Wassup Supernatural fanbase? I'm new around here so don't be a jerk :) Tell you the truth, I'm kinda nervous posting in the Supernatural section cuz everyone's like a pro writer here.

Oh, and I might as well tell you now: no slash whatsoever, especially wincest! Sorry fans, I just find bromance more satisfying than romance.

Story starts a bit after that Supernatural Christmas episode flashback

As for language and gore - if you can watch Supernatural, you can read this fic.

Chapter 1: The Family

"We're stronger as a family, Dad, we just are, you know it."

–Dean, 'Dead Man's Blood'

Trillium Hospital, Room 215

Broken Bow, Nebraska

December 27, 1991

It was the worst Christmas the Winchesters had ever had, which was certainly saying something.

Seriously, about a hundred times worse than that year when Sam had gotten one present: a lumpy swan made out of tin foil. That had been from his then nine-year-old brother Dean. Their father had actually slept through the entire day, exhausted from his 'business trip'.

This year, their dad had missed Christmas altogether, and Dean had had to steal someone else's Christmas presents so that Sam would have something to open, even if the presents had turned out to be a little too girly for him. Sam had also found out that monsters were real, and shortly after this horrifying discovery, the hospital had phoned to tell them their dad was in critical condition after being attacked by a wolf.

Furthermore, as if Lady Luck herself had decided to throw her hands in the air and just give up on the Winchesters, the police had arrested John, and it was likely that their father would be put on death row as soon as he recovered.

The hospital was quiet at this time of night, which was the only reason why anyone in the room was able to hear John's hoarse whisper.

"No, please," John Winchester croaked out. From the number of extensive wounds he was suffering from, it was a miracle the man was even able to remain conscious. But he didn't even seem to mind the damage, because at the moment there was a more important matter at hand: they were taking his kids from him. "No, you can't have them. Don't take them."

His twelve-year-old son Dean was making the same protests, albeit with more energy.

"You stupid assholes, you're arresting the wrong guy!" he yelled at the officers angrily. The two policemen exchanged glances but didn't say anything. "He doesn't kill people, my dad saves lives!"

Behind him, his eight-year-old brother Sam was complaining considerably less. He was silent but attentive, his eyes moving from his dad to his brother to the officers.

A woman entered the room dressed in a long skirt and blouse. She had a round, kindly face and flashed an encouraging smile at the children—which was not returned—before speaking to the police officers.

"Hello, I'm Minerva from the Child Protection Services. I've come to take Sam and Dean Winchester—"

"Leave us alone," Dean growled at her, stepping between her and Sam as if he were trying to shield him from her deadly wrath. "We already have a dad."

"Don't take them away," John pleaded from his bed. His face was practically covered with gauze but the CPS worker could still see those helpless eyes. For a short, fleeting moment Minerva wondered if the police officers truly had the right man. "They're all I have left."

This only fuelled the fury within Dean. His father didn't beg. His father was the strongest, scariest person he'd ever known. He could take down werewolves and wraiths and angry spirits no problem. He was his real life John McClane. And now he was pleading with a CPS worker, of all things?

"You stay away from our family," Dean warned her stonily. "My dad's a hero."

The woman adopted a sympathetic look on her face. "I'm sorry, honey. I know this must be hard for you. But we're going to find you a new home, okay? I don't want to be the one to tell you that your father's been doing some bad things, but—"

"Stop talking to me like I'm a kid," Dean interrupted, momentarily ignoring the fact that he was indeed a kid. "My dad just risked his life to save people and now you're sending him to prison? You're all idiots!"

Dean wanted to escape from the room, run away from the scary adults that were going to break apart their already minuscule family. He could run. Dean had mapped out several escape routes out of the hospital already and he knew he could slip out and hop on a bus easily. The officers had to stay, after all, to watch over his alleged serial killer of a father, and would hesitate at least for several seconds before pursuing him. Even if they did chase him, they were weighed down by the equipment on their belts and stomachs that had seen one donut too many in their lifetime. The woman was in high heels and a dress. None of them had a chance of keeping up. He could even bring Sam along with him and still outrun them all.

