The Collection

by kashkow

Set between the second trial and the boys finding out what the third trial is, Sam goes missing on another of those "easy" jobs. This is kind of the first part of a pair of stories, but it is complete within itself. Few spoilers, but there are some, so if you are not current on the series you might get some info you don't want.

The Collection

By: Ellen H

Author's Note: Still not owning anything. All unrecognizable characters are my own. Please forgive any spelling or grammar issues. Fair warning this it technically part one of two. This is set just before the boys find out about the third trial. Spoilers are few, but there are some here.

Chapter 1

Sam Winchester pushed back from the library table in their still new base of operations, the former secret lair of the 'Men of Letters'. Even after several months Sam wasn't sure what was more surreal, the fact that there was a secret society of learned men who tracked and fought the supernatural, a society to which their fraternal grandfather had belonged, and to which they, like their father before them, were legacies, or the fact that they seemingly had a permanent home. He was leaning toward the permanent home side. The whole Men of Letters thing was just another twist on the roller coaster that was their lives, but the home thing, it just was not something that was part of the Winchester experience, or at least not the Sam Winchester experience at least. Only the Impala had had that distinction up till now.

Sam stood, carefully catching his balance before he stepped away from the chair. He really hoped that they could find Kevin soon and that the ever so slightly freaked prophet had been able to translate more of the tablet. They needed information on the third trial. Sam needed it so that he could get to the trial while he still the strength to actually do it.

He wasn't sure what the purpose of this debilitating sickness was. It made no sense. If you were having to go through trials to prove your worthiness to close the gates of hell, why render the person trying it weak and vulnerable? He was not being overly prideful in thinking that he had been in pretty good shape before this whole thing started. He ate right, worked out, and it wasn't as if their day to day lives didn't include lots of exercise. If this hit him this hard, just how much more in shape was the person doing this supposed to be to be able to make it through?

He made his way slowly toward the kitchen. It was odd to be able to simply wonder into the fully equipped, though slightly retro, kitchen and be able to open the refrigerator and get almost anything he wanted, that is if his bottomless pit of a brother had not managed to scarf it down during his latest movie jag. Dean was celebrating the newest version of Evil Dead coming out by watching the old version and the sequels all in one long sitting. Sam had pointed out that this was like an airline pilot watching all of the old Airport movies, but Dean had just brushed him off and went back to speculating about what other kind of attachments Ash could have on his arm, and if the new female Ash would have the same issues.

He was currently on the second sequel, Army of Darkness, and was almost literally howling at the Hollywood version of supernatural lore. But he seemed to be enjoying himself, and that was what was important to Sam, even though it seemed to mean that all of the ice cream was gone, along with all of the maraschino cherries and the fudge sauce too. What Dean had left was a mess. There was popcorn all over the counter, both popped and un-popped. There was a half empty bag of tortilla chips sitting open on the kitchen table surround by the remains of the makings of nachos and he was pretty sure that there was an extra large pizza box with one half eaten piece of crust left in it stuffed in the oven. Have to keep that crust warm, never know when hunger could strike.

Sam shook his head and cleaned up the debris. He knew that Dean did not expect him to do it, and that he would have taken care of it when he was done with the movies, but Sam was restless, and truth be told they had been locked up in here just a little too long for his taste.

The weather had been a bitch lately. It had been raining for the last five days as if it were never going to stop raining ever again. There was flooding in counties all around them, and several roads out of the area were closed. There had been no signs of any hunts in the general area, and Garth, their current runaway prophet dispatcher had put them on notice four days ago to be 'ready to go at a moment's notice' as he had a hot lead. He had called this morning and told them that that lead was not so hot, and that is when Dean had decided to see what they had down at the local video store. He had come back, dripping, but loaded down with videos, food, and a plan. Sam had made it partway through Evil Dead 2 then had gone out to do a little research of his own.

Sam was well aware that he was not up to much. Hell there was a good possibility that if they came upon a slightly grumpy jackalope at this point the jack rabbit/antelope hybrid would probably kick his ass, there was no telling what a werewolf or a rawhead would be able to do. Not to mention the fact that Dean was in hyper-protective, lethal Samwise Gamgee, mode and wasn't going to let him go on any kind of dangerous hunt anyway, and it seemed he counted every hunt as dangerous right now.

But Sam was pretty sure that he had a hunt they could do that even Dean would not be able to call dangerous. It was a cursed object. He even knew what the object was and who had it, and exactly how to contain it. It wasn't like the rabbit's foot. This time they would not be going in blind. Also, this object did not have the false benefit that the rabbit's foot had offered. This one was all bad, so it wasn't like people were trying to acquire it. All they needed to do was go to where the item was, convince the current owner that it would be in his best interest to let them deal with it, and then do so. As far as his research could ascertain the owner should be happy to see them.

He found a container of chocolate yogurt in the fridge, and sat down to eat it. He had found out that Dean would not eat anything with the word 'yogurt' on it, and he had been working that to his own advantage. He kept several different yogurt flavors on their shopping list along with yogurt coated pretzels and almonds. He wasn't big on snacking, but every now and then he wanted a little something, and it was nice to have something that he was relatively sure would still be there after his brother came through. He just had to make sure that Dena never took a bite of any of it and found out that it tasted pretty decent, or he would be doomed. He guessed he could always go with something made with tofu. In any event the yogurt had been almost all that he could stomach lately, at least and keep down, so he was doubly appreciative.

He was trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the hunt when Dean came in to the kitchen. He was carrying the huge bowl that he had used for the popcorn, now holding only a few unpopped kernals, three plates, a glass and several balled up napkins. He dumped it all onto the sink and looked around.

"I would have cleaned up ya know." he said with a pat to Sam's back.

Sam threw Dean a smile. He had noticed over the last few months, since he had taken on the trials, that Dean had started touching him again. Not that he never touched him, it was just that the simple little touches that had been such a part of his life as a child had disappeared when he had reached his teens, and that had been his own fault. He had been rebelling against, well everything. Mostly their dad and the life that he felt was unnecessary. Why did it have to be his family that sacrificed for others? Hadn't they given enough? Part of that had been a fierce protection of his personal space. Dean had of course pushed those boundaries as he saw fit, but he backed off to some degree. After he had left Stanford it had been the same, there was a level of discomfort between them for awhile, and they had just been getting comfortable with each other again when the whole demon blood, dying, deals, more dying, breaking seals, and apocalypse thing got started and it all went down hill from there. They were barely talking sometimes, much less touching. Then after the fall and his return as Robo-Sam needless to say touching was not high on the list of acceptable interaction.

