This is a sort of prequel to my story "The Bringer." You don't really need to read that to understand, but it helps.

I totally blame this, and the subsequent delay of Chapter 7 of The Bringer, on Liana-chan. I hadn't planned on a back story for Rezzy, but her review pulled it out of me. Therefore, I dedicate this story to her.

No characters are mine except for Rezzy, and the story is told from Rezzy's POV. Please review, and let me know what you think.

The Parlingua: Rezzy's Story

It was graduation before I finally stopped growing; I ended up just short of freak show proportions. When I was in school the football and basketball coaches kept hounding me to join the teams. I turned them down for three reasons. First, I sucked at sports except for fishing. My friend George used to laugh and say, "If you can eat pizza and drink beer while you're doing it, it isn't a real sport!!"

The second reason I stayed away from extracurricular activities is that I needed good grades. God knows hunting doesn't bring in the cash, but if I finished at the top of the class I could pretty much write my own ticket to any college I wanted. I had a decent eye for trails, so I started looking at my options. There were a surprising number of wildlife and combat tracking programs out there, and I wanted to learn everything I could.

Finally, I had no time for the after-school stuff that other kids my age seemed to live for. It was like hunting and tracking consumed every bit of energy I possessed. I had nothing left for anything else.

It was a little awkward trying to explain to the admissions officer at the college I selected about how I had picked up the tracking bug.

"You see, Dean Burrows, when I was twelve my father was dragged from our house by a monster that lived in the woods. Yes, I know the police said that he abandoned my mother and me, but I found bits of hair and blood, not all of it human. It took hours, but I finally found this cave. At the cave's entrance was an arm; still attached was the watch I got my dad for Father's Day. I killed the monster with the shotgun Dad gave me on Christmas."

I usually told them I wanted to join a search and rescue team at the nearby national park. They lost hikers all the time, so it was a pretty good cover.

After I finished college, I began to build my reputation as a tracker. I loved hunting things, and I thought I had everything I ever wanted until the day I wandered into a diner in a little podunk town just outside of Portland. That was the day I fell in love for the first time.

Her name was Samantha - Sammi for short. She was 22 with shoulder length brown hair and warm brown eyes. She laughed when I, in my blushing tongue-tied way, complimented her by saying her eyes looked like Hershey's Kisses. That laugh. God that did me in.

She was my match in every way. Smart, funny, loved to talk, but she also got quiet sometimes. Best of all? She was six-foot three inches in bare feet. Finally, a woman who didn't need a step ladder to kiss me! I gave up hunting and joined a search and rescue team for real.

We got married in Vegas a month after we met. Six weeks later she was dead.

I would never have wished my sweet Sammi to be touched by the hunt, but if it had been a monster that had taken her life, I know I could have found at least a little closure by butchering the thing, raising it from the dead, then butchering it again, and again, and again, until the pain went away. But it wasn't an external threat that stole her from me.

Sammi suffered from headaches, migraines really, from a very young age. I think she had gotten so used to the constant ache that she didn't recognize that something was seriously wrong. Sammi died in my arms from a massive stroke caused by a burst blood vessel. From her initial collapse to her death took about twelve minutes. She was unconscious the whole time so I didn't even get to tell her goodbye.

Samantha Lezare

Soulmate

January 13, 1961 – May 1, 1983

The second time I fell in love, I seriously thought about killing myself. My Samantha had come back to me in the form of a ten-year old boy with shaggy brown hair and puppy dog eyes. The boy was the youngest son of a talented hunter by the name of John Winchester. John was a relative newcomer to the hunting community. He had trained himself and his sons to hunt after his wife was murdered by a particularly nasty demon.

I had given John some lessons a few years back. He said he wanted to learn how to track things that most people didn't believe in. I was happy to share my knowledge.

John brought the boys to my place in the Rockies. I watched as the Winchester's car rumbled up the gravel road and stopped next to my own dated pick-up. When John stepped from the car, I went over and shook his hand while a young man exited from the passenger side.

"John. Good to see you again."

"Rezzy," John replied. He gestured over his shoulder, "This is my oldest, Dean. Sammy's in the back seat."

I shook hands with the teenager who strutted around the front of the car.

"Dean, I'm Reginald Lazare. Call me Rezzy." I thought I scored some points with the kid by greeting him as an adult. And why shouldn't I? He moved like what he was - a hunter. John had done very well with this one.

