A/N – AU taking place after the season three finale. Sam gets back a very different Dean from the one that left - and he has quite a plan for the two of them. UPDATE - Sorry about the double dose! All fixed now.
-First little snippet in a new series. More will follow, each a nice story on its own.
Grant looks up when he hears a groan from the man tied to the chair. The prisoner's eyelids flutter madly, and there's another moan as he begins to regain consciousness. Grant swiftly stands from where he's crouched over his project, giving it one last cursory glance. There are no defects or flaws, so he readjusts the fraying rug and turns just in time to see his guest to awaken.
"Welcome back," Grants offers pleasantly. The young man starts in confusion, and Grant waits for realization to sink in. His prisoner is apparently as stubborn and slow as the moose he resembles, however, and it takes minutes of testing his bonds and making bewildered sounds before he understands the situation.
"Who? What - ?"
Grant enjoys this part. The bastards that end up in his chair, they deserve it - fiends frightened to discover the tables have finally turned, that someone has now brought justice to their door. Grant feels righteous.
"Your reckoning," Grant replies. It's poetic, really, and he barely represses a shudder. The man, apparently unimpressed, snorts. Grant frowns.
His audience doesn't sound particularly scared. He should be terrified - bargaining for his life, perhaps, or offering insincere apologies. He shouldn't be amused.
It takes only a moment to retrieve the gun from his holster and whip it across the man's face. Just a second, and Grant feels that righteous emotion again as his prisoner screams, surprise and pain clouding his face.
This time, Grant is the one to laugh.
He comes from a long line of hunters, Grant does. Trained with his brothers from the time he could walk, learning all his parents could offer. Nearly all are dead now – just his father left, and they don't talk much.
Man never did trust his youngest son – something unsettling about the boy's delight in violence. How that innocent face could smile through blood.
Like now, when Grant laughs while his prisoner spits red. He repeats the action on the man's other side, appreciating the symmetry of it. This time, it takes more than a few minutes for the prisoner to return to his full senses. While he waits, Grant steals a glance at the clock.
It's been nearly a day now. If the other one was going to come, it would have been here by now.
Disappointing, but Grant cheers when he realizes he can take his time with this prisoner now. Vengeance can take its time.
"You're going to regret this," his friend warns, and the words sound slurred. A concussion already? Grant will have to slow things down, do this gently, if he wants it to last longer than his previous session. Grant needs this to last a long time.
To cool off, Grant walks the length of the cabin a few times. He can feel the prisoner's eyes tracking his movements, and wonders if the anticipation is as strong for him. Grant's skin dances and he can't stop humming.
It took too long to get the right candidate this time, too many weeks of research and preparation. He had gone nearly insane, his body begging for the release of pain, when this one stumbled into his path. Grant can't go through that agony again. Maybe next time he won't be so meticulous. Maybe next time the guest in his chair won't be as deserving.
Grant is able to quickly adjust to this change in morality. He needs this to return to normal, to continue hunting the dark things and make the world safer. A few sacrifices are nothing compared to the people he has saved, will save.
By the time he's finished his pacing, his heart is still racing but the urge has settled a bit. He's still humming, but at least his hands don't shake as he reaches for the tools laid out on the little table set up near the man. Grant makes a spectacle of it, moving his fingers slowly from one instrument of torture to another. He even picks up the tongs, examining them for a long moment, then replacing them. He wants his prisoner wild with fear.
It's during this production that he sneaks a glance to the bound man, and is nearly undone by rage.
The man is not even looking at Grant's act. There is no terror in those eyes.
Grant swipes the tools from the little table furiously, and the sudden, loud clanging causes his victim to jump. But it is surprise only, and he still shows no fear.
Grant storms away and begins pacing again. His hands itch to hurt, to maim, to kill, and if he even glances at his prisoner now Grant will end it in one fell swoop. Just the heavy weight of a knife in his hand helping it fall again and again and again. He won't be able to stop himself, and will regret it even more later.
When he has to find a replacement.
"You should just let me go."
Grant is so startled by the statement – and the calm, cool delivery of it – that his anger vanishes and he simply stares at his guest. If anything, his prisoner sounds . . . weary? Kind?
"Look," the young man continues, urged on by Grant's continuing silence, "I could just forget about this. I know of you, Grant Powell -"
It's the use of his name, the name of his family – his righteous, moral family – that spurs Grant forward and causes his fist to slam with frightening force against the man's face. Grant stays close, the two men nose to nose, and pants heavily. How dare this disgusting, evil creature say his name?
Nevertheless, the prisoner seems undeterred by the violence. He merely groans and spits again, then looks Grant right in the eyes. They are hazel shards of glass, those eyes, and Grant feels a shiver of fear. It makes him want to punch his guest once more, but he's frozen by that hard gaze.
"You're a hunter. I knew your parents. Your father taught mine a few things," he gasps, the statements delivered in tortured bursts.
Then those eyes turn inward for a moment, perhaps becoming lost in a memory, and the little break in contact is enough to release Grant, who stumbles back a step. Now it is he who feels a cold flush of terror, a fleeting touch of foreboding. It feels like a warning.