It was only now, after all the crap with the leviathan, with Dean's sojourn to purgatory, and Sam's time with Amelia that they were finally getting back to touching, to being brothers. Dean would drop a hand on his shoulder. Sometimes when they were standing side by side Dean would lean over and bump against him, just because. He too was finding it easy to reach out and poke an elbow in Dean's ribs. To poke him in the side with a finger, accompanied by the repeating of his name a number of times. All in the name of getting his attention of course. They had begun that strange half-wrestling thing that they had done as kids, head locks and nuggies, arm twisting, hip blocks and shoves in the back. It was Dean's way of saying he cared, that Sam meant something to him, that he was there for him. It was Sam's way of returning that sentiment in a way that avoided the dreaded chick flick moment. Sam loved it.

Dean cleaned up the dishes as Sam finished off his yogurt. Dean looked in the container and scowled.

"Don't know how you can eat that stuff, Sammy. All that 'live bacteria' stuff is kinda gross." He observed.

"This from the man that will eat at diners that have more wildlife than a national forest running rampant in their kitchens? Some of those places hadn't been cleaned since they were built, but you'll happily order the daily special and scarf it down like haute cuisine."

"It all gets killed in the cooking Sam, and it ain't killed me yet. In fact when was the last time I had food poisoning?"

"You remember Portsmouth?" Sam reminded him. That had been three says that he did not want to repeat, ever. He was pretty sure that The Cage had not been that bad. Dean scowled at him.

"That wasn't the diner I tell you. It was that damn protein bar thingie that you gave me with all the berries and nuts and stuff."

"Yeah because dried berries and nuts are such a big source of salmonella. Not like that, what was it, oh yeah, the Mama Patty's Plate o' Plenty. All you can eat of all the stuff they couldn't sell the day before disguised as meatloaf." He pointed out. "Five other people got sick that same day after eating the same thing. If you would have let me take you to the hospital they probably would have pumped your stomach."

"There wasn't any problem getting it out, it was the keeping everything else in that concerned me. I'm pretty sure I was throwing up stuff that I ate about three years ago, not to mention a few internal organs." Dean conceded. He sat down across from Sam. "At least you are eating something,. Even if it is suspect." Sam nodded. He had figured that Dean had noticed his lack of eating, but hadn't said anything. He also suspected that the whole movie and food thing had been meant to tempt him to eat what ever might take his fancy. He had noticed that the popcorn had been prepared with just the right amount of butter and salt to his usual tastes. That the nacho's had been made with real cheese instead of cheese sauce of dubious origin and topped with lots of tomatoes, peppers and avocado, again just as he liked them. Even the pizza had been half veggie, practically blasphemy in Dean's eyes. He finished his yogurt and tossed the container, time to beard the lion.

"Dean..."

"Sam..."

They both spoke at the same time and ended up staring at each other waiting for the other to continue. When they realized it they started to speak again at the same time and stopped again. Dean rubbed his forehead and held a hand out to Sam indicating that he should go first.

"I found a hunt, a simple cursed object that we just have to go and collect and lock in a curse box. It isn't like the rabbit's foot. No one wants this thing. It brings the owner bad luck that increases over time and I think that the guy that has it will be willing to give it up. He's already tried to sell it, but can't get any takers. His father owned it before him and he died of tetanus after cutting his finger on a can of stolen cat food which was his meal for the day because he was destitute after loosing every penny he had ever made. Before he inherited it from his father he was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and had assets in the millions. He lost his job, his money, his family and according to the records, his mind over the course of ten years after his father died. That was five years ago and when he died the only thing he had on him besides his clothes was an antique silver lighter with some engraving on it. They couldn't figure out why he hadn't sold it. Turns out almost the exact same thing happened to his father, and his father before him. When they figured out who he was they contacted his son, the only living relative, and gave him the lighter. Since then the pattern has started repeating itself. This guy got divorced two years ago, before hand everyone always said that he and his wife were like soulmates, barely could stand to be apart, then suddenly it was fighting all the time. She took their son, filed for divorce and moved to Washington, DC to live with her mother. She won't even let him see the boy. The year after that he was fired from the job that he had held for eighteen years. He was accused of sexually harassing his secretary, a woman who had filed unfounded sexual harassment claims in her two prior jobs, but his company had a zero tolerance policy and he was out even though there was no proof that he had so much as looked at her. Given the circumstances they wouldn't give him a letter of recommendation and he's been on unemployment or minimum wage temporary jobs since then. He's on the edge of the final downward spiral. If we don't get this thing away from him it is going to kill him."

"How did you find this all out?" Dean asked. Sam noticed that he didn't say anything about whether they would actually be doing anything about this, but Sam was willing to delay the fight about that as long as possible.

"The guy put it all together, what had happened with his ancestors and recognized what was happening with him. He evidently made the rounds of the psychics and so called witches, and found someone with just enough knowledge to be dangerous. They told him he was cursed and figured it had to be the lighter. He's been trying to sell it, or give it away for the last year, but no luck, if you'll pardon the pun. He finally put everything up on a supernatural public blog asking for any help that anyone could provide. I found that thread and followed the information from there.

"Cursed lighter, huh?" Dean said. Sam could tell Dean was intrigued. Even with all the trouble they had had back in that town with the safe full of cursed objects, Dean had found them interesting. And this would be the first time they were doing the whole locate and contain thing with a purpose, not just falling into it. This was what the Men of Letters would have been doing if they were still around.

Dean nodded slowly. Sam grinned.

"I'll get going on what we need right now." He started toward the library but stopped when he realized that he hadn't heard what Dean was going to say. "What were you going to say, before?" Dean smiled at him.

"I was gonna ask if you felt up to a simple little hunt somewhere."

They left two days later, after Sam had managed to get up and moving. He was still staggering around, and catching his breath was becoming something difficult, but he felt….well ok. He was not even going to pretend to 'fine'. It was cold and wet outside, and for a few minutes at the door Sam had a sudden flashback to when he was three and they had been visiting Bobby. He hadn't thought about it in many years, but his memories were coming back to him now, with a clarity that sometimes scared him. He had way too many things in his head that he really preferred to not remember. This particular memory was hilarious.

