prised his eyes open and gazed at the man through half-mast slits.

Four figures were stood over his hunched form, leering at him through hard lids. The man who had spoken was the eldest of the group, possibly in his late forties, perhaps early fifties. His dark hair was flecked with grey streaks and receding at the temples like an inhaling tide on the beach. His mouth was pulled into a tight line that accentuated his strong, square jaw and his entire look was offset by the completely black outfit he had donned.

“Where’s the demon?” The man repeated firmly.

When Sam merely stared at the man, confusion bleeding onto his wearied features, one of the other men spoke up.

“I’d answer him, kid. Bryman tends to get cranky when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

The second man was much younger than the other three but what he lacked in age he certainly made up for in height and girth. He was huge. Dark black hair was cropped closely to his scalp and he had huge brown eyes that were watching Sam apathetically. However even despite the stubble sprouting across his chin and upper lip he still appeared somewhat baby-faced, like he was just cutting his teeth in this strange quartet, looking to find his place in the pack. Sam only hoped he wasn’t planning on using him as an example of his talents –whatever those talents were.

Lowering his eyes to the leaf tossed ground, Sam let his gaze loosen on the heavy brown boots the younger man was wearing. Strong boots… durable and built to last in any condition. They had come prepared. They knew his name. Had they followed him here? Were they linked to the demons? What did they want?

Sam’s foggy head couldn’t make sense of the events. He was tired and he was hurt. He just wanted to sleep but these guys were not about to let that happen.

“Hey, kid?” The man, Bryman, was speaking again. When Sam maintained his silence he decided the best course of action to gain his attention was a cuff across the back of the head.

Under normal circumstances it would have caused nothing more than a fleeting pain, a minor irritation. In Sam’s current condition the gesture was amplified ten fold. His vision splintered and fractured momentarily, spots dancing in front of him. He fell forwards onto his hands, his head bowing onto his chest as he took a shaky breath.

The men weren’t prepared to let it end there however.

A firm and calloused hand seized his chin, dragging his head upward. Lazily Sam opened his eyes an inch, peering at the man with blurry vision. Bryman was half crouched, half doubled over, his grasp on Sam’s face unrelenting.

“You open them damn gateways, hell spawn?” The voice was low but Sam didn’t miss the bite in it. Even fighting fit, Sam doubted he could beat this guy. He was a solid wall of muscle.

“No…” Sam muttered thickly even as he ran his tongue over his lips, attempting to moisten them.

“Don’t lie!” Bryman spat, releasing Sam’s face with a shove that almost sent him sprawling onto the floor. As it was it took all of his energy to keep himself upright. “Don’t lie to me.”

The younger Winchester wanted to contest Bryman’s words, wanted to tell him how he hadn’t done anything wrong – despite coming close to it – but his brain to mouth pathways were blocked and no sounds, articulate or otherwise, were made. It didn’t matter, Bryman hadn’t expected an answer.

He had already turned to the other two men within the homicidal party whilst the baby-faced man kept his handgun locked on Sam’s head.

“Don’t think about moving, kid,” the younger man growled out.

Sam raised his eyes to the baby-faced guy and gave him a sardonic smile. Really, where the hell was he going to go? He could barely stand, let alone run. The gun was completely unnecessary but Sam knew the purpose of keeping it aimed on him; fear. They wanted to keep him scared and as loath as he was to admit it, it was working. Sam was frightened but he had also reached a breaking point. He was too tired to keep fighting people. He was too tired to keep defending himself and he was too tired to be afraid. It was draining all his energy.

Sam’s eyes roved over to the other two men and he let his gaze settle there for a moment. One had dirty blond hair, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, the other was a hulking black man with a shaved head. Both were just as big as the other two men and looked equally as dangerous.

“Cross, Walton, check the house.” It was an order, not a request and the two men saw it as such. They took off, casting nothing more than a brief glance in Sam’s direction.

With a shuddering breath, Sam ignored the two remaining men and concentrated on dragging heavy air into his hypoxic lungs. His chest was burning and every inhale sent sharp pains thrusting through his rib cage.

“You didn’t open the gates.” Bryman had turned back to face Sam and was eyeing him with distaste, as if he had stepped in something nasty. “Not from here. The gates need physical contact.” Bryman added quietly. “What did that piece of crap want with you then?”