Trusts your instincts,his father always said, and right now every one of them is screaming to escape.
Run, run, RUN!
No! HE is the one in control here, HE is the one with the power!
He doesn't remember grabbing the knife, or the thrust required to bury it in the shoulder of his victim, but when Grant finally regains control of his faculties, he discovers that is just what has happened. The man is screaming, blood stains his hands, and Grant is supremely grateful the blade didn't find his prisoner's heart, ending the game too early. He straightens and allows himself to enjoy the agonized cries.
It is now, when Grant is riding the first, powerful high of the evening (and, oh, it will be such a long, wonderful evening) that the lights go out.
It takes him a moment to process the darkness, couldn't concentrate on his surroundings until the sweet music of his prisoner had ceased, but is more annoyed than alarmed to discover himself blanketed by black. It is an old cabin, after all, far removed from civilization (witnesses), and unfortunately these things occur more often than Grant would prefer. But the isolation suits his purposes, and oftentimes the bare, rustic setting causes more fear to swell within his victims. Something about being closer to the lawlessness of nature, perhaps. Grant never pretends to understand evil.
"Not . . . not too late, Grant, can still . . ." the man wheezes, and Grant is immensely pleased by the begging this early in the night. He'll make his prisoner sing so beautifully before it's all over.
He's walking to the power box, buoyed by the pained whimpers of his guest, when a voice booms from wall to wall of the cabin.
"Got a hard on yet, Grant? The screams do their work?"
And then it laughs.
Grant swivels, trying desperately to place the origin of the voice. But the laughter is bouncing around the cabin, around his head, and the darkness seems to be deadening more than his eyesight. Or perhaps it's the sudden, sharp fear turning his intestines to ice. Damnit, it's the other one! The true monster of this equation, and Grant realizes with paralyzing horror that he should have bagged the stronger prey first, not the bleeding human currently strapped to the chair.
He's stumbling now, arms waving blindly before him as he gropes around for a wall, something to place where he is. He needs to find that fucking circuit breaker!
"Scared, Grant? Can't quite handle being on the other side for once?"
Yes! His fingers are shaking, fumbling over the catch of the box. They slip right over the switches, and his curse ends in a panicked sob.
"Grant – just, just run," his prisoner pleads suddenly, and that broken urging somehow calms his nerves. HE caused the pain in that voice, HE is the one with the power. And there is still one more ace up his sleeve. He prepared for this, after all.
The monster is laughing again, his bark of amusement drowning out whatever other pleas the man might have been offering.
"Oh, baby," the voice manages between guffaws, "he can run. Go ahead, Grant, run like the little boy you are. I'll find you. It's much too late now."
Grant takes a long breath, then begins counting the switches, searching for the right one.
The voice hardens, and the promise of pain in the next statement almost causes him to lose his focus once again.
"It was too late for you when you snatched the wrong goods."
The lights snap on just as suddenly as they went out, and Grant is astonished to notice nothing is changed. His prisoner is still slumped in the chair, blood beginning to pool nicely on the floor around him. The tools lay scattered and undisturbed in a messy arc on the ground, and he notes with tremendous relief that the carpet still hides its secret. Grant checks the ceiling, the room, and finds it empty.
Evil at work, no doubt.
But the light has reinvigorated him, and Grant strides unhesitatingly to the prisoner. He barely pauses to snatch a knife from the floor during his trek, just a few seconds and he's back where he belongs – blade pressed against the fragile skin of the man in the chair.
He let himself go soft, is all, after waiting so long for the other one to come charging to the rescue. Grant hadn't expected it, honestly, considering the kind he was dealing with.
Demons. Disgusting, filthy trash. Unfaithful and self-serving, why SHOULD he have expected any speck of loyalty from that ilk?
But he was nothing if not a cautious hunter, and he set up a plan for this just in case. And it was a case, alright. Now they were really going to play.
And Grant – well, he was going to win.
"This what you came for?" Grant demands loudly, and digs the knife in deeper. The young man scrambles back desperately, straining his bonds, back pressed against the chair in an attempt to escape the blade slicing his skin.
Nothing happens. No appearance, no voice, no damn laughter.
Furious, Grant uses his free hand to yank the prisoner's head back by his hair, leaving the throat wide and exposed.
"Answer me, demon! Or I'll turn this fucking bastard into a Pez dispenser!" Grant shouts, and just like that the demon appears.
He swallows his gasp - can't afford to show any more fear, not after his embarrassing dash for the breaker – and wills his eyes not to fall upon the rug. The rug laid out like a fraying moat between the two of them, the rug the monster need only take two steps forward to cross.
And Grant is dangling some very tempting bait.
Come on, you son of a bitch, he urges silently, just come charging forward.
"I know you, Grant Powell," the demon starts conversationally, the words echoing what his prisoner had said just minutes earlier. And, like before, the use of his family name sends him into a fit a rage. He presses the tip of the knife just a little bit harder, and Grant drinks in the groan that follows.
When he looks again at the demon, he shouldn't be surprised by what he finds – the bastard is a demon, after all – but he is.