John had dumped them off at Bobby's on his way to a hunt, and, being South Dakota in winter, it had snowed. Sam could remember the wild excitement he had felt as they had begged to be let out to build a snowman. It would be his first one, and he had visions of it dancing and singing not unlike Frosty. A seven year old Dean was at his most serious as he stuffed Sam's younger self into so many layers that he literally could not bend an arm or a leg. Bobby had taken one look at Sausage Sam and had laughed his butt off. Dean had protested the removal of the outer ten layers or so, but in the end they had made it outside and Sam had survived none the worse for wear.

This morning had almost been a repeat. Sam had simply slid into his regular Carthart jacket over his regular layers figuring they would be in the car most of the time anyway. Dean had other ideas. At the door he had put a knitted cap on Sam's head, a scarf around his neck and had handed him a pair of mittens, mittens. He had also been trying to get him to put on a parka over all the rest. Sam, in the tradition of baby brothers everywhere had told what he could do with his mittens, and had stomped out to the car which had been pulled so close to the facility that he practically hurt himself slamming into the side of the car. Dean had grinned at him and pointed out that he had barely gotten wet at all and had tossed the rejected mittens in his direction. Sam had seized them and stuffed him into the pockets of his jacket. Evidently Dean needed to be separated from the winter clothing as much as possible. He would admit, to himself, that the hat was nice and warm, and the soft wool of the muffler felt okay too.

It had taken them almost two days to reach the small upper New York town. They could have done it in a day, however Dean had insisted on stopping overnight and getting Sam some warm soup. They had even stayed in a fairly nice place with a good heater. Sam knew that because Dean had demanded to test the heater before he would rent the room. Sam had watched from the car while an old woman, possibly somewhere over a hundred, had used her walker to take Dean out to a room in the driving rain mixed with sleet. Sam had sank down in the seat as they passed by on the way back to the office and the woman had glared at him as if he had been the one to cause all this.

Once they found a motel they had scoped out the town for information. The local library had copies of the local paper and Sam had found several references to the misfortune of the family in question. He had also managed to cultivate the librarian, a middle aged woman who had taken one look at him and had gotten him a cup of tea to 'help with that cold, dear', which had made Dean smirk at him from where he was sitting and looking through a magazine. She had been all too happy to gossip about their local 'celebrity' the man who claimed his family was cursed and that the lighter that he had inherited from his late father, rest the man's soul, was responsible for all his troubles. Of course from what he had heard the older Mr. Robinson had been something of a robber baron in his time, and perhaps had deserved his fall from grace, and 'aren't we all responsible for our own karma, dear?'.

He had managed to leave before the woman could call the pharmacist for a prescription of 'just the thing', and Dean had laughed at him all the way back to the motel. They had made quick work of finding an address for the newly poor Mr. Robinson. In fact he was currently holed up in a ratty motel just down the street from their own. While their own place might not be a palace, the motel where Matthew Robinson was staying was barely above a no-tell motel that rented by the hour. A crack house probably had more amenities.

Sam dug the curse box that they had fashioned out of the Impala's truck and looked it over one more time. It was a perfect cube, four inches by four inches by four inches. They had been very careful in the construction, helped along by the old but still viable stocks at the Men of Letters Facility. The box itself was formed from solid oak planks, the oak being sacred to the druids and very powerful. Sam had started by carving the sigils in each precisely cut piece of oak plank. It was important that the correct sigils be carved into each surface of the box, each carefully picked to contain and negate the energy of the curse, all done while reciting the correct ritual words. They also served to make the box invisible from the curser who might try to locate the cursed item through scrying and free it from its prison. He had spent hours on each sigil, carefully working the hard wood so as not to crack it. Dean had put it together in the workshop, making fine work of the dovetails required to hold it together. The curse box could contain no metal but gold, and since their finances didn't run to a large gold purchase they had to do it the old fashioned way. The slightly thicker lid to the box slid into finely carved grooves and then fell into the box to be held against a small wooden gasket that would keep the lid from falling inside and which brought the edge flush to the outside. The final piece was a wax seal which kept the lid from sliding back out. Sam had complimented Dean on the construction and his brother had smiled sadly and mentioned that Bobby had taught him how to do it one summer when they had spent two weeks with him. All in all for their first curse box they had done pretty damn good.

Sam also got some wax and made sure he had the sigil stamp that he had found at the facility that he would use in the wax once it was in place. They were ready. He nodded to Dean who gave a grunt and rose from where he had been sitting at the table opposite from Sam while he checked everything.

"'Bout time Sammy. Much long and the poor guy'll be dead and we'll have to track down his kid to keep the curse from traveling." Sam rolled his eyes.

"It was five minutes, Dean." He reminded his brother. "Always better to be ready before you get there and then want something. Did you memorize your part of the chant?"

"No, I was too busy memorizing the words to the Gilligan's Island theme to memorize the words that are going to keep us from getting curse backlash, after all what is more important?" That earned him another eye roll. After another brief battle of wills Sam was back in his coat and knitted hat with the muffler around his neck and they headed out to the car.

They pulled into the hotel, and Sam wrinkled his nose as they climbed out of the car. Even the outside of the building looked scummy. There was no way he would even sit in a chair in this place, much less lay down on something. Even John Winchester at his poorest and most obsessed had never dumped them in a place like this.

"Oh we gotta move down here, Sammy. They got the magic fingers!" Dean said with a grin, pointing at a ragged sign on the office window.

"Yeah, with real fingers I'm guessing. This place is creepy and I get first shower when we are back at our place." Sam looked around. There was something niggling at him, the back of his neck was crawling.

"What?" Dean asked, as always attuned to Sam's tells. He looked around too, trying to see what had his brother so jumpy. Sam shook his head.

"I get the feeling we're being watched." He said. Dean snorted.

"Oh, I'm sure we are being watched. Probably half the residents think we're cops here to bust the place and the rest are trying to figure out how they can pick us clean and dump us in the alley over there before the real cops do show up." Dean made a show of pulling out his pistol and checking the chamber. He stuffed the gun into the front of his waistband instead of in the back like usual. Sam took the hint and pulled out his Taurus and put it in his right jacket pocket, making sure it was visible for a second before he did so. That should help keep some of the animals away he hoped. He pointed toward room number 5.

