Into: While in church last Sunday - hey, I've got to keep up on my prayers to keep the demons at bay - I was struck by the similarities between the old Biblical story of Samson...and Sam Winchester. Don't remember it or know it? Then you'll get a little Sunday schoolin' with this story...enjoy.

Chapter One

It was a strange demon, and Dean didn't like it.

His feet pounded the concrete sidewalk of the rural neighborhood. His breathe came slowly, easily, even though he had been running for over a mile. The evening was chill, and as he continued to run, his breath began to come out in short puffs of smoke. The street was quiet, abandoned, but it should be. It was three o'clock in the morning.

Finally he reached where he had parked the Impala. He lay a soft hand on the hood and bend over, calming his beating heart, and thinking.

Every demon was a bitch. Or a bastard. But this one – seemed especially malicious. Hey couldn't figure out why he felt this way. It seemed more like an animal than a demon – the way it crouched and growled at him, how it was smart enough to avoid the carefully hidden demon trap.

Dammit. Where was Sam? He was supposed to meet me back here.

Dean fumbled for his cell phone with his chilled hands and speed dialed his brother. Dean's eyebrows arched high when he heard the familiar ring on the passenger side of the Impala.

Dean clicked off the phone, and in a practiced motion, pulled out his handgun and held it at the ready, slowly walking around the front of the car to the passenger side.

Sam lay slumped against the rear tire, head down on his chest. One hand lay open with the still ringing cell phone in its palm.

"Sammy!" Dean pocketed the gun and fell to the ground next to his brother. He pushed Sam's head back and felt blood on his hand.

"Sammy!" Dean repeated in a hoarse whisper. A moan was his reply.

"Come on, come on," Dean attempted to pull Sam to his feet, but his brother's body was limp. Dean gently returned Sam to the ground and opened the rear door of the Impala, and managed to drag his brother's unconscious form in the back seat.

Dean closed the door on Sam's feet, pushing the door closed until it clicked. That boy is just too tall for his own damn good, Dean thought. He paused for a moment, and it was then that the exhaustion caught up with him. He was tired. They had been hunting this demon for almost three days straight with little food and no rest. The excursion from hauling his brother into the car had made him sweat. Now the cool dawn air gave him a chill.

He quickly hopped into the Impala and headed to the motel.

It was still dark when he reached the familiar blinking neon of the motel. Dean parked the car and opened the motel door, then went back for his brother.

Sam was sitting up in the back seat, rubbing his head. Dean opened the door and bent down to talk to Sam.

But what Dean Winchester saw slackened his jaw and stopped his heart.

Sam saw the look on his brother's face.

"What?" questioned the still groggy Sam hoarsely.

"What the - ," Dean sputtered. His hazel eyes were directed at the top of Sam's head.

"What?" Sam muttered angrily, his hand reaching for his hair.

It was chopped. Badly. Cut so close to the scalp in places Dean could see the skin underneath. Like someone had grabbed it and hacked it off. With malice.

Sam scuttled out of the back seat of the car, his mouth and eyes round with shock. His legs were still weak and he practically fell into Dean's arms, who grabbed him and helped him into the motel room. Sam fumbled for the light as Dean helped him sit on the edge of one of the beds.

Dean backed up, looking at his brother is utter dismay. The blood from his head wound was a crimson against his deathly pale skin. His wide eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and the neck of his shirt was ripped and soaked red. Both hands frantically felt the lack of hair that once crowned him.

"Dean – how bad - ," Sam could barely form the words. Dean reached over and snapped off the light. The scene inside this room was mind-numbing. It was enough to have his brother hurt, exhausted, hungry, but practically disfigured – it was unreal.

Dean turned on the small bathroom light, and under the flickering florescent, grabbed a washcloth and the garbage basket. He handed the basket to Sam, who almost immediately vomited.

"I think you have a concussion," Dean said. He placed the cool washcloth against Sam's forehead. With the dim light from the bathroom, Dean could see his brother wince.

"We're gonna take it easy for a few days, okay? We lost the demon. No sense running around with our head cut off," Dean bit his bottom lip, immediately regretting his words.

Sam nodded in the dark. "I wish he had cut my head off," he lamented.

The Winchesters were handsome boys, and they both knew it. Dean used it to his advantage to get information from the female members of the local police force, or to pry a hospital room number from a young nurse. It was an instant force, and Dean knew how to use it. Sam was still learning. His physical presence was unmistakable – he was over six feet, six inches – but he could make the shyest girl smile with a glance from his warm eyes. Both brothers worked out, keeping themselves in excellent physical shape. They knew they didnt have much – a car, a few backpacks of clothes, and each other – and an innate sense of pride that they could use their bodies to use as a weapon against the supernatural.

And a big part of Sam's pride was his hair.

And now that was gone.

Dean sat in the motel chair, listening to Sam vomit again into the bucket. It was more like a nasty dry heave, since there was nothing in the boy's stomach.

What the hell, he thought. How – why – would a demon want to cut Sam's hair? To break him down?

Dean rubbed his hand through his own short hair and down his face.

"Dean," Sam pulled his brother from his thoughts. "I'm really hungry, man. Like really hungry."

Dean felt his chest swell with pride. His brother had been attacked and knocked in the head, unwillingly got a bad haircut, wiped vomit off his chin, and asked for food.

"Okay, Sammy. I'll run out. But you probably shouldn't sleep with that concussion," Dean reached over and snapped on the television. The sudden light make both of them wince. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Sam pulled himself to the back of the bed and Dean arranged the pillows behind him to help him sit up. Sam waved him away, eyes on the television screen.

"Go, go," he urged.

Dean made sure he locked the motel room door behind him.