Dean considered it, actually considered it, for five whole seconds before he saw Sam out of the corner of his eye. On the outside, his little brother looked calm. He looked as if he couldn't care less that his father was probably going to be in jail for life if they didn't put him on death row, that he and Dean would have no parents left by the end of the day, that there was a chance that he might be separated from his brother.

To the woman from the Child Protection Services, to the two police officers and most likely even to John, it looked like Sam Winchester either didn't give a damn about anything that was happening or was just too stupid to understand it. His older brother knew better though, because Dean knew Sam better than Dean knew himself.

Sam was terrified out of his wits and under any other circumstances would be bawling his eyes out and attempting to demolish everything in the room. But Dean was at his breaking point already, so Sam knew to be the one with the level head.

Dean understood all this with the tiniest glance at Sam's passive face and he just couldn't bring himself to put his plan in action. Sam had already lost so much in a single day. It was hardly fair that he should deprive his little brother of a roof to live under, on top of everything else. He wouldn't run. Not yet.

"We will restrain you if necessary, Dean," Minerva said with a disapproving frown, not knowing of the decision he'd just made mentally.

"Can we at least say goodbye?" Sam said quietly as he peeked out from behind Dean. It was the first thing he'd said in hours.

The lady's face softened immediately upon seeing his pleading eyes. "Of course, sweetie. Go ahead."

Dean and Sam walked over to John's bed.

"Sorry, boys," John smiled, trying to rein in his emotions. This could be the last time he'd see his boys in a very long time, and they didn't need their last memory of him to be a blubbering mess. "I swear to god, I will come back for you."

Dean was crying now. The kid almost never cried. Not when John scolded him, not when he'd broken his leg, not even when his mom had died.

"It's—it's not fair, Dad," Dean said, his voice cracking. "It's—it's..."

"I know, kiddo," John told him. "But you gotta stay strong, alright? You have to look after your brother."

Dean sniffled one last time, but nodded. He then turned his head quickly to see if the other occupants of the room were listening before speaking. "Dad, Sammy knows... He found your journal." Dean's head was bowed in shame, like he'd just confessed to peeing in the bed.

John couldn't help it, he groaned. Great. Now was not the time for this conversation. If it had been any other day, he would have gotten angry at his kids. Yelled at Dean for telling his brother the truth, yelled at Sam for going through his things without permission... But this wasn't the time for that.

Sam nodded in confirmation. He too glanced quickly towards the woman and police officers, mimicking his older brother. "Dean told me the truth about your job and stuff." His voice was shaking but he quickly cleared it. "Can't we just tell them the truth? You're innocent, Dad."

"That's not such a great idea," John told him seriously. "I'm not sure anyone will believe that the people I killed were actually werewolves."

Upon seeing his little brother's crestfallen expression, Dean quickly rushed in to reassure him. "But don't worry, Sammy. The judge can tell if you're guilty or not. They'll hook him up to one of those lie detectors and ask if he killed any humans. Dad will say no, and they'll see he's telling the truth. There's nothing to worry about."

"Really?"

"Dude, when have I ever been wrong? Big brothers are always right. I was right about the Terminator sequel, wasn't I? It was amazing," Dean reminded him while grabbing his shoulder.

"Kids, you're going to have to wrap it up," Minerva said pleasantly from the other side of the room. Dean actually snarled at her, like a wild dog, and she subconsciously found herself backing up.

"Dean," John said suddenly, "I don't want you to contact any hunters whatsoever."

Dean whipped around back to his dad and frowned. "What? Why? Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim could adopt me and Sammy at the foster home or something. Until you get back, I mean."

"Someone betrayed me, Dean," John told him. "They told the police what motel I'd be staying at and which alias I'd probably be using. I only gave those details to Bobby, Jim, Jonathan, and Caleb. It could have been one of them that called the cops, or maybe they just told some other hunter with a bone to pick, but I don't want you to go looking for them at all. You see any hunter, you take your brother and run."