"He should be in there." Dean nodded and led the way to the door. Sam saw that his brother was watching everywhere at once and his shoulders were tense. Dean might be cocky, but he was always careful. Dean pounded on the door. They heard footsteps moving toward them.

"Who is it?" A rough voice asked.

"You don't know us, but we're here about your little…problem." Dean said. Sam hung back, content to let Dean handle the talking, as he kept an eye on the surroundings.

"I don't know what you are talking about. You have the wrong place. Try one of the other rooms." The voice advised. The footsteps started to retreat. Dean pounded again.

"We might be able to help you with a certain item that you've been trying to get rid of." He said. There was a pause, then the sound of a chain being removed. Sam snorted to himself. Like that would be any use around here, Dean could have launched that door halfway across the room with one kick, chain or no chain.

The man that poked his head out the door was thin, with a haggard looking face covered in a well advanced five o'clock shadow. He was wearing clothes that had seen better days and Sam could recognize second hand garments from their own frugal shopping. Dark eyes looked from Sam to Dean and back, catching on Dean's pistol tucked in his waistband.

"You…you're here about the lighter?" Dean nodded and pushed past the smaller man to enter the room. Sam followed on his heels, and they were soon all in the small room with the door closed. Sam looked around. The three of them almost filled the room to overflowing. There was a single bed, with less than clean looking covers, a single straight back chair, and what appeared to be an old milk crate as a 'nightstand', all the comforts of home. Sam was glad that he had no reason to enter the small bathroom he could see from where he stood. A moldy dampness pervaded the entire room and it was barely warmer in here than it had been outside.

"Yeah, we are here about your cursed lighter. We have a way to take it away and make sure it never comes back and the curse will be lifted. All you gotta do is do what we say and it's done." Randolf looked at them skeptically. Dean huffed.

"Look dude. Me and my brother are really enjoying the ambiance of this place and all, but we don't have all night, as it is I think my boots are rotting from contact with this carpet. All you need to know is that we are not here to rip you off, kill you, or perform any weird sexual practices with you unlike most of your fellow guests here at the Hilton."

"You believe me about the lighter? That it's cursed?" Randolph asked. Both Dean and Sam nodded. The man sighed and sat down. Sam wrinkled his nose at the cloud of dust that rose from the bed clothes and Dean took a step back. "My god, I was beginning to think no one would ever believe me, and even if they did that they couldn't help me."

"Got a few fake psychics tryin' to help you out?" Dean asked.

"I've been blessed, cleansed, de-hexed, and smudged. I have tried everything, but all I have lost is what little bit of money that I had. I have tried giving it away, I threw the damn thing off of a bridge, tossed it under a train, threw it in a garbage truck, and buried it in another freaking state and it is always back here before I am. What do you two want to help me out?" Dean shook his head.

"We don't want anything from you. This is what we do, deal with things like this." He said. He looked around. "Can we see it?" Randolph started to rise then paused and looked suspiciously at them again. "Dude, as it is I'm going to have to burn everything I'm wearing once I get out of here, I really don't want anything of yours. Now if you want our help, let's see the damned thing, no pun intended."

Biting his lip Randolph continued to rise and went to a small pile of clothes that sat next to the wall. He searched for a moment then pulled out what at first glance looked a small flat pistol with a very small barrel attached to an ornate handle. As he held it out to them Sam stepped forward and took a closer look, ignoring it when Dean reached out and pulled him back just far enough that he could not have touched it if he had intended to. It really was a very nice example of the original cigarette lighter, made around 1910. He looked up at Randolph who was regarding it with no little amount of fear.

"Your post said there was an inscription of some sort." Randolph nodded and turned it over. This side lacked the ornate scrollwork of the other, and was a simple flat silver area, inscribed with ornate lettering. It was not easy to make out, but Sam was an expert at reading obscure and badly written words.

"It's written in ancient Greek, a plea to Hecate, part of the Roman pantheon actually. It says 'May Randolph and his first born son in perpetuity, dilute, languish, sink and may all his limbs dissolve, may his riches be taken, his lands desolated ...' It gets worse from there. It's a variation on a very old curse that was used in roman times." Randolph had gotten paler and paler as Sam had read the curse, and he sat back down in a cloud of dust and a heartfelt sigh.

"Does it say who….or why….what did my great grandfather do that someone would...I mean 'in perpetuity', doesn't that mean forever? I have a son…" The man was practically inarticulate. Sam shook his head sadly.

"There's nothing here to indicate that. You may never know. Obviously your great grandfather offended a witch or someone else of power, badly enough that they went to a lot of trouble. This kind of curse takes a lot of power, of hate, to give it impetus."

"Great. I'm paying for the sins of a great grandfather I never even knew." Randolph looked up at them with a plea in his eyes. "You say you can end it, take it away, for real? I'll be safe, my son will be safe? You can destroy it?" Dean nodded.

"We can contain it. You can't really destroy these things. It doesn't work like that, that's why it kept coming back. We have what's known as a curse box. Once the object is inside the curse is cut off. Kinda like when the kryptonite is put in the lead box in the superman comics." He explained, shrugging at Sam's incredulous look. "What?" he asked his brother. Sam rolled his eyes and jerked his head toward the door. He would be happy to get out of this room if even for a moment. Randolph's despair had added to the already oppressively depressing environment. They had left the box in the car, along with the wax and the few things they needed for the ritual.

"I'll get the box, you explain the ritual." He said. He smiled at Dean's scowl. He knew that Dean usually let him cover the intricacies of the rituals, but Sam knew that Dean was just as competent as he was.

He went out towards the Impala, still grinning at Dean's frustration, but only a few steps from the room he lost the smile as the oppressive feeling of being watched reasserted itself. His steps slowed as he moved away from the building and he looked around, trying to locate where the observer was, and he was sure that there was someone. He reached the car and opened the back passenger door. He leaned in and got the small carton that held all the things they would need, including the curse box. He straightened back up, slamming the door. He had to pause for a moment to let the vertigo that was becoming the norm settle down. He had taken only one step back toward the building when he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

He slapped his free hand to his neck and encountered a small dart buried in his skin. Before he could call out to his brother the world suddenly spun. He didn't feel himself losing his grip on the carton. He staggered back against the Impala, unable to stop from sliding to the ground. The world was swirling and warping around him, and blackness was closing in on him from all sides. He tried to call out, but he couldn't form any sound, and his last thought before the darkness took him all the way was that Dean was going to be pissed.

