This can be taken as following on from Scars, but you don't have to read it to understand.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I saw nothing and you can't prove anything!

Constructive criticism is very much welcome, as I can't improve on anything if I don't know what's pants, flames are not helpful though...use discretion, you know the difference.

A/N I know it's slow and angsty, but hopefully there will be action...if i get around to writing it!

Chapter 1

Dean stepped out of the bathroom once more fully clothed and headed over to the twin bed he had claimed as his own when the brothers had checked in the previous day. It felt somehow redundant to still claim the bed nearest the door in order to protect "his Sammy". After all, Sammy had managed to protect himself just fine while Dean had been...gone. He still had trouble with thinking of himself as having been dead. How could he be dead when he could remember every horrible second of that time? But Dean was the master of hiding his true feelings, and "Protect Sammy" was more than just a mission from Dad. It was a way of life. HIS way of life. Something as much a part of Dean as his startling green eyes, or his love of classic rock.

"Mullet Rock, my ass," he snorted to himself, "Damn kid has no taste".

The kid in question was seated at the small swaying table in the kitchenette area of the motel room with his laptop balanced precariously on the uneven surface, clicking furiously.

"Bobby called, he's got a job for us," Sam declared, "Sounds simple enough, I've been researching".

"How come he can't take care of it? We've just finished a job." Dean queried.

"He's working another job, a few hours away, and can't leave. He reckons it'll only take us a day or so. Anyway, somehow, I think you'll like this one" Sam sighed.

"So what's the job?"

"Apparently in some middle of nowhere town about five hours away, at least three young women have been found dead in their sorority rooms drained, and covered in puncture marks. Sounds like a vamp nest, but from what I can tell, not a big one. Local police are pushing the wild dogs theory, and have identified three individual sets of teeth on all of the bodies, but seem to be at a loss to explain how wild dogs would get into a woman's bedroom on the second floor which was locked from the inside."

"Sorority, eh? Let's go then!" Dean leered. "Can't leave those poor damsels in distress".

"Dean, did you hear anything I said after the word "Sorority"" Sam questioned, frustrated.

"Not a word," his brother confirmed, grinning.

"OK, look, we're paid up here for the night, why don't we catch a few hours sleep and head out in the morning? It's too late tonight to get there anyway."

"Sure, sounds good to me, try not to keep me awake all night with your snoring," Dean quipped, throwing a pillow at his brother, which the younger Winchester narrowly ducked.

"Jerk"

"Bite me!"

***

Dean woke flat on his back to find a strange staring at him. His wrists were tied above his head to metal loops in the corners of the room. When he tried to move his legs, he found that his feet were similarly bound. The voyeur in the doorway was backlit so Dean couldn't tell if it was male or female, but judging from the height and build, he guessed either a small woman, or a child. When it was certain that Dean was awake, it scurried away, returning momentarily with reinforcements, leading him to believe that they had merely been waiting for him to regain consciousness. Before he could blink, four large men were upon him, taking a limb each and restraining him as the small figure, which he had now identified as a teenaged boy began unlocking the cuffs holding him down. None of his assailants spoke, and when Dean tried to protest his treatment, he found his voice absent. He trembled, unsure what had been done to him to cause this. As the bonds holding him fell away, another figure came into view. This one was immediately recognisable, backlighting or not. How could he fail to recognise the man who had trained him, whose every movement he had feared for over thirty years. His stance and gait were as identifiable to Dean as the scars that had littered his own body until recently. Alastair stepped forward.

"Bring him," he ordered the men holding his eldest son, "We'll soon teach him what happens to deserters."

His entire body bathed in sweat and with a small cry of terror, Dean awoke for the second time that night to the stark relief that it had only been another nightmare.

"Dean?" Sam ventured, hearing the soft cry, knowing his brother's nightly terrors well by now.

"Go to sleep, Sam." Dean could tell from the soft, careful tone of his younger brother's voice that whatever he had to say was going to be something the elder did not want to hear. It seemed easier to try dodging that bullet if at all possible. "I'm exhausted and we've got a long drive tomorrow," he attempted.

"It's only five hours, Dean." To a hunter, if you could get there and back in the same day, it wasn't a long drive. Five hours didn't warrant a rest stop. Apparently Dean's chances of avoiding this conversation were nil. "You know I don't think any less of you because of what you told me, don't you?" And he honestly didn't. He was surprised, yes. It was the last thing he expected Dean to say. But then, it really shouldn't have been. What better way to torture a man who had spent his life since he was four, looking out for others, and protecting them, than to make him the man who tortured them. If he'd been asked, Sam would have said the last person he expected to hurt another soul would have been his big brother. Which was how Sam knew that if thirty years was the length of time Dean could hold out against the torture, before he finally broke and gave in to what Alastair asked, then thirty years was the maximum length of time that any man Sam knew could hold out. Dean was the measuring stick that Sam held all other mortals up against.

Sam could not even guess at what his brother had gone through before he finally said "Enough", and picked up the knife to do as he was bid. He did know, however that his brother had been beaten, carved, and violated in every way that Hell could conjure up. And then some. The fact that Dean had come through this and still retained his identity, albeit a much more haunted version of himself, was testament to his brother's strength and character.

"I don't wanna talk about this, Sam." Dean whispered, eyes remaining steadfastly glued to the peeling wallpaper, his back to his brother.

"You have to talk about it, Dean. If you let this fester, it's going to destroy you. It'll destroy both of us, because I can't watch you pretend that nothing's wrong." At this, Dean sighed, and finally turned to look straight at his brothers beseeching eyes.

"You don't think any less of me then, Sam?" he asked softly. Sam stared, open-mouthed, his breath held, not sure if he'd finally gotten Dean to talk, or had poked the proverbial bear and was just waiting for it to wake up and attack.

"Of course not, Dean, how could I?"

"So those pitying glances you keep sneaking? Earlier in the car? When you couldn't take your eyes off me, were you wondering if I can still even be called human?" Sam continued to stare for a few seconds before he finally found his voice.

"Dean, how can you even say that? Of course you're human."

"Are you sure, Sam? Even I wonder, sometimes." Dean's voice became stronger, full of conviction. "I died. And I'm having some trouble with that. Why do I get to come back after everything I've done and everyone I hurt. What makes me special? We both know that what's dead should stay dead. You say you don't think any less of me. Well, I do. What I did was wrong, pure and simple. I hurt people, and I liked it. And every time I hurt something we hunt, I remember feeling like a god, because people were afraid of me, and I had power over them. It makes me want to put my gun in my mouth and blow my brains out the back of my head, because I hunt evil, and I'm the biggest hypocrite there is. So maybe if I end myself, before I get the chance to hurt anyone else, it'll even the score." Sam whimpered softly at hearing those words from his brothers mouth, blinking furiously to clear the tears from his eyes. Dean was suicidal and he hadn't realised? What sort of brother did that make him? "You know what stops me, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice soft once more. Sam shook his head, unable to form words anymore. "I'm afraid. Of hell. Of Alastair. I don't want to go back, but I know when I die again, that's exactly where I'm headed. I told you earlier that I'd die for you again in a heartbeat, and I meant it. For you, I'd go back. But talking won't change any of this, so really, what's the point?" With his piece said, Dean got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, leaving Sam watching the slow rise and fall of his brothers shoulders.

***

Well? Any thoughts? Like it? Hate it? Should I continue? I'll be hiding under my rock, awaiting your reply.