Dean nodded solemnly, trying to hide his disappointment. "So what, you just want us to sit in a foster home for the rest of our lives?"

"Didn't you just tell Sammy I'm not going to jail?" John shot back. "I thought big brothers were always right." Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, aware of Sam standing right beside him. John continued, "So just wait for me. I will come back for you boys. I swear on my life."

00000

Eleven months later

"Good night, Sam," Eleanor said, kissing his forehead lightly and leaving the room.

Sam lay still for a few seconds in his bed, listening as his foster mother's footsteps travelled down the stairs. As soon as he was sure she was out of hearing range, he threw off his covers, leapt out of bed and unlocked the glass doors in his room that led to the balcony.

"Dean?" he hissed excitedly. He felt kind of stupid when the only response was the chirping of a cricket, but he tried again anyway. "Deeeean?"

"Right here, baby brother." Dean's head popped out, from behind the large potted tree on Sam's balcony, and his body soon followed. Dean leaned against the railing, looking his brother up and down. "How you been?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly, but he had a huge smile on his face. "Same as usual. I won the regional spelling bee a couple days ago."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal." The smug expression on Sam's face seemed to be saying quite the contrary. "How about you?"

The two brothers had been separated after only a week at the foster home. The chances that either of them would be adopted at all were extremely low since most adults came looking for younger kids, preferably kids that didn't have a known psychopath as a father.

Dean had been feeling confident he and Sam would get to stick together at the foster home. And then, just because he and his brother were Winchesters and their family seemed to have some sort of worst-case-scenario-curse, Sam had just happened to accidentally bump into the lady dropping off a box of donated toys to the home. And of course, Sam just happened to bear some resemblance to her ten-year-old son that had passed away that year. Even after Sam insisted that his father was the insane murderer John Winchester, it didn't scare her away from signing the papers for adoption.

Of course, adopting Dean too was not an option. The child was too old, and had been influenced already by their insane father. The result was not pleasant.

Sam's initial protests and tantrums were incessant after his adoption. He'd only eventually settled down when Dean had escaped from the foster home and visited him once every night. Soon though, Dean had had to prowl the neighbourhood for a place to stay and could only visit once every couple weeks. It became routine for the first few months.

Eventually the visits had had to become monthly. Dean had met an elderly woman named Agnes who lived with her equally ancient husband Oliver. They gave Dean a place to stay and food to eat in exchange for him doing all the chores around the house. They were perfect. They didn't ask Dean any questions, didn't try to be his parents. The only downside was that their house was a full two hour bus ride away from Sam's house, leading to Dean making his visits further and further apart.

"I'm good. Agnes is really getting on my back to start school again, but..." Dean trailed off uncomfortably.

"Why not? I think that's a good idea," Sam said. "You're only going to get more far behind."

"I was never a great student, and now I've missed an entire grade," Dean replied, a little too quickly, as if his answer had been prepared or used beforehand. "Besides, school doesn't teach the things that are important."

Sam didn't exactly agree with that, but upon seeing the glum look in Dean's eyes he decided not to push it. "By the way, how are Agnes and Oliver doing?"

"They've been great," Dean answered, leaning against the railing on the balcony. It was a much easier subject to talk about. "I fixed the antennae on the TV the other day so now we get the sports channel too, instead of just the food network and infomercials."

"What about cartoons?" Sam frowned, completely concerned. "You should fix the antennae some more, Dean. There was this episode on TV yesterday and I don't really know what show it was, but there was this big guy and a little guy and..."

Dean sat on the cold floor and patiently listened to everything his little brother had to say. Without Dean having to contribute a word to the conversation, Sam went from describing the cartoon he had watched to what his classmate Jessie Moore told him boys were made of. From there, Sam just began to ramble on about random details and branches of unrelated topics that would be impossible to follow if one were not his older brother.

Finally, after about a half hour of this, Sam wore himself out. The yawns came without warning, and despite his efforts to hide them they betrayed his fatigue all the same.