"Rezzy."

I couldn't help but smile at how hard the teen was trying to sound like his father.

Dean stepped around me and opened the rear door. He leaned in, and I could hear him conversing with the as-yet unseen youngest Winchester.

I turned to John, and we talked about what was going to happen over the next few weeks. I was just describing the different terrains we would be tracking through when I head a sound I thought was lost to me forever. It was her laughter, light, bubbly, and without a care.

I whipped around to see Dean with a child draped over a shoulder. The child's legs were kicking while the body tried to squirm from its captor's tickling fingers. Dean hitched his shoulder and the face of the giggling child appeared.

John gave a rare smile, tousled the boy's already unruly hair, and introduced him as Samuel – Sammy for short. I thought my heart was going to thump a hole through my chest. It was her – Sammi! The eyes, the hair, the laugh. All her.

I recovered quickly; John wasn't the kind of man who would welcome strangers staring longingly at his child.

Dean gently set the boy on his feet. I squatted so I could get a Sammy-eye view. God, he was so small. When I shook his hand and asked him to call me Rezzy, I noticed his wrists. They were thick and strong. I recognized what that meant from my own childhood. Sammy might be small now, but he was going to grow like a weed when puberty kicked in.

Over the next few weeks, I trained each boy to take advantage of his natural gifts. Dean was all speed; Sammy preferred to think through a situation before committing to any action. Both styles had their pros and cons, but if the boys were going to be hunting partners, and I had no doubt that is what John was preparing them to be, their differences would serve them well.

As we went through the tracking tasks I grew more certain that Sammy was actually my Samantha returned to me. Casual questions gave me the boy's birth date - one day after Samantha's death. It was just one more piece of evidence. Sammy was meant to be mine.

I knew he was only a child. I wasn't a monster. I would wait for him to grow to manhood.

It was truly difficult letting Sammy go at the end of the training session. John and Dean were itching to get moving, but I could tell Sammy wasn't as thrilled at the prospect of endless roads and motel rooms. I had to trust in John to protect Sammy until I could take him back, and I had to trust in the universe; it would give me a second chance at happiness if only I were patient.

It was two long years before I saw Sammy again.

John called me in July and asked me to join him and the boys on a hunt in the Louisiana swamps. He had word from a local witch that the faux-faux-lais were acting up again. They were mean little creatures that disguised themselves as glowing orbs and led the unwary deep into the swamp. When the people were thoroughly lost, the faux-faux-lais would disappear, leaving the travelers to their fate. The authorities had received sixteen missing persons reports since May.

Faux-faux-lais were pretty much immortal; at least no hunter I had spoken to knew how to kill them. However, rock salt at center mass would put their lights out for a few hours. All we had to do was to bury sachets of angelica root, blessed thistle, and holly leaf at the four corners of the compass around the swamp. The charms would force the faux-faux-lais further in the swamp where they would no longer be a threat to passers-by. John figured anyone dumb enough to go wandering that deeply into these swamps at night deserved whatever they got.

In two days we finished with the North, West, and South edges of the swamp. It was a six-hour drive to the East rim, so we figured to camp out and get an early start the next day. We pitched the tents – one for John, one for me, and one that the boys would share – near the bank of the Honey River. It was a warm night, so everyone had their flaps open to catch the evening breeze.

I watched John as he poured the salt lines around the tents; it didn't escape my attention that the line around the boys' tent was laid more carefully and just a bit thicker than the lines around his or my own. I was fine with that. It would keep Sammy safe.

Or so I thought.

It turns out that little boys who drink too much soda before bed have to get up in the middle of the night to pee.

I went from a deep sleep to wide awake the moment the first scream erupted from Sammy's throat. As quick as I was to grab my gun and leap from the tent, John and Dean were both ahead of me with flashlights sweeping the riverbank, guns at the ready.

"Sammy! Sammy!" Our calls echoed across the water. We focused on the center of the river where we could see a disturbance. Sammy's head popped above the water, and he was obviously fighting against something we couldn't see. He took a quick breath and managed a panicked scream for Dean before he was pulled under the water once again. He didn't reappear.

The three of us were already in the water stroking quickly to the last place we had seen the twelve-year old. We took turns diving as deeply as we could while one person stayed topside to call for Sammy and keep an eye out in case the boy escaped from whatever had taken him.