Chapter 2-

Dean finished describing the ritual to Randolph who, while slightly put off by the whole blood letting and chanting thing, was willing to go through with it if there was even the slightest chance that this would work. The man had been somewhat taken aback when Dean had assured him that they really didn't want any money, or anything else from him. Dean could understand the man's skepticism, especially in the face of everything that had happened to him. But as he listened with half an ear to the man's grateful babbling his attention was turned toward the parking lot, where his brother had been for all too long.

Sam, in his anal way, had put everything they needed into a small carton in the back of the car, and it should have taken only a few moments for Sam to get out there and get it and come back in. Of course he could have run into some of the denizens of this fine establishment who thought that he looked like a target. At the very thought that someone would dare to attack his brother, Dean's blood pressure shot up. He held out a hand in Randolph face, bringing the chatter to a halt. In the resulting silence Dean listened for any sound. There was nothing. No matter if it was a single person or a group, if someone had attacked Sam then there would have been noise. Even in his current state Sammy was no easy mark, and there would be a fight.

The silence did not help him however. The silence was ominous. He would almost rather that there was the sound of a fight. He could deal with that. He pulled the pistol out of his waistband and Randolph's eyes widened almost comically. Dean ignored him and stalked toward the door. He cautiously pulled it open, looking out as best he could before exposing himself. The rain had continued to fall in that annoying mist that soaked everything and it was headed into twilight. He could see the Impala, unmolested, but there was no sign of Sam, or anyone else. He stepped out of the room, and widened his field of view, still nothing. There were lights on in many of the rooms, and a single mercury vapor light flickered on and off in the corner of the parking area. In the iffy light he could see something laying about five feet from the Impala. It was the carton that held the curse box and stuff. There was no sign of Sam.

Gun ready he went out to the Impala, checking on the other side in case Sam was there, but there was nothing. He looked toward the alley, but in the flickering light he could see that it was empty. His gaze went over the windows to the rooms, but something told him his brother was not in anyone of them. Sam was gone. Dean's jaw tightened to the point that he could hear his teeth creaking. Someone or something had taken his brother. They were going to die, soon, and if Sammy was hurt they were going to die ugly.

As he started back toward where Randolph was standing in the doorway his boot hit the box. He looked down at the curse box that he and Sam had made, working together to make it perfect. He was proud of his handiwork, and the work Sam had done with the intricate markings. It had taken hours of hard work and research, and it showed just how effective they were as a team. And they were that, finally, a team again after so many years when everyone and everything was trying to pull them apart. This one piddly little hunt was just the start. They were getting their groove back. Sam would complete the trials and Dean would make sure he survived them, and then they would move on to doing what it was they did

Dean took a deep breath and put his pistol back in his waistband. He leaned down and scooped up the container and its contents. He knew what Sam would want him to do. He strode toward the room shouldering past Randolph with a growl.

"Let's get this crap taken care of. I have a brother to find." And someone/something to kill.

Chapter 3-

Sam was cold. He wondered why the room was so cold. Surely Dean had cranked the heater before they had gone to bed. And speaking of going to bed, why was this bed so damn hard? He rolled over, pawing for the covers which must have fallen away, but finding nothing. If Dean was messing around he was going to kill him, once he woke up that is. Wait a minute…when exactly had he gone to bed? His mind sluggishly tried to recall when they had gotten back to the motel. They had gone to do the ritual, to capture the cursed item. But then he didn't even remember that. He rolled over onto his side, and came up short when he ended up with his face pressed to something hard and cold. Why was he against the wall? This was just too big a puzzle for his foggy mind. He needed more info. Cue the eyes.

It was surprisingly hard to get them open. When he finally did, he wasn't sure what it was he was seeing. His nose was telling him that there was something flat and cold that he was pressed against, but his eyes, well they were just seeing a corridor receding into the distance. Okay that did not make any sense. He blinked several times and added a hand into the data collection team. He put his hand right in front of his face. Five fingers, all there, and splayed across what felt like a solid…something. However his eyes were still seeing nothing. Gee, a solid see through thing….why was he sleeping next to a window, at least one that was not in the Impala?

Giving up on the slow input his senses were giving him Sam decided he needed to sit up. It was surprisingly hard to do. He rolled over and managed to lever himself up into a sitting position, however he had to let his head drop onto his knees as everything seemed to whirl around. As that resolved itself he suddenly remembered being in the parking lot of that grungy motel, getting the curse box for the ritual. He remembered the sting in his neck and the feel of the dart. He had been tranqed! With this knowledge he was more determined than ever to figure out where the hell he was. He raised his protesting head and looked around.

The window that he had ended up against was 12 inches away from him and he could see that it was not so much window as a wall. It seemed to be a solid expanse of glass almost six feet across and over eight feet high. The window seemed to be set flush into two walls of concrete. He turned his head and looked behind him. The concrete walls ran almost ten feet and there was another wall there. In the back of the small room, cell, Sam's sluggish mind supplied, were a small sink and toilet and along the wall was a thin mattress laying on a ledge made of the same concrete as the walls. A single wool blanket was folded across the foot of it. Gosh, all the comforts of home…not. He looked back at the window, trying to see where his cell was.

What he saw drove the last of the fog out of his mind, and he dragged himself to his feet, moving to stand in front of the window. His cell was at the end of a corridor that seemed to lead off into the distance about sixty or seventy feet before it ended. He could see that it appeared another corridor met it and headed off perpendicular to it in both directions. But what really had his attention was what was between him and that other corridor.

Every four feet or so was another cell, just like his own in appearance. Concrete side walls leading out to a floor to ceiling glass wall that faced on the corridor. Sort of like a prison. Except that from this angle Sam could see that there were protective sigils carved into the concrete. What really peaked his curiosity was that to the right side of each cell was a sign. By twisting his head just right he could make out words and see pictures on the one closest to him. As he read the larger print he sucked in his breath. No, this was not a prison it was a display, an exhibit, a zoo. Each cell was set up to showcase whatever was inside, and there was a helpful sign telling all about what it was, where it came from, how it was collected, and how it could be killed. He was in a freaking zoo, a museum, and given what was in the next cell, it was not one that was going to be on the next bus tour for the Shady Acres Retirement Village or the nearest elementary school.