Dean grinned and took the opportunity of a break in Sam's talking to ask his usual question. It was one he asked Sam without fail every time he visited. "But how about your parents? They treating you okay?" He tried to sound casual about it, but Dean's eyes were slightly narrowed. He didn't like Sam's new parents. After all, they'd been the one that had separated the brothers.

"Yeah, they're great," Sam told him. After he'd settled down a bit, Sam learned that Eleanor and Colin really were a kid's ideal parents. They listened to him and treated him just as fairly as their own daughter, Elizabeth, who was a year younger than Sam. "The other day they got me a puppy! We're still deciding on a name but he's really fluffy and he doesn't know any tricks yet but I'm gonna teach him once his legs get bigger and I'll show him to you next time you come over."

Dean's smile was starting to look like it was physically hurting to maintain. "Yeah. Sure thing, Sammy. Listen, I have to go... The last bus downtown leaves in ten minutes."

Sam tried not to look disappointed. "Oh... okay. Maybe next time you can stay longer?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, man," Dean replied absently. He didn't look his brother in the eyes. "Take care of yourself, okay?" Sam nodded. Dean patted his shoulder. "See you later, Sammy."

With that, Dean climbed back down the balcony. His father had told him to protect his younger brother, but his visiting Sammy once in a while wasn't doing anything for him. If anything, he was preventing his brother from moving on to a normal life.

However, it was the only alternative. Otherwise, Dean had to either convince Sam's foster parents to adopt him too, which definitely was not going to happen, or totally cut himself off from Sam's life. The latter hurt to think about, and while it was probably the best thing for Sam in the long run, Dean was too weak to actually go through with it.

"Maybe later," Dean sighed to himself as he made his way across the perfectly manicured lawn. "When I'm less selfish."

Time passed quickly for Sam. His classmate Jessica Moore moved in next door to their house and he had a constant playmate after school. School itself was just as fun. Sam wasn't the 'new kid' anymore and he loved it. Everything came easily to him and the other kids were constantly asking him for help. In this way, he became the most popular kid in class.

Moreover, Sam had weekly movie and game nights with the family, tae kwon do lessons, private tutoring sessions, music lessons, and a huge selection of video games. There was never a boring moment in his life.

But Sam hadn't forgotten about his previous family. Despite Sam staying up all night, Dean didn't show up at his door after a month had passed. Another month came and went, and Dean was still nowhere to be found.

And then, one night, two weeks after Dean's second absence, a frantic rapping at Sam's balcony door startled him out of sleep. Sam immediately jumped out of bed, unsure of what to do. His brother had never done this before. He thought of his dad's journal that he had read that night. Could it be a werewolf outside? Or a zombie?

The rapping was more insistent this time and Sam couldn't help but take a peek outside the curtains.

He was relieved to see Dean's eyes staring at him in the dark. Sam unlocked the doors and stepped outside. "Dean, where have you been...?" Sam stopped. His brother was sweaty and was leaning against the railing for support. He was panting like he'd been running a marathon and his eyes were wide and severely bloodshot. He couldn't seem to be able to tear his eyes from the trees in Sam's backyard, as if somebody was watching them from there.

Dean finally looked up at Sam. His face looked too old. It had only been two months, but his brother looked like he'd aged years. "Came to say goodbye, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. "Wait, what? What happened, Dean? Where are you going? What-?"

"It killed them, Sammy," Dean said through gritted teeth. "It was a demon. It killed Agnes and Oliver. Two old folks. Just 'cause... of... me..." Dean broke off into a heaving breath that might have been a sob.

Sam gaped, unsure of what to say to comfort Dean. "Are you... are you okay?" Sam asked him, approaching the older brother cautiously. "Is it still out there?" He too began scanning his backyard cautiously.

Dean laughed darkly, a sound Sam had never heard before from his brother. It sent chills down his spine.

"I hunted it down yesterday. I just found him and his little gang... and I ripped that son of a bitch's body apart," Dean said hollowly. "But it was my entire fault. I led it to them. They'd still be alive if it weren't for me."

This was so absurd. Sam had no idea what to do. If Sam were crying, what would Dean do?

