All you need to know.

This is the sequel to 'Bearer of all Light'. Don't worry if you haven't read that story, here is all you need to know.

A little after Sam left for Stanford, John and Dean were butting heads. So much so, that when another hunter turned up, asking for help with a job, Dean agrees to go. The hunter's name was Jacob Hearn, and he was obsessively searching for a book, a book that was meant to be a legend. The first ever Devil's Trap, captured between the pages of a red leather bound tome.

John discovers that Jacob, and his partner in crime Stanley Cobb, had malicious plans for Dean and steps in, killing Jacob and making things right with his son, but tells Dean that the hunter must have just left town without him.

Years later, having gone undercover to retrieve a relic, Dean comes across the book but before he can escape with his prize, one of the demons from the pages escapes, and tries to hunt him down in an attempt to take over Deans body. It almost succeeds before being re-summoned by Bobby, back into the pages of its prison.

Dean recovers, a little too fast, and the book is hidden…now read on…

Better to burn out - than fade away

Chapter 1 – It begins

Harsh, driving rain crashed down heavily on the cabin walls, reverberating like an unending round of applause and making the wet logs smell of rot and mould; of things long since dead. Inside the room, three men sat restlessly in the dim, half light, waiting nervously until a sudden, sharp scrapping noise caused all three to snap to attention. The whining rasp of a heavy wooden door as it swung open, grinding on a rusty hinge, was followed by heavy booted footfalls.

Mildew walls and crusty floorboards had never looked so interesting; no one wanted to be the first to meet this newcomer's eye.

He walked slowly on purpose, stalking towards the heavily stained wooden table. As he neared he pulled at the back of the only empty chair, swinging it out of his way, scratching its legs on the dusty timber. Standing tall in its place, he peered down at all three men, glaring at them all with ill concealed contempt while they sat and fidgeted.

Bending forward, he placed both calloused wet palms on the table at his hip and stared at each of their faces in turn, while water trickled a path down from his lank hair and greasy, grey beard. He snorted loudly; the muscle, the impulsive one and the runt – what a team.

The single bare white light bulb swung dangerously overhead, casting a coarse shadow over sunken features, and still no one met his eye… Silence… Then someone cleared their throat and someone else took a gulp of sour drink, sputtering. But no one spoke.

So, it was up to him. "Well, ain't this something? God damned family reunion."

He swung left and zoned in on the youngest, the most obviously curious. The kid's noticeable lack of experience and overabundance of testosterone gave him false bravado and he chanced to look up. Once he did, he found he couldn't break his eyes free of that icy contact. Locked in the embrace of the intensely cold, dark gaze, the boy felt a chill surge through him and he swallowed, thickly, rubbing the back of one hand through rough fledgling stubble.

Someone slammed down an empty shot glass on the table in front of the recent arrival, breaking the connection, and earning the kid's eternal gratitude. His savior with the bottle leaned forward, slopping half a shot on the wood as he filled the glass with a trembling hand and yellowed fingers…years of past nicotine abuse. He pushed the gift forward, the other man downing the amber heat in one full gulp. With that one simple action, he'd granted them permission to speak.

"What's the job?" The 'muscle' kept it short and sweet; no-one was there for their health.

"Old job, Kyle. One that ain't finished – one that needs finishing now."

As he spoke, he turned his head to look out of the rattling window. Outside, the rain was still thunderously heavy and icy cold, the moon a flat silver plate in the inky sky, and he watched it with unfaltering attention for just a moment. Then, he reached into his front coat pocket and withdrew a stained photograph, slamming it onto the table under his palm. It was small, old and worn, with a deep crease down the middle that made it look…used. The grainy image was the head shot of a young man with short dark hair and clear green eyes, not as innocent as the runt, but still youthful.

After a few short moments, William Kale, the impulsive one, spoke up gruffly. "He's just a kid, Stanley. Not exactly my usual kinda job. What you got in mind?"

Stanley Cobb's eyes burned straight through William's skull, his voice razor-sharp. "Make it your usual kinda job, Bill. This 'kid' has something that by rights belongs to me…and I want what's mine."

Bill huffed and stuck out his chest, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable. He considered himself a tough guy, not easily swayed or influenced by anyone or anything and it'd been a long time since he'd been unnerved by an ordinary man. But then, it'd been a long time since he's spoken to Stanley Cobb. And besides, Cobb had been called many things, but 'ordinary' had never been one of them.

"What he do? He steal something from you? What he take?"

"Ain't stole nothing." Bill and Kyle exchanged a mistrustful look that was not lost on the man paying their wage. "You don't need to know, just pick him up and bring him here, and then it's my business."

"Just how busy do you want us to get?" Kyle stared down at his own stained hands as he questioned Stanley, painfully aware that this man was on a knife's edge. He didn't like working with unpredictable or volatile types, but sometimes the devil spits right in your face, and you've got to have what it takes to spit right back.

Lifting the small stained photo, Stanley smeared an oily finger over the tiny granular image. "Do what you have to, but get him here."

There was no doubt in Stanley's mind that this was the same person. The blond hair and dark suit he'd been seen wearing just a few weeks ago, couldn't hide the hunters' intensity that burned out from those green eyes. And this was the same picture he'd worked from, all those years ago. Then it'd been his job to find and teach this drunken kid a lesson in pain he wouldn't forget – until Jacob could get there and play the rescuer that was. He'd overdone it a little back then, enjoyed his work a little too much maybe. He was going to enjoy it a whole lot more, this time around.

The runt spoke for the first time, the pitch of his voice, a testament to his youth. "He got a name?"

"Goes by many. Real one's Winchester – Dean Winchester."

TBC

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