It was Dean who fell first in a shower of blood, his crimson life pouring from the ribbons of flesh that had once made up the front of his neck. He went down hard and without even blinking, the Demon stepped over his body and continued on its intended path of travel. It ignored John entirely, walked within arms length of the oldest Winchester. The aloof manner it had once shown was gone, the interest in psychological warfare and teasing nonexistent, its eyes focused on the one thing it had worked for for so long, and, with its brother's life in his hands, the Demon knew he was as invincible as it was possible for a supernatural being to be in company of Winchesters.

Samuel didn't have a choice.

John's screamed "Dean!" barely registered. He heard the scuffling of feet rushing from one place to another, the thud of John's knees hitting the dirt, the muffled swishing of a cloth swathed body being lifted and cradled against a father's chest.

He didn't really care.

Sam saw him coming, and in an instant, those proud eyes were ablaze with fury. The Demon could feel that store of inhuman power bubbling just beneath the surface of that frail, human mind, and he knew he was close. It felt good to know that he and only he had ever been able to prompt such a reaction. There had been small pulses of that power, of course, with the abused boy and the nightmares. But still, it had never been like this, and the Demon felt proud, despite himself.

Sam's lip pulled back in a feral glint of bared teeth. A stream of useless, mortal curses and profanity flowed from his mouth. The Demon stopped his approach and waited for words of consequence. "How dare you." Sam finally hissed. The Demon felt the power tugging on the ends of his conscious mind, like small claws scrabbling for a firm grasp, waiting for enough hold to tear his entity apart.

Ineffective, of course. After all, it was he who had given Sam his abilities in the first place. Any Machiavellian turn of events was strictly forbidden.

"How dare I what?"

The power flared awesomely. "You killed my brother." Molten steel words from a fiery tongue.

The Demon only smiled.

"It was me you were after."

"Of course. It always has been. Unfortunately for your brother, he just happened to be right in my path. A pity, actually." The Demon cast an uncaring glance over his shoulder, where John still knelt with Mary's eldest son still clenched firmly in his arms. "Could have been useful if it weren't for that pesky sense of familial obligation."

"Shut up."

"Have I found a soft spot, Samuel? That was my intention, anyhow. But what does it matter to you? Didn't you want him gone? Didn't you say that once? More than once?"

"Shut up!" The Demon smiled as the power hit him in a solid wave, like a skyscraper wall. Almost, but not quite.

"Well, I just got him out of the way. Oh, and Samuel? Don't bother trying to comfort yourself with that 'he's in a better place' mumbo-jumbo. I tore his soul into so many pieces there won't be anything for anyone on the other side to find."

That was it. The floodgates burst and a fury unimaginable by those who have never seen hell broke across all barriers. The Demon was almost caught. Almost. But this is what it had been waiting for for longer than Sam Winchester's mind could even imagine. The Demon extended its mind to coccoon the youngest Winchester's, trapped his entity and strength in one, deft swoop, and then, when he had Sam securely caught, he crushed down. Sam screamed in agony. It had anticipated a struggle, and it came hard and fast, the youngest hunter frantically lost in a fight for his own mind. Yes, it had been anticipated and it was quickly beat down.

What the Demon had not anticipated was John Winchester's swift transition from grief to activity. The Demon hadn't even known he was there until a searing agony tore through his chest. Not The Colt, no, that was still in Dean's back pocket, but something else that hurt like it had been. He stayed as long as the pain would allow, then let Sam's silent, limp body slide to the floor, the mind within it still alive, but barely so. He disappeared in a rush of black smoke, swearing in a language only a few select of hell's worst understood. But as he did, he couldn't help but smile.

He'd just have to go for plan B.

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John sat still for a moment, hesitating between the son who lay with eyes glazed, throat torn, soul long gone, and the son who sits slumped against the mountain face, eyes glassy and unfocused.

It was with the tearing of the last unbroken place in his heart he let go of Dean and reached for Sam.

He knelt carefully, afraid that if he made too much sound, Sam's throat would open up too, and his life would go rushing from him in a burst of blood, that he'd lose both sons instead of just his oldest. There was no response from Sam. Further inspection revealed one pupil dilated and the other small as the point of a pin. Head injury, but from what, exactly, John didn't know. He'd heard the conversation between his youngest and…that thing…but only from somewhere within the throbbing of his own mind, Dean no Dean Dean DeanDeanDean, and the next thing he knew his youngest was limp and damaged on some godforsaken mountain top.

Sam needed a doctor.

John glanced back at Dean, his Dean, dead. There was no way he could show up at the hospital with a dead man in his car. Too many questions, so many explanations he couldn't give. No. He'd have to come back later and hope the wolves and vultures had left his baby untouched. He bit his lip to hold back tears, swept Sammy up in his arms, careful not to jostle his head, began the long, lonely walk back to his truck, each step leaving his heart shredded a little more.

When at last he reached the truck, the sun had gone down completely and the September chill of night was settling in, leaving his fingers numb. He settled Sam carefully down on the seat then rushed to his side and clambered in. With the familiar thrum of the engine came the sense of urgency he'd been too shell-shocked to feel before. His military mind ran a list through his mind, unbidden. One son short. Three pistols. Seventy some odd miles into town. Ten miles further for the hospital. Sam sustaining injury, severe, most likely.

Go.

Numbly, he put the car in drive. The headlights flared to life, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out.

Dean stood there, clothes still dripping in blood, throat flayed, but eyes focused, and his hands moving, raised to his neck, feeling the slices there. John threw open his door, but, reluctant to leave Sam, who still lay comatose on the seat beside him, he did not get out. He waited for the spector to disappear.

It didn't.

Instead, Dean came around to the driver's side door, his eyes wide with panic and confusion. John reached out tentatively and touched his son's shoulder.

Solid. Dean was no ghost. Dean opened his mouth, and without inhaling for air, said, "Dad? Why aren't I breathing?"

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Somewhere above them, the Demon smiled. Yeah. Plan B would work just fine.

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I hope you all enjoyed! Reviews are good for karma!

--Kim Who Knows