To answer was death; to remain silent was just as suicidal. Sam had no idea what he was supposed to say or do. Every word out of his mouth would be a nail in the coffin and Sam hadn’t come this far to die at this man’s hands. He was finding it difficult to keep up with his own conflicting emotions but the smell of freedom had provided him with a strength that Eleksha and Bael had previously sucked out of him. Sam fisted invisible fingers into it and held onto that strength as tightly as he could manage. He had already given up once today. He wasn’t about to do so again.

“Why don’t you ask them?” Sam suggested sluggishly, peering at the man with unfocused, rheumy eyes. He had passed the point of cowering. If they were going to kill him Sam wasn’t about to sit and keep his mouth shut.

“Them?” Bryman demanded. He then nodded, a curling smile crossing his face. “Eleksha.” It was said without mirth. Evidently Bryman knew about Bael’s demon bitch.

“Of course.” The baby-faced man grinned broadly. “In Bael’s empire the population is one – Eleksha. I bet you and that demon-whore got on like a house on fire.”

Sam didn’t miss the barbs in his words. There were too many to overlook them. Even the subtle undertones were pointed. They must have known about the fires, must have known about Sam’s history, about his abilities. Under normal circumstances Sam would have taken it to heart but he was too drained to care what this guy thought about him. Everyone seemed to be convinced he was the antichrist and for the time being Sam was inclined to let them believe it. Nothing he said was going to change their views anyway. He had tried to do so in the past. It never worked.

“Yeah… one big happy Brady Bunch reunion…” Sam muttered.

“Drop the attitude, Winchester,” Charlie snapped, “my finger might accidentally slip on the trigger if you piss me off.”

And there it was. The guy was flexing his muscles. Sam hated being right sometimes.

“Charlie!” Bryman’s voice snapped into the air. The baby-faced man swung his head over his shoulder to glance at his boss. “Take it down a notch. Dead people don’t talk.”

The younger man, Charlie, smirked but when he spoke there was a level of remorse in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah, boss. I got it. Too early in the day to splatter brains.” He turned back to Sam and gave him a meaningful glare that suggested it wouldn’t always be too early. Sam replied with a wry smile of his own. He would have thrown back a witty remark that would have made Dean proud, but his head wasn’t functioning the way it should have.

Bryman moved closer to Sam, running a hand over his thinning hair before he crouched down in front of him. His gun was resting in his right hand lazily but his stance suggested one move and early or not Sam was going to be eating metal.

“What did you do for them?”

“Nothing…” Sam replied slowly and quietly.

His eyes on the floor only seemed to anger the man more. Fingers fisted into his t-shirt abruptly and Sam found himself lurching forward under Bryman’s death grip as he yanked him roughly towards him. Sam practically fell into the man’s arms, his balance lost under the swirling vortex of dizziness.

“What did they want?” Bryman repeated abrasively.

“I could still put a bullet in him Bryman,” Charlie shrugged nonchalantly. “I find it makes people co-operate a helluva lot more than normal.”

Sam inwardly groaned but the only external sign he gave that he was worried was a slight flicker of his eyes from Bryman to Charlie. He wasn’t sure if his body could cope with being shot on top of everything else.

“You know what? Shoot me…” Sam muttered through lethargic lips.

He was tired of convincing people he wasn’t what they thought he was. If they were going to kill him Sam wanted it over already. He was too goddamn exhausted and in too much pain to take any more. He wished unconsciousness would take him but the blackness remained at the edge of his peripheral vision, never coming closer.

“I didn’t open any gateway. Didn’t do a damn thing…” Sam continued thickly.

He didn’t mention that he had come close to releasing one of the Grigori. It was an event that Sam didn’t plan on revealing to anyone - just like his soiled blood. There were some skeletons that were never coming out of his closet.

“Don’t tempt me,” Charlie shot back with a growl, shifting the gun in his hands.

Sam took a deep breath; this wasn’t going to end well. What he would give for Dean to appear right now – white horse, and sword to match. He wouldn’t even mind the damsel in distress jokes his brother would throw his way. He needed help. He couldn’t fight this any more by himself. He wanted – no, he needed – Dean. He needed that reassuring smirk, that smart assed mouth. He needed his cool, calm and collected presence here. Sam wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight anymore. He could feel his energy being sapped and with it his resolve to stand up to these guys and make it out of here in one piece dissipated.

