Happy Hellatus, everyone! I've been sitting on this one for awhile but I'm so excited to share this multi-part story with you. The story is finished so updates will happen every few days. I'm not going to say anything else. Happy Reading! Let me know what you think.


Chapter 1

After surviving for decades as a hunter, the only thing that surprised Dean Winchester was waking up in the morning and the threads of silver in his little brother's hair. So when the gas station cashier's eyes flashed beetle black, Dean rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and dropped his armful of junk food on the counter.

"Kid, I've been on the road for thirteen hours after clearin' out the worst vamps's next this side of Purgatory. If you value your black eyes, you'll take a raincheck and run along back to hell."

The demon wore a teenager with streaks of purple and green in dark, curly hair, it was the chubby, brown cheeks that spoke of youth that kept Dean from gutting the thing with the demon-killing knife. As he revved up to say something snarky, he slashed her in the face with holy water. Never missing a beat, Sam recited the exorcism around a yawn.

The demon threw her head back with a scream. Dean dragged an arm over Sam's chest, pushing them both back to watch the blackness funnel out of the cashier's throat. Maybe they could rid themselves of the demon and talk the girl down and still reach Memphis by dawn.

The only thing that erupted from her mouth was a string of maniacal laughter. Her eyes were still alarmingly black and her lips glided into a treacherous smirk. "I hate to break it to you, boys, but I'm the diversion."

Only now did Dean's blood run cold as fear belatedly set in.

Dean caught a glimpse of his own brother's fearful face before Sam was snatched away and tossed into a rack of snacks. Dean felt the telekinetic shove a beat later, and skidded backward, feet scuffing the ground. He collided into a counter, the nozzle of the slushie machine jabbed him bruisingly in his lower back as primary colored bags of potato chips and pretzels careened into the air. The hunter launched himself towards the new threats—three tanks-sized demons, two with black eyes and one with yellow, all with smashable faces. Dean clobbered it with an elbow to the face, whipped out his pistol and shot it in the heart. It died with a strobing starburst of light and a truncated scream.

Bullets forged from melted down angel blades were the best invention since nuke-able burritos and Internet porn.

In his periphery, he could see that Sam was already on his feet. All of those damned salads and workout sessions in the gym paid off as Sam intercepted the demon who attempted to take him out at the knees, twisted in mid-air and pile-drove it onto the floor dappled with broken chips and powdered pretzels. A second later, it was dead. The demon-killing knife sticking obscenely from its flank.

The third demon, a rock of a man with a pristinely braided ponytail, clobbered Dean with thunderous punch to the back of the head that dropped him to his knees, dazed.

The possessed cashier leaped from behind the counter and landed easily on two feet in front of Dean. Dean reigned in his self-control with effort. The Mark fought back a bit, arm aching before falling quiet. Obedient for now.

"I'm bored," Dean droned, trying to blink away the oily globs that streaked his vision. "Call off your puppies before I put the last one down."

Sam edged away from her to stand side-by-side with his brother. A solid wall of Winchester was pretty friggin' intimidating.

"Trust me, Dean, I'm anything but adorable," Her smirk was a lopsided and devilish, "you'll see."

With a flick of two fingers, Sam careened backwards into the frozen refrigerator door with a jolting thwack that left spiderwebbed glass behind his head. His face that was frozen in a rictus of terror from the flight melted slack; his eyes rattled in his head before rolling back. He slumped to the floor, out cold, a smearing trail of blood painting his path.

The ponytailed demon kicked an unconscious Sam over and stooped to hold a knife at his exposed throat. Dean growled, his arm vibrating with energy, the fury of The Mark beckoning to unleashed. He swallowed down the pain from denying it bloodshed, and trained his gun on the black-eyed bastard threatening Sam. "Worst. Idea. Ever," he seethed. "Back off my brother."

The clerk walked behind him and demonically shuffled him aside. She helped herself to the biggest cup of blue raspberry. Her nametag read "Gemma." Dean could make fun of bizarre names for kids later. "Look, darlin'. I'm sure you're the nastiest thing this side of the devil's gate, but this path you're on-screwin' us over- it don't end well for you. Never has, never will."

The rage that glinted in her brown eyes didn't match the innocence of the girl's young face. She slurped her slushie and lifted a shaped eyebrow. "You think I'm nasty?" She asked. Her face creased with tickled malice. Stepping forward, she had to push herself up on her tiptoes so she could stroke Dean's cheek. "Baby, I've got moves you've never seen."

The creepy-gentle caress change to a more appropriate stinging pinch as her nails dug in. There was a bright crackling light, a puff of sulfur, and Dean knew no more.

-SPN-

His first sensations were of cold and stone.

It was a hunter's instinct that kept Dean still, even as his body tensed from the pounding in his head and a bruising ache in his back. He listened for the voices and tried to gauge his surroundings without sight.

There was nothing but the echoing, sporadic drip of water and smoky heat of a fire. Dean felt its heat painting the left side of his body. He risked opening an eye, and screwed it shut with the room blurred and spun beneath him. His head felt stuffed with cotton and sand, light and heavy at the same time.

But then he remembered: Sam unconscious with a knife at his throat.

It was all the compulsion he needed to fight through the headache and the grogginess of yet another demonic whammy, and survey his surroundings. He was in a prison cell, of course, the bars were a thick forged steel he knew he couldn't break down just by looking at them. The other walls were made of old stones and crumbling mortar. Low ceilings and the dank, moldering scent of earth were all clues that he was underground. At least there was a small fire to provide meager warmth. The Winchesters had squatted in worst places.

Predictably, he'd been stripped off his coat and weapons. Even the paperclip Sam had taken to sewing in the pockets of their jeans had been removed, along with his belt.

He struggled to his feet. To the right of him, there was another cell. The only access was a small, misshaped hole striped with the same fat bars about chest-high. He rushed over, heart racing in time with his pounding head.

Stooping, he gripped the bars, eyes sweeping the cell to find it empty.

He inched the length of the longer wall, examining the bars and lock.

Dean's stomach dropped. "Shit."

It was an old-fashion lock, one he could have picked blindfolded with a stick, except it had been soldered shut, silver metal frothed through the keyhole like metallic foam.

How do you escape a cage with no door?

You don't, his mind answered forebodingly.