Sam gripped his brother's shoulders. He could feel Dean's body shaking under his hands. "Dean, it wasn't your fault. Listen to me, it wasn't your fault." Dean didn't seem to hear him.

"And you want to know the best part, Sammy?" Dean was grinning now, which did nothing to dispel the slightly manic glint in his eyes. "I didn't even kill it. Apparently demons don't die. It's freaking impossible to kill them! All I did was kill the innocent dude that the demon was possessing. So now they're all pretty pissed off at me and would very much like to tear me to shreds."

"Dean, you're scaring me," Sam whimpered. He'd never thought he could ever be afraid of his older brother, but he was. This angry boy with the distant eyes was a stranger to him.

Luckily, this statement seemed to calm Dean down a little. The frightening smile vanished and was replaced by an expression of sadness. "Listen, Sammy, I'll try to come back in a few years, once I'm sure that the demons aren't on my back anymore."

Sam began to protest, "Dean."

"No, listen to me. Forget about me. Forget about Dad, and stick with your new family," Dean said sternly. He then handed Sam Dad's journal. That dreaded journal that Sam had read that fateful night. "Take this, and use everything in it to protect yourself. But don't go looking for the things in here. Live a normal life, and if you think you hear of anything supernatural, you go running in the other direction."

Sam's eyes were brimming with tears. This couldn't be happening. Not again. "No, Dean. I can't—you can't leave me." He suddenly wrapped his arms around Dean's neck. If he didn't let go, Dean wouldn't be able to leave. "Don't leave me."

"You're making this really hard, Sammy," Dean said, his voice cracking. "Dad told me to protect you, and that's what I'm doing."

Suddenly Dean pulled his brother even closer to him and locked him in a tight embrace. They stood on that balcony together for a long time. Sam sobbed all over his brother's shoulder until he couldn't find a spot dry enough to wipe his tears, but Dean didn't seem to mind. He rubbed his younger brother's back comfortingly.

Eventually the two of them had to separate. Dean took a final look at his brother and descended the balcony for the last time. Sam watched his slowly shrinking figure walking away until it turned a corner, and even then Sam continued to stare, as if the figure might just reappear and run back to him.

His parents and younger sister didn't know what was wrong with him, but Sam refused to come out of his room for a whole week afterwards.

00000

St. James Asylum, Basement

Queens, New York

September 9, 2005

"So, do you want to tell me who has the gun, Al?" the interrogator snarled at him.

"I d-don't know," Al repeated yet again. The blood leaking out of his mouth made it difficult to speak clearly.

Al wasn't quite sure what had happened. One minute Al had been carrying the garbage can indoors before the raccoons could get to it, and the next he was waking up with his hands tied behind his back in a dusty old basement of a building. Said building was either abandoned or occupied by deaf people who could not hear his screams for help.

"Forgive me if I don't believe what you have to say," grunted the interrogator.

"It's okay, Al. We have all the time in the world for you to remember," a new, unfamiliar voice assured him from behind. Al hadn't heard him come in, so whoever it was had probably been there the whole time. "But I recommend you do it before you start starving to death, because Mike here isn't really in the catering business. Personally, all I'm carrying at the moment are some breath mints and a pack of gum." Al heard some rustling in the same direction the voice had come from. "Oh, scratch that. I just found a cracker in my pocket. I doubt you can turn your head back this far, but trust me—it looks really gross. You're not going to want this."

Al ignored the casual, taunting voice behind him and spat out as much blood as he could to speak without gargling. It dribbled down onto his jeans, but Al didn't seem to mind. "Where is my wife? Where are my kids?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mike the interrogator snorted.

The voice behind him laughed, but not cruelly. It was more like the laughter one would hear at a comedy show. It sounded like it belonged to someone much younger than Mike, who looked to be in his mid-forties at the very least.

"They're fine," the young voice assured him. "And we'll have no reason to hurt them once we know the location of the Colt. You have my word."

Al sighed in defeat. When it came to his family, there was no other option, period.