“It’s important we know, Sam.” Bryman was speaking again but his voice sounded distant. Sam’s ears were ringing, his body felt like lead and his head was spinning. Before he could stop himself he was lurching forward, the ground swirling closer towards his battered face.

He almost made it. Almost. Steady hands caught him before he hit the ground and righted him, pushing him back onto his knees ungraciously. Sam bit his lip, drawing blood at the pain that reverberated through his entire torso.

“Not time to sleep yet, Damien.” It was Charlie’s voice but Sam could no longer see his face. Everything was swimming.

“You know, the Order wants us to kill you, no questions asked. I could do it, just one shot.” Bryman emphasised his point by pressing the barrel of his Glock against Sam’s temple.

The metal was cold and the pressure against his skin was intense. It wasn’t easing his pounding head. Sam closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come. At least this would be quick. One shot and all his pain was over. Sam almost welcomed it… and then the gun was removed. Sam blinked and raised his gaze to the man.

“Killing you won’t provide answers, however. You tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you live.”

It was a lie. Sam knew a thing or two about liars. God, he lied his ass off every day. He impersonated law enforcement, doctors, health officials, Sam had pretty much lied his way into every situation imaginable and he recognised a liar when he saw one. This guy, Bryman, was feeding him a line of bullshit. No way was he letting Sam walk out of this one.

“What did they want?” Bryman repeated harshly.

“Semyaza.” Sam hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud but the sharp intake of breath that resounded into the silent evening air told him he had.

“Semyaza?” Charlie breathed the name. Sam hadn’t imagined a name could provoke such a reaction, could draw such fear but Charlie sounded terrified.

“They needed you to release him?” Bryman demanded sharply but there was a waver in his voice. “Because of your gifts…?”

“Yes…” Sam muttered, swallowing down the bile that was once more creeping up his throat. There was no point in denying it any more. They were going to kill him no matter what he said.

“Did they succeed?”

“No.”

Still on his knees, Charlie’s strong hands holding him up, Sam reeled as a fist full of knuckles caught the side of his head. His ear burnt and his jaw ached as his head snapped to the side, the tendons in his neck tightening with the momentum. His sight fractured again as his heavy head rolled onto his chest. He was struggling to keep conscious and the non-too-gentle tug of sleep was pulling him, urging him to give into it. Sam wanted to, more than anything, but a sharp slap around the face brought him painfully back to reality. He blinked indolently, his brow furrowing as he tried to still his rattling brain.

“You know, no one likes a liar, Sam,” Charlie snarled.

Sam’s throat and face were throbbing. If he had the energy he would have curled into a ball and cried. As it was he let his body loll forward, supported only by the kid who was intent on hurting him. It was irony to its fullest extreme.

“You wanna live to see graduation kid, I suggest you back the fuck off.”

Even through his hazy brain waves and fuzzy head, Sam recognised the voice. His heart quivered in his chest as he struggled to pull his head up and swivel glassy eyes over Charlie’s right shoulder.

This time he did sob.

He allowed himself a short, sharp whimper of relief and that was all.

It was Dean. It was his goddamn brother!

Dean was stood like a god – albeit an incredibly pissed off god. Lip curled, stance outraged, his shotgun was in his hand, pulled against his right side, poised for action. Dean’s face was a mask of pure rage as he glared down the barrel aimed at Charlie. Sam had never seen his brother look so angry. He was a tower of fury; unyielding and frightening. Sam was glad that look wasn’t directed at him.

Closing his eyes, Sam carefully reopened them, certain that Dean would disappear with the action. He didn’t however. He was still there, in the flesh: six foot one, and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of terrifying fury. Sam had never been so happy, so grateful and so frigging angry in his whole life. What the hell had taken him so long? This was cutting it close - even by their standards. Charlie and Bryman both turned their heads to the new voice.

Bobby seemed to melt in from the darkness, flanking his left side, shotgun raised. Another man swept in from the right, also armed. His expression was murderous. Sam was a little surprised when he realised who it was; Joshua Turner. What the hell was he doing here?