Movement in the nearest cell drew his eyes away from the sign and to the occupant, and he found himself staring at what he was not surprised to see was a vampire, extra teeth displayed glaring at him in return. After an angry hiss the vampire threw an arm up at the window, and it rang like a bell, but did not so much as crack. Okay, so not regular glass. He knew how strong vampires were. Sam supposed it was something like ballistic glass, bullet resistant, or even one of the new clear inert polymers. His eyes scanned down the cells he could see into. He caught sight of a harpy perched on a concrete 'limb' in its cell. Further down was a rawhead, pacing around its cell furiously. In the cell to Sam's left a ghost flickered in and out of sight, it appeared to be that of a middle aged woman, dressed in the style of the late 1800's or early 1900's. She seemed pretty calm, but then she had been dead a long time, and this was probably not all that traumatic compared to that. The next cell held a zombie. It stood, rotting flesh hanging in shreds from its bones and skull. Empty eyes seemed to be focused on nothing, but Sam became aware of a low, almost sub-sonic moan that he suspected was being made by it. Sam could not see whatever was in the next several cells on that side, perhaps they were sleeping or even empty. Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out a sign beside his own cell. He could not see what it said.

He stumbled back to sit on the edge of the bed. He was in a freaking zoo of supernatural freaks! Someone had collected him like some weird frigging butterfly and stuck him in this cell to be gawked at like some damn panda, or snow leopard or some other endangered species. Dean was never going to let him live this down. As his eyes scanned over the cell again he saw that there was a small opening at the bottom of the glass. He suspected that was the feeding slot. He could not see any other method of accessing the cells, like a door or hatch, so he suspected that the glass, or whatever it was, slid up out of the way. The roof of whatever building they were in seemed to be quite a bit higher than the top of the cells and he could see that there was a system of rails hung from the rafters upon which he suspected a winch of some sort could be moved. He was probably not getting out of here alone. That meant he had to figure out a way to contact Dean. To let him know where he was….well, at least what his circumstances were since he really did not know where the building was. His watch was still on his wrist and it showed him he had been out for a little over two hours. It seemed unlikely that he had been moved very far from where he had been taken. He knew that Dean would not give up. That was both a comfort and a worry.

Whoever had created this weird setup was at the very least wildly wealthy. Just what he could see had to have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Money meant power. Power meant corruption, and that meant Dean would be dealing with a stacked deck against him. Sam would back Dean against all comers on an even footing, or even two or three to one, but even his brother could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. That meant that he needed to figure out a way to narrow the odds for his brother. He needed more information.

Movement at the end of the corridor brought him to his feet. Several men were moving toward his cell, one in the lead obviously in charge while the two at his back were obviously body guards. A third man marched along at the rear, and something about him set off Sam's radar, and he thought he might recognize him, or at least his type. The last man was nervously juggling several files, a tablet, and a smart phone and wore thick glasses and a bow tie, the definitive 'personal assistant'. The man in the lead marched down the corridor, not really looking to either side until he was standing directly in front of Sam's cage. He instantly took up a stance that Sam could recognize as being 'I'm large and in charge, recognize me!' legs slightly spread, arms crossed on his chest, slight smirk on his thin lipped mouth. Master of all he surveyed.

He was a middle aged man, probably late forties, early fifties. Not really handsome, but distinguished looking. His dark hair was smoothed back. He wore what Sam could tell was a very expensive tailored suit and tie. His shoes were polished and his cuffs sparkled with what Sam was willing to bet were actual diamond cufflinks. His face was sharp, smooth, tanned, and his dark eyes were utterly impersonal as they stared at Sam. Sam stared back, chin coming up unconsciously and unaware that his own stance had changed to one that showed he was not intimidated, regardless of circumstances. It was a stance he had learned from Dean. Winchesters were not intimidated by anyone.

The dark eyes acknowledge the challenge and narrowed at the lack of deference he no doubt had come to expect from his toadies. One eye ticked with the annoyance that Sam suspect he was trying to hide, but evidently he was not used to having to do so and he did it badly. The nervous little man at his side sucked in a lungful of air in a sort of gasp and the body guards shifted nervously. The man in the back wondered toward the vampire's cage, seemingly ignoring the rest of them, but he saw his shoulders hunch a little. The way he moved struck a bell in Sam's head, but he ignored it for the moment as the man in the lead spoke. His voice was like his appearance, slick and full of self importance.

"Welcome. My name is Holbrook. I am sure you have lots of questions, and they will all be answered in good time. Just know that as our…guest you will be treated decently, you can have pretty much whatever you want to eat and we will make every provision to make sure you have entertainment…"

"Gotta keep the inhabitants well fed and exercised or they don't make good exhibits?" Sam asked. The eye ticked again and the lips thinned. This man did not like people asking questions, or being interrupted. Sam got the feeling that he would have rather had Sam acting like the vampire, pounding on the glass and shouting. He instantly decided that he would not do whatever it was that this man wanted or expected. He had years of experience of being contrary to authority figures, and John Winchester could testify that he had been very good at it. He let his gaze move away from the man to the other cages. "So, what's the deal? Had to have something that no one else had? Compensating for some shortcomings?" He drawled the last sentence with a carefully raised eyebrow. He was satisfied by the wash of color that flooded Holbrook's face that was almost instantly replaced by white anger.

"You keep your mouth shut, freak, or you'll find out just how bad things can be for you here. You are here for one purpose and one purpose only, my entertainment. The moment you become un-entertaining is the moment you become useless and I don't do useless." Sam remained unmoved by the man's anger.

"And what part do I play in your little three ring circus? They," he gestured toward the other cages "are obviously supernatural. I'm 100% human, doesn't seem to fit in with your…theme." A smile stole across Holbrook's thin face.

"Oh but you do fit in, don't you? Demon blood, mental powers, vessel to the devil, spent how long in the cage in hell and made it back? How many 100% humans can say that?" Sam felt his own eyes narrow, but he kept his face straight. They had become somewhat used to people knowing all about them after those damn books. How someone like this had heard about something like that though, didn't seem to track. He shrugged.