Instead of anger or concern, the demon appears almost entranced by the renewed trickle of blood. Those black eyes, always so hard to read, are hyper-focused and wide. He's panting.
"Disgusting," Grant spits, and the insult breaks whatever spell the monster is under. He pins Grant with his dark orbs, grinning widely.
"Kettle, pot, Grant my boy," he teases.
Grant feels overexposed, vulnerable, and decides to speed things up a little.
"I propose we settle this between the two of us," Grant offers, and the demon's smile somehow grows wider, "as soon as I get rid of this excess baggage. What do ya say?"
Without waiting for a response, Grant slits the prisoner's throat.
The reaction is immediate. The demon chokes out a sob and leaps forward, only to be caught by the devil's trap hidden by the rug.
"Sam! Sammy!" he screams, hands curled into claws and pawing desperately at the invisible walls of his prison.
Grant ignores the impotent threats and shouts from the bound demon and looks at his prisoner. So it was Sam Winchester he had captured, then. Sam Winchester whose very human blood now paints his hands. Hhhmm, last he heard it was Sam, not Dean, who was headed to darkness.
Funny thing.
But Grant shrugs and moves on. Best not to drop the ball, especially since now he has the upper hand.
"Oh, shut up," Grant tells the demon, throwing the tainted knife down and retrieving a machete and a flask of holy water.
"I'm going to shove your intestines into your mouth. You hear me, you sick fuck? I'm going to make you choke on your own steaming shit!"
Grant rolls his eyes.
"Calm down, monster. Your little brother's barely scratched."
Sam's coughing, sure, making these strangled gasps, but he really is fine. This isn't Grant's first day at the rodeo, after all.
But perhaps Grant spoke too soon, however, because he's lost all the demon's attention. He could be doing jumping jacks naked and the bastard wouldn't so much as bat an eyelash.
"Sam, SAMMY! Sam, look at me you stupid bitch!" Dean demands harshly, his whole body pressed against the boundaries of his prison.
"Jerk," the younger Winchester manages, and it seems more reflex than anything, because he still doesn't look up. Maybe Grant had been a bit more zealous than he intended? No matter. They'll both be corpses by morning.
Grant is about to start his speech, the one he prepared years ago and begins at the height of his little sessions, when Sam finally regains enough strength to lift his head and meet the inky eyes of his brother.
Immediately Dean calms and lazily turns to Grant.
"So, where do we go from here?" he questions, putting his hands in his pockets. The sudden serenity, so quickly following the maelstrom of before, momentarily disorients Grant.
Momentarily.
He has one prisoner tied up and injured and another trapped by deep magic. Grant wraps himself in confidence.
"Well," Grant answers slowly, pausing to uncap the flask and pour the clear liquid over the blade of the machete, "I was thinking we throw a little of God's special Kool-Aid on ya, then we give you some pretty cuts to match baby brother's."
A growl escapes through the demon's peaceful facade.
"Ah, there's the animal I knew was buried under all that human flesh."
Grant is a mere two steps from the devil's trap when Dean takes a deep breath and blinks. His eyes flash and lose their demon taint to reveal innocent, green orbs.
Then he casually steps across the edge of the rug.
The machete clatters on the floor where it falls from Grant's nerveless fingers.
"What?" he gasps, and everything goes black.
When he comes to, the first thing he sees is blackness, quickly followed by a flash of white as the demon grins.
"Welcome back, Grant," he greets, then straightens and turns from him.
No, it can't be!
But it is. Grant is strapped to his chair, and as he struggles against the restraints he sees that his tools have been meticulously gathered and laid back out on the little table, with more than a few added to the collection. Sweat weeps from every pore of his body.
Dean is fussing over his brother, who lays cradled amid a jumble of blankets on the floor. He's been cleaned up and bandaged, and, as if he can feels Grant's gaze on his broken flesh, turns to look at him.
There's pity in those eyes.
Tears begin to burn Grant's cheeks.
He watches as Dean reaches out and caresses his brother's cheek, turning Sam's head away from Grant and back to himself. The demon leans down, and – oh, God, he can't be doing this!
But he is, and Grant's stomach churns in disgust as Dean forcibly stills a weakly struggling Sam and kisses him. And apparently Dean is unmindful of his brother's injuries, because the kiss is deep and violent and possessive. Sam moans, but Grant is unsure if it is from pleasure or pain.
Halfway through the abomination, Dean's eyes cut to Grant's, and he can see the demon's lips curling into a smile even through the press of mouths.
When he finishes, Dean immediately stands and returns his full attention to Grant.
"You know, Grant," the demon says, walking forward and examining the gleaming weapons on the table, "I'm just like you."
When Grant snorts in disbelief, Dean turns to him and grins.
"Oh, yes. We both like pain. Or, more precisely, giving pain."
There's no show with Dean. He simply grabs the most innocuous looking piece and kneels in front of Grant with a warm smile.
"Only I'm much, much better at it than you."
Grant can't help it – he begins screaming, shouting for help and crying before he's endured a single scratch. Dean laughs heartily.
"We are going to have so much fun!"