I really don't know who was more devastated when we had to leave the water: the father? the big brother? the future lover? Losing Sammy was not something any of us were prepared to do.

I stirred the campfire's embers into life, and it soon turned into a roaring blaze with the added logs. I needed light and wouldn't wait for morning. John had to drag Dean into the tent for a change of clothes. Dean seemed to resent the wasted time.

When the fire was high enough, I started scouting the south end of riverbank while John and Dean searched the northern edge. It took only a few minutes to find the tell-tale signs.

"John! Dean! Over here! It was a parlingua." I pointed out the distinctive slides. Alligators leave claw marks around smooth paths on the banks where they enter and exit the water. Parlinguas, creatures with human heads and torsos that merge into alligator legs and a tail, leave the same smooth belly slide, but instead of claw marks, leave hand prints.

"A big one. Fourteen, maybe fifteen feet, at least." I pointed out Sammy's trail. "Sammy was here. The parlingua was probably laying on the slide, watching. When Sammy got close enough, it grabbed him and pulled him in."

Dean beat his father to the question. "What will it do with him? Can we get him back?" The teenager hid his fear well, but the slight waver in his voice belayed his true feelings.

I hesitated for just a moment. I wanted to reassure them, but there was only one reason why a parlingua would take someone alive rather than attack and eat the prey while it was still squirming. I dredged up every ounce of knowledge I had about these rare monsters from the few survivors I had talked with.

"Parlinguas are solitary. If they ran into another mature parlingua, they'll fight to the death to defend their territory."

"So why did it take Sammy?"

"Because parlinguas don't mate."

I could tell my response to John's question had confused the father and remaining son.

"When parlinguas reach a certain age, they are driven to find a replacement." It was tough to continue as the horror spread across both hunters' faces.

"There is a ritual they perform to invoke Itzam Na, an ancient alligator god. Itzam Na transforms the human into a parlingua and accepts the death of the old parlingua as payment."

"How long do we have?" asked John.

I gauged the fullness of the moon. "Three days. The full moon plays a part in the ritual. We need to find the nest before nightfall on Sunday."

"And if we don't?" This from Dean, recovering his composure, but still afraid for his little brother.

Before I could answer, John interrupted with a brusque, "We will find it, and we will take Sammy back."

I don't think I have ever tracked anything as fiercely as I did that dying parlingua. Every tick of my watch felt like I was one tick closer to the end. The end of Sammy meant the end of me. I hadn't lived after Samantha's death; I had merely existed until Sammy came into my life. I had hope again, but that hope was about to be transformed into a monster unless I could get there in time. I was too late to help Samantha. I would not lose Sammy, too. I couldn't bear losing my heart twice.

I know I wasn't alone in my fear for Sammy. John, never a big talker on his best days, was virtually silent as we slogged through the swamp searching slides and gator holes. Dean's agitation grew with each passing moment. I understood, but that didn't make his constant questioning of my decisions any easier to take. Thankfully, John was there to keep the boy from angering me to violence.

Finally, late afternoon of the second day of Sam's disappearance, the night before the full moon, we found it. The nest was huge, but that was to be expected. This parlingua exceeded my estimates. It was closer to twenty feet, the biggest I had ever heard of. It obviously had a big appetite, too. The bones and bits of rotting flesh surrounding the nest roiled with insects.

"Looks like we found those missing persons. Not faux-faux-lais after all." At John's whispered words, I felt a chill run down my spine. The witch who told him about the swamp creatures was in for a very harsh lesson of the Winchesters variety once we had Sammy back. I would make my own visit if anything was left when John, hell, when Dean was finished with her.

How did we find the nest?

Sammy.

Sammy and his trust in his family, and maybe his trust in me. Obviously, the parlingua had to travel most of the way to its nest above water in order to keep Sammy alive. The boy had taken every opportunity to disturb the area where and when he could so that we would be able to track him.

That helped, but the nest was still well back from the water. We may not have found it in time if it weren't for Sammy's fear-filled sobs. He sounded so afraid, so fragile, as he called for Dean to come save him. His voice was raspy from his repeated calls, but we could hear him from the river and carefully made our way towards the heartbreaking sounds.

John had to forcibly restrain Dean to keep him from rushing the nest. Good thing, too, as the giant parlingua was visible at the rim of the nest. Sammy could not be seen as the nest was concave and trimmed with twigs and mud.