"An unusual story, yes, but still, it's not like I have horns or an extra set of teeth like Dracula over there, kind of a let down after all the others. Your curator must have had a bit of a short circuit. You must have a hunter working for you. Did he run out of easy things to catch?" He intentionally turned his eyes to the man in the back of the group who straightened from his slouch and scowled at Sam. Bingo! That was a hit. This was the hunter that had trapped the other 'exhibits'. Holbrook frowned and threw a scowl of his own over his shoulder at the other man. Sam was willing to bet that all the decisions around here were made at the top. This man couldn't allow anyone else any control, but obviously the hunter had quite a bit of input. He struggled to remember the man's name. It was in there somewhere.

The hunter was older than he was by about twenty years. That probably meant that he had hunted with John and Bobby and Jim Murphy, or at least was known to them. That also meant that Sam might have seen him at either Bobby's place or Jim's as a child. There had not been many, and John had been almost anal about keeping his boys away from the other hunters for a variety of reasons. Most of those reasons were along the same lines of why Dean and Sam had avoided Gordon Walker all those years ago, until the man had come hunting them. Hunters were a rough crowd by nature, and some of them hunted simply because they got to kill things. A memory suddenly niggled at the back of his brain, and then bloomed into full life as his new little trick of total recall kicked in.

He had been eleven or maybe twelve, and was staying with Jim Murphy at the parish. John and Dean had been gone on a 'training' hunt with Caleb and Joshua after a werewolf. Sam had been left behind to practice his Latin. He had aced that and had moved on to reading about demon lore and some very disturbing things about possessions. He was pretty sure that Pastor Jim would not have approved of his reading choices. He had been holed up in Jim's library while the pastor was dealing with a hunter who had dropped by looking for some information for a hunt. Per John's request Jim had told Sam to remain in the library until the other man left, and Sam had been happy enough to do so. He was still at that age where strangers still made him a little nervous, and with what was really out there, who could blame him. But he had been jolted from his reading when he heard yelling coming from the living room. He had gone to the door and stood there, not sure if he should disobey the order to stay or not, listening for other voices.

He was going to go back to the desk when he heard more yelling and some glass breaking. He instantly grabbed the shotgun that was hidden there in the library, loaded with a mix of salt and blessed iron rounds he knew, and rushed out into the hall. He cautiously approached the living room where the noises were continuing. He poked his head around the doorway and almost gasped out in surprise. The strange man had Jim against the wall, his arm twisted back and up in a painful hold that Dean had showed him the week before. Jim was shaking his head and talking fast, but as Sam watched the man pushed Jim's arm up farther, causing the pastor to grunt in pain. Sam set his jaw and slid the safety off.

He stepped around the doorway and moved so that the stranger was in his line of fire but Jim was not. He jacked a round into the chamber, the loud ratchet causing both Jim and the stranger to look around at him, frozen in position.

"L..let him go" Sam was faintly ashamed at the slight quiver in his voice, but he was proud that the gun didn't waver. His dad had insisted that Sam learn how to handle guns even before he knew about the things that went bump in the night, and between John and Dean Sam had learned how to handle most guns, including a 12 gauge shot gun like this one.

"Sam!" Jim said then winced when his arm was pushed up again. The strange man stared at Sam for a moment then started laughing.

"What the hell is this? You got a half sized armed guard now pastor? Keep that silver and holy water safe?" The words were loud and slurred, and Sam recognized it immediately. He had seen it often enough in his own father. John never hunted when he was drunk, but sometimes when he was between hunts he found some solace from the pain in the bottom of a bottle. Dean always made sure Sam was kept out of John's way then, but there had been times when Dean wasn't fast enough. Sam had never been afraid of his father, not really, but he knew enough to be wary. This man scared him. But he was a Winchester, and Winchester's did not show that they were scared.

"Let him go, now!" he ordered, using his best John Winchester voice. It probably would have been a little better if his voice hadn't been quite so high pitched, but he was really nervous. The man laughed at him again, and jacked Pastor Jim's arm up again. It was obvious that he was not intimidated.

"Just cool your jets kid. Once the Pastor here gives me what I want I'll get out of your hair. Maybe you can help the old Pastor out. He seems to be having a memory problem. Where does he keep his stock of silver bullets and salt rounds? If you tell me I'll let him go." Jim started to speak, but groaned as his arm was twisted again. Sam tightened his jaw.

He did know where the ammunition was kept. He had helped make some of the salt rounds. He wasn't old enough yet to be allowed to make the silver bullets, but he had watched Dean do it. He knew how important those bullets were to hunters, they were the main form of protection from and destruction of the supernatural things they hunted. Jim kept a large supply for his friends and other hunters, making them in his spare time and selling it to the hunters who came through for the costs of materials only. The pastor had told Sam that he felt it was his way of contributing to the hunting when he could not get out there himself as often as he might wish.

It was evident to Sam that this man, this hunter, was not willing to pay for the rounds he wanted. That he just wanted to take them, steal them. He didn't know if it was because the man was drunk, or if he was just that way normally. He had very little knowledge of other hunters outside the small group that his father knew. He knew there were others, but he had assumed, foolishly, that they were all pretty much like the ones he knew. Jim and Bobby, Caleb and Joshua, they were like extended family, practically like uncles to him and Dean. He had kind of envisioned hunters as being like Knights Templar, bonded together in the pursuit of the good cause. This was a crushing blow to that belief.

"You are not getting anything but out of here." Sam said, channeling his dad and his brother all at once. "You got one chance then I shoot. Let Pastor Jim go and get out." The man laughed again, and started to push the Pastor's arm again, so Sam did what he had been taught. He snugged the gun hard against his shoulder and aimed where he wanted the bulk of the round to go. Since he didn't know if there was a salt or iron round in the chamber he had to make the best of it. He pulled gently on the trigger, taking up the slack and letting out his breath as he did it. Peripherally he saw the man's face go from laughter to realization that Sam was not kidding, and just as the gun fired he started to move. But it was too late.

Sam didn't really see much after that. The recoil of the twelve gauge threw him back, hard. He slammed into the wall, only holding onto the gun due to the training he had gotten. A Winchester never dropped his weapon either. As he tried to keep from falling he was aware of a scream of pain, and the sound of a body falling. He had a horrid vision of having missed his mark and having killed the man he had only wanted to wound, but when he managed to regain his feet and bearings only Pastor Jim was there, already rising to his feet from where the strange man had thrown him down in his attempt to get away.