Sam didn’t care either way. Dean was here and that was all that mattered. He just hoped Dean could get them out of this in one piece. Judging from his brother’s expression Bryman and Charlie were getting out of this in several.

Chapter Twenty Two:

Blood Ties

Sam hadn’t been wrong when he had described Dean’s rage.

He was furious. Beyond furious in fact. Dean could feel the anger coursing through his blood like a poison threatening to overload his system. He felt like Vesuvius before it erupted and coated the unsuspecting town of Pompeii in molten rock.

Dean’s vengeance, however, was going to be worse.

Carefully - and with a degree of stealth - the three hunters headed down the path towards the house. Armed, ready and trembling with a mix of anger and dread, Dean’s mind was doing summersaults. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what state he would find Sam in. The situation was too similar to Cold Oak. Far too similar.

Visions of Sam dropping onto his knees in front of him, teeth bared in agony as Jake slammed the knife into his back clouded his thoughts like a hurricane. It was violent, savage and severe. Dean couldn’t push it from his head no matter how hard he tried. The images flashed unbidden and uninvited; the twin demons of failure and guilt threatened to consume him.

As they came to the edge of the dense woodland the three men paused, moving off the road and instead crouched in the undergrowth. They were not ready to announce their arrival yet. John had taught Dean well and one of those lessons had included being prepared. Dean wanted to know what he was facing before he went in. As Joshua was fond of pointing out, he was no good to Sam dead.

Thinking of the demonologist, Dean absently flicked his gaze over to where Joshua was squatted.

The southern hunter was quietly loading rounds into his shotgun, his blue eyes totally consumed in the action. The barrel snapped shut with a dull thunk that was lost in the early evening air.

On the other side of him Bobby was leaning on his rifle, one knee pressed into the leaf tossed ground, his left arm draped across the other as he studied the scene before them. Dean’s weapon was already loaded. He wasn’t taking chances this time. He wanted to be ready. His hand strayed absently to the waistband of his jeans, fingers brushing the handgun there, reassured by the cold feel of metal. He also had a knife concealed in a sheath at his ankle just in case. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t taking chances. He had lost Sam once; he would never allow that to happen again.

Dean rose a little on the balls of his feet and glanced over the top of the undergrowth. The cabin lay ahead of them. Two shiny black SUVs were parked haphazardly on the driveway in front of the building as if the drivers had had the devil on their tails. Dean could just make out a handful of shadowed figures silhouetted against the sunset. He moved forward quickly, half crouching as he swept across the driveway to get a better look.

He reached the vehicles first and ducked behind the bulky wheel of the one nearest to the house. Joshua and Bobby were less than a beat behind him and were as silent as a cat.

The skeletal arms of the trees seemed to dance in the cool summer breeze like clawed predators waiting to strike at any moment. The waning sun hit the yellowed grass bathing the landscape in eerie blood reds that sent a chill up his spine. It looked like a massacre had taken place.

Craning his neck around the bumper Dean took a sweeping glance around what was essentially the front garden. He shifted nervously on his feet trying to get a better look at his surroundings.

The cabin stood to the left hand side casting darkened shadows that seemed to wilt everything that it touched but it was the scene in front of the cabin that caught Dean’s eye. It was surreal.

Sam was on his knees – barely – and god was his kid brother a mess. His face was swollen and bruised like a coloured map of his last eleven hours in captivity. Each mark told a story of what Sam had endured and Dean knew it wasn’t pleasant; if the purple smattering of bruising didn’t tell him that, the way he was hunched over did. Sam was barely keeping himself upright. He looked about ready to collapse.

To add insult to injury, Sam was coated in blood and dirt, his pale face was practically hidden beneath the dried crimson liquid. His arm hung limply at his right side, distorted and bent at a strange angle – the arm Dean had performed physio on, the arm that had almost been back to full strength. Dean wondered if it was beyond repair now. It looked in bad shape. Sam’s other hand was planted on the leaf-tossed ground and shook under the weight of his lanky frame. Dean made to move from cover shifting his gun in his hand but Bobby threw an arm across his chest effectively stopping him.

“Before you go bowling in like a bat out of hell,” Bobby murmured quietly, “assess the damn situation first.”