"I never got his first name," Al told them. "He introduced himself by his surname, Elkins. This was about a decade ago, mind you, so I don't know if he'll still have the gun on him. We met at the Roadhouse."

"The Roadhouse?" Mike asked.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," Al clarified quickly. He spat out some more blood from his mouth without breaking eye contact with Mike. "It's a bar in Nebraska. Hotspot for hunters. Someone there might know the guy's name."

"Thank you, Al," the voice behind him said smoothly. "You've been a great help." Suddenly a shot rang out and Al slumped in his seat.

"You didn't need to come down here yourself, Diablo," the interrogator told him.

"I wanted to hear the information myself anyways," Diablo said. "Man, that was easier than I'd thought. Thanks for the help, Mikey-boy. I knew I could count on you."

"What do I do with his family?" Mike asked.

"Definitely kill Al's wife. She knows too much. If she tips off some of Al's friends, we'll be hunted for life. Do what you want with the kids. I don't really care."

"...Got it."

"Thanks again for doing this, buddy," Diablo said. "I know you're a busy guy. I mean, it's just great not having to get my hands dirty with this."

"Least I could do after you scored my li'l sis that big-time job in New Jersey."

"Aw shucks, that was nothing. She's a smart kid."

Their conversation was interrupted by the vibration of Diablo's phone, signalling a text message. He quickly scanned the screen before pocketing it again.

"Listen, I've got a meeting to go to right now. Yeah, I know it's a bit late for a meeting, but whatever. Can you handle everything here? Awesome. I'll call you up sometime, Mike. Drinks are on me."

Diablo climbed the stairs and left the dark asylum. He had to admit, the place was creepy. Old abandoned asylums were the perfect setup for a ghost story.

It wasn't haunted, though. Diablo had had his fair share of haunted, and there were no ghosts in the abandoned building. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of relief to breathe in the chilly midnight air once outside.

He was meeting the contact at the park, a ten minute walk from where he was if he took the shortcut. Still, he was tired as hell. Instead of walking to the park, he crossed the street to steal and hotwire a car. Most people wouldn't have gone through the trouble, but to Diablo it hardly took effort. The car started up within half a minute and he drove her down to the park.

When he arrived, it took at least another ten minutes to find his man. It was just past midnight, but there was a middle-aged couple taking a walk, a young man walking his dog, a young couple on top of the playground, and an old man sitting on the park bench.

At last, he spotted a dark figure standing by the swings.

"Is that you, Nick?" he called out.

Nick turned around. He looked to be in his late thirties and his suit fit him awkwardly because of his sheer muscle around his shoulders and arms. He looked at his client up and down.

"You're Diablo?" Nick said with a raised eyebrow. "Are you even of drinking age?"

Diablo smirked. He walked towards Nick slowly. He was well-known for the way he walked. From his unsteady steps and his head that constantly moved like his neck was incapable of holding it up properly, he looked almost constantly drunk.

Another thing he was known for appearance-wise were his black leather gloves that he was almost always seen wearing. There were stories that underneath those gloves were claws because he really was a demon.

When people asked about the gloves, Diablo would simply flash them a smirk and say, "They're so I won't lose my grip on my weapon when there are blood and guts everywhere."

Though the man speaking with Nick had both these qualities, no one had mentioned that Diablo would be a kid who looked fresh out of college.

"Why do people react like that when they first see me? That's honestly the reaction I get every single time," Diablo laughed. His voice was light and confident. "What if I dyed my hair? I was thinking black. You think people would take me more seriously if I had black hair? It's a pretty serious colour."

Nick narrowed his eyes. Who the hell did this kid think he was? "Are you for real?"

Diablo's gaze took in the top of Nick's bald head. "Shoot. Awkward," he said unapologetically. "Anyways, you said you had information for me?"

Nick blinked. "I'm sorry, you're not actually the Diablo, are you? I mean, the things that I've heard he's capable of... One of my colleagues told me they saw somebody stab him in the gut once and he didn't even flinch. You look more like you wandered off the pages of a Sears magazine. "

Diablo didn't look offended at all. He seemed to have a permanent smirk that drew half of his mouth upwards in an arrogant smile.

"What could I possibly do to convince you that I am indeed the one and only man named Diablo?"

Nick shook his head sadly. "It's not what you can do to prove that you are Diablo. It's what you haven't done that proves you're not."

Diablo's head continued to roll from side to side as he spoke. "Oh? And what haven't I done?"

"If you were truly Diablo, you wouldn't have come alone. It was foolish," Nick grunted, crossing his meaty arms. "I don't know who you are, but you are insulting his title."

"You came alone too, didn't you? Doesn't that make you look just as foolish?" the young man claiming to be Diablo said mockingly.

"I'm afraid I didn't, actually," Nick informed him. "You didn't notice the fake beard on the old man sitting on the bench? He's not the only one, either."

"They were all placed in case the real Diablo showed up?"

"It's nothing personal. I have nothing against the guy, but I was offered a large sum of money to dispose of him," Nick said plainly, shrugging. "I guess I'll have to settle for you right now. MEN!"

There was no gunfire. No noise at all.

Nick looked wildly around the park. All the other people in the park were slumped over or lying on the ground.

Diablo started to laugh. "You're right, Diablo would be a fool to meet a shady contact in a random location by himself. Especially when dealing with business involving Bela Talbot. See, if I were Diablo? I'd expect nothing less than a trap. Let me take a wild guess: you're working under Bela herself, aren't you?"

Nick's mouth was wide open. Stupid, stupid. "So... I suppose you're the real deal then?"

"I didn't notice the fake beard, actually, but I've been to this place plenty of times. A man walking his dog this late at night is a bit conspicuous, unlike my lone sniper hidden in the dark." The smirk was gone and for the first time, Diablo's head was upright and steady as he stared at Nick. "So, what, does this mean you didn't actually bring any information?"

His voice was steely and stern, chasing a trickling bead of sweat down Nick's forehead. Diablo had just found out he'd tried to kill him. Suddenly the young man was looking much more threatening than before. Where he'd once seen innocence sparkling in his eyes, he now saw the lack of sanity within. Nick had never feared for his life more.

"Yes, I-I do. And I've decided to change my terms. This information is free. No cost whatsoever," Nick said good-naturedly.

"Wha-at?" Diablo drew it out with an amused grin, all seriousness suddenly evaporating. "That's awesome, Nicky. So go on and tell me. No need for documents or anything, I'll remember."

Nick gulped. He could probably take down the kid fast, but the hidden sniper eliminated that possibility.

"Her real name is Abby-"

"Knew that already. I like calling her Bela, though."

"And, um, her family was very wealthy growing up. When she was 14, the brake lines in the family car were mysteriously cut and her parents died in an accident. She inherited the family fortune as the only heir. Not much else is known about her, but I've tracked at least thirty-seven cons across the country that look like her work. Most of them have to do with ghosts and other supernatural creatures, strangely enough."

A raised eyebrow. "Oh. That is very fascinating."

"Lastly, I found her storage lock-up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It's registered under the name of Trix Lestrange and that's all I know," Nick finished.

"Great work, Nick," Diablo told him. "You don't happen to know the combination to enter, would you? No? Nah, that's okay. Any more information and I'd feel bad about killing you."

Nick's eyes widened as it registered the glowing red dot on his chest and his body fell to the ground before he could defend himself.

Diablo waved his hand in thanks in the general direction of where the shot had come from.

"Drinks are on me next time I'm in town, dude!" he called out to the dark. Ever the professional, the sniper did not respond so as not to give away his position to any potential hidden enemies.

Diablo sighed as he lit up a cigarette and began the walk back to his car, the amulet Sam had given to him so many years ago bouncing against his chest with every step he took.

Diablo—or rather, Dean—was not a gang leader or a member of the Mafia or anything. He was more of a conman whose business frequently involved the shadier part of society. He had a lot of respect in the streets and whenever he needed something done, there was a friend that would gladly do it for him.

Mikey had recommended the basement of the abandoned asylum to him for an interrogation, for example, and had even offered to get his own hands dirty for him. Afterwards, Dean had called up Richie, who owed Dean for killing his ex-wife without arousing suspicion a few years back. Richie was excellent with a rifle, and he was always the first one Dean called in New York when he needed backup.

The first thing Dean did when he reached the stolen car was readjust the mirror so he could see his hair. He was careful to position the mirror so that it wouldn't show any other part of his face. Dean delicately fixed his perfectly messy hair and smoothed out the front of his dress shirt before starting up the engine.

It was a pity he had to leave the city so soon. He had more friends here in New York than anywhere else, and he liked the respectful looks he got from strangers as he walked past them. Still, he had to find the Roadhouse in Nebraska and that Bela Talbot's lock-up in South Dakota. Dean Winchester was a busy man.

00000

"Yeah?"

"Hi Bobby, it's Bela." The British accent-tinged voice on the other end was pleasant and light-hearted. Whoever it was wanted something from him.

"Bela? Who the hell is—oh, Bela Talbot?" Bobby Singer wrinkled his nose but didn't hang up. He'd never liked Bela.

"From Flagstaff," she confirmed. "I happen to have heard you've been looking for fluxweed," she said. "And I happened to have procured some."

"That's great. What the hell do you want?" His voice was blunt.

Bela got straight down to it. "There's going to be a man breaking into my fake storage unit a few miles from your house. I need you to take a picture of him and run it by your contacts for information," she told him. "I'll take anything: a name, family, even his real age."

"What do I look like, a damn Facebook wall?"

"You know what Facebook is?" Bela gasped with mock surprise. "Will you never cease to amaze me, Bobby Singer? I mean, that's not exactly what a Facebook wall is for, but I'm impressed nonetheless."

"Let me guess. You pissed him off and you need leverage against him?"

Bela giggled, conceding. "You and I only met for a few days," Bela said with amusement. "I'm surprised you know me so well."

"Is he a hunter?"

He could sense her hesitation on the other end. "Not exactly. He's much smarter than all you other crazy Neanderthals plundering around the country looking for monsters. He only hunts if there's something in it for him. He uses the supernatural to his advantage. He's a mean one, Bobby. You'd be doing the world a favour by giving me dirt on him."

"So far he just sounds like a male version of you."

"Have you really lowered yourself to vulgar insults? I'm scratching off those points I gave you for knowing what Facebook is."

Bobby sighed. "Let's say you're actually telling the truth for once. Can you give me a description so I know what to look for? A name? Maybe I've already heard of him."

"Oh, I doubt it," Bela said airily. "He has a lot of names, but I need you to find his real one. The most common is 'Diablo'. God, I feel ridiculous just saying it. He's often underestimated because," Bella paused and cleared her throat before continuing, "well, he has a very pretty face if I must say. Oh, but you can tell if it's him if he's wearing black leather gloves. He never takes them off, for some reason." She hesitated once more. "I hear he killed Albert Daniels last night."

"Al?" Bobby and Al had been drinking buddies together at the Roadhouse years ago. Eventually Al had settled down with a family, which was rare for a hunter, so Bobby had left him in peace. He'd always hoped Al would die in a nice non-violent fashion, unlike the others in the business. "Give me the address of the place, Bela. I'll ID this kid in a few days time."

"Excellent. Expect the fluxweed in the mail. Oh, and one last thing, Bobby? This man is smart. When I first met him, he'd somehow conned my client into giving him a few million and then killing herself. No threats or anything, they just talked for a few minutes. So whatever you do, don't approach him and don't say a word to him." Click.

Bobby set down the phone and grabbed his hunting rifle. Like hell he wasn't going to approach the guy who killed Al.

I'm turning on anonymous reviews, so even if you don't have an account you do not have an excuse to not review!

Seriously though, you guys have to at least review this chapter so I know if I should finish up the next chapter and post it. It shall get interesting... :D

...and yeah, Dean's a badass. No puppies and rainbows here, folks.