A trail of blood, the result of Sam's salt load hitting the man's leg, led from where Jim was on the floor and out the door. Only moments later Sam heard a door slam and then a pickup was peeling out of the driveway. By that time Jim had relieved Sam of the shotgun and was running out onto the porch. He unloaded another round at the pickup, taking out the back window and most of the windshield of the late model truck with the blessed iron rounds. Sam knew the Pastor wasn't trying to kill the man. He had seen the Pastor on the target range and the man hit what he aimed at, probably better even than John Winchester did, but he suspected that the Pastor's temper had gotten away from him a little, and he just needed to do something. It made Sam feel a little better to know that the Pastor was just as human as he was.

Not long after that John, Dean, Caleb and Joshua had returned from their hunt and Jim had made much of Sam's bravery and skill. Sam had blushingly accepted the accolades, feeling slightly bad because he had been so afraid. He was sure that none of the others would have been. He had heard the older men talking later, after he and Dean had been sent off to watch a movie. He had been going into the kitchen to get some more soda and stopped when he heard John's hand slam into the table.

"Edmunds' is going to pay for this. First off he tried to rip you off for ammunition, just about breaks your arm, and makes my boy, my baby, have to shoot him."

"John, he was drunk..."

"What, like that makes it better? He didn't have any problem hurting you, what if he had hurt Sam? Would that have been okay too?"

"No, and I am not excusing him. I am simply saying that men do things when they are drunk that they would not do normally. You know how Edmunds and Brand were. Hal was like a brother to him. When that wendigo killed Hal last month he was devastated, blamed himself because he messed up. He hasn't been the same..."

Sam blinked out of the memory, and he looked at the other hunter with a smug smile, the one that usually started a fight when he used it with Dean. "What's wrong Edmunds, no priests or little kids for you to bully? Can't find any easy hunts to make yourself look good to the big boss? Gonna have to kiss his ass harder now."

Edmunds' head jerked towards Sam from where he had been enjoying a stare down with the vampire and a flush of anger came over his face. Sam knew that he recognized the reference by the look in h is eyes. He jerked forward toward the glass. "You little shit!" He growled. "I shoulda known that brat kid was one of Winchester's spawn. You and your whole family are freaks. Got everyone that you came in contact with killed one way or another from holier-than-thou Jim Murphy to that drunken ass Singer." Sam's jaw had clenched at the slur against his father and long dead friend and Sam stood up at the direct slap at Bobby, but he channeled the anger to another place and smiled coolly through the glass right into Edmunds face. This smile was the one he had learned from Lucifer, and it was guaranteed to get a rise from just about anyone. You took your lessons from where you could.

"Yeah, well I was attacked by a demon at the age of 6 months and didn't have much control of the whole thing from there. Demons, angels, kinda got it from all sides. From what I understood it was you that got your partner killed because you were incompetent and no one else would ever work with you again. My dad, Jim, and Bobby never had that problem, they were respected hunters, and they went down fighting evil all the way. Guess you found a way to make yourself feel important again, make it pay. Bet you play up the 'Big Game Hunter' to a tee, all Stewart Granger and big stories about your dangerous hunts around the water cooler. Do you wear the whole safari outfit when you go out and use an elephant gun?" He had noticed that Edmunds was wearing the whole 'urban safari' look, clothing way more expensive than any hunter could ever afford. He had aimed his barbs carefully, and he saw each one hit with just the precision he was hoping for.

Edmunds had an almost total melt down. He was up against the glass pounding on it, swearing at Sam, at every member of his family. He was practically apoplectic. Sam ignored him for the most part, and looked over at Holbrook who was watching it all with a distant amusement. He let it go on until Edmunds started repeating himself and then nodded at his bodyguards who peeled Edmunds off the glass and hustled him off back down the corridor. That left only Holbrook and the assistant, who was looking nervously from one to the other of the exhibits.

"Very amusing, you knew exactly what buttons to push." Holbrook nodded to himself. "You might just be more amusing than I thought."

"Gosh. I'm so glad to hear that." Sam said, returning to his seat on the bed. "Supernatural thing aside you do realize that someone will be looking for me, right? I'm not like the rest of them that won't be missed."

"Ah yes, your brother, Dean. From what I understand he is almost as big a freak as you are. Went to hell, broke the first seal, back from the dead, and first choice for vessel for an archangel, also wanted by many police agencies cross the country, including New York, and the FBI for a rather amusing amount of crimes including murder. I don't think he'll be going to any authorities to report his brother missing, do you? You might as well be some homeless bum off the street." Sam could see Holbrook's eyes going over his jeans and layers of shirts with contempt and knew that he had little value to the man beyond as a curiosity.

"My brother doesn't need the authorities to help him. We have friends with more connections than the police, some of them have connections that you wouldn't even be able to comprehend."

"Ah yes, your angel friend, Castiel I believe his name is? I would really admire having something like him in my collection, but I am told that like a demon that holding an angel permanently would be rather perilous. You will be happy to know that we took steps to make sure that this building was shielded from supernatural spying as it were. He'll not be able to offer your brother any help." Sam decided not to mention the sigils on his ribs that made it impossible for Castiel to find him, for all he knew the man would decide that they needed a sample.

"Dean has other ways. He'll find me."

"Your confidence is truly touching." Holbrook delivered it in such a way as to show his contempt for the thought, for Dean. Sam gave him a small smile. Let the man have his false confidence. The secretary stepped forward and muttered something that Sam could not make out and Holbrook glanced at his no doubt very expensive watch. "Oh well, I have an important dinner appointment. We'll just let you acclimate yourself to the ambiance here. I'm sure that you will eventually become quite…resigned to your lot in life." He turned and started down the corridor, assistant in tow. Sam let him get most of the way before he spoke with every bit of the confidence that he felt.

"Enjoy it while you can. My brother is going to burn it down." With that he rolled back onto the bed and threw his arm over his face. He didn't wait to see what the impact of his words were on Holbrook, but he did hear a swear word echo down the corridor, and he indulged himself in a genuine smile. Point Winchester.

Chapter 4-

Dean was driving back to their