I was surprised to note that the parlingua was female. Her long black hair was matted with mud and was plastered to her pale skin. She was making hissing noises and seemed agitated as she weaved back and forth at the top of the nest. It sounded like a female alligator calling for its young. Perhaps Sammy's cries were triggering her maternal instincts. If so, that would make her even more dangerous.

I motioned for the others to move back to the river's edge where we planned our rescue.

"Parlinguas are as easy to kill as normal alligators, which means not easy at all. They are fast, vicious, and will not hesitate to kill if their young are threatened. And make no mistake that is exactly how she is seeing Sammy, as a hatchling."

Dean insisted on being in on the kill even though I know he wanted to see for himself that Sammy was safe. I would be the one to lure the parlingua, and John would invade the nest to retrieve the child.

The actual rescue was a bit anti-climactic.

The parlingua came charging toward the river in response to the noises I made. As she passed Dean's hidden form, he leapt from the underbrush and blasted her from behind with both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun. She was still moving, so I pulled a machete from my pack and gave it to Dean. Her hissing ceased when her head was severed. The swamp's respect for the passing of its apex predator was short-lived as soon the frogs and insects continued their conversations.

Dean dropped the machete and with a whispered, "Sammy," ran towards the nest. Before he reached the brush line, John emerged with a muddy mess of a Sam. The boy was clinging to his father like a leech. I didn't think he would let loose for days, but I was wrong. As soon as Dean touched his back, Sammy released his father and threw himself at his big brother with a glad cry. Dean sank to his knees and held Sammy close to his body. When Dean started to cry and to rock Sammy slowly, John and I both had to turn away.

We gave Dean this time with Sam. John waited until later to reassure himself that his baby was safe and sound. So did I.

We got back to the original campsite by sunrise. Rather than resting there - too many bad memories - John and I packed the equipment and drove to the nearest town where we checked into a motel. In my own room, adjoining the Winchesters, I took my time in the shower. Showers hide a lot, including tears.

When I was finished, I brought food for everyone and John, Dean, and I ate our fill. None of us had had a decent meal since before Sammy was taken. Too exhausted to wait for supper (or was it time for breakfast?), the little one was fast asleep in the bed furthest from the door.

Now that Sammy was safe, John's simmering rage at the lying witch who sent us on the hunt was coming to a boil. My offer to sit with Sammy was accepted as the two elder Winchesters were thirsty for vengeance.

I was careful not to disturb the salt ring around Sammy's bed when I sat down beside the boy. I couldn't resist touching him. His hair, his face, his fingers, arms, and back. He had scratches all over; they were a little hard to see under the bandages and iodine.

I lay down beside Sammy and stared into his peaceful face. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his temple, moved closer still, pressed my nose behind his ear, and breathed in his scent. Under the medicine and lingering mix of hotel soap and swamp water was Sammy's unique smell.

Of its own volition, my hand found its way into the front of my jeans. I closed my eyes and imagined how it would be when Sammy was old enough to do this for me.

He would be tall with broad hands. We would twine our legs together, and he would stroke me from root to head. Slowly at first, slowly and gently building a rhythm. Soon, the hand, probably callused from years of hunting, would grip me more firmly and move more quickly.

I began to thrust into my hand as I continued to immerse myself in Sammy's aroma. I came explosively with Sammy's name on my lips.

The cocking of a .45, which I would hear again ten years later, had me leaping from the bed. The eyes of a furious Dean Winchester glared into my own. If looks could kill…

"Dean," I began. I didn't know what I was going to say, so I guess it was a good thing he interrupted me.

"Get out. Get out of our room and out of our life. If you ever come near Sammy, near my family again, I will kill you."

There was no doubt, fear, or hesitation in Dean's eyes. He would do it, and if I didn't haul ass, I knew he would take great pleasure in carrying out the threat right now.

I didn't look at Sammy as I left. That would have been too painful. It was OK, though. I knew Sammy was too young yet. I had survived twelve years without Samantha; I would wait a few more. Sammy would be eighteen in less than six years. Hell, if I caught the Winchesters in the right state where the age of consent was sixteen, I would only have to wait four years.

In the meantime, I would train harder. I needed to be ready to defend what was mine when the time came to claim Sammy. I prepared myself to face the elder Winchesters because they would not let Sammy go without a fight. I would have to take them down. Starting with Dean.