Project Muse

Chapter One:

Beginnings

South Dakota, 2007

The rain had started an hour ago.

It had begun as a 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 man’s 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 OK,” 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 OK?” 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 well-being 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 man’s. “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 OK – 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 any more, 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 Walker’s 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 baptising 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 back door open before following him in out of the cold.

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

Chapter Three:

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 his 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 gaping 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 any more. 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 father’s 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.”

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 home town – even mentally.

“OK, geek boy,” Dean pressed, 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 any more. 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 man’s 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 t-shirt. 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 reverberated 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, still keeping 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 percent. 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 t-shirt. 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 cooperating 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.

“Whoa, 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, hadn’t 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 people’s 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 misrepresentation.”

“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 man’s 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 any more 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 back door, 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.

Chapter Five:

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 pick-up 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 all right. 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, one 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 air bag.”

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 girl’s 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 asshole’s 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 frigging 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 him and 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 any more. 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 asshole’s 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 4.30 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 in 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. Nausea 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 tree 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 any time 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 hit 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 off-line, 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 9.30 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 all right.

“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’d 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 asshole’s 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 fright–” 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 man’s 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 all right, 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 any more.

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 mouldy 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 manipulating 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 morning. 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 150 miles from Smallthorne, Nebraska.

Chapter Ten:

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 all right. 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 overshadowed 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 1950s styled establishments that should have begun and ended in that era too. There was a battered old jukebox 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.

Eyeing 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 frigging 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-haired 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 sulfur.”

“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 frigging 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 gaping 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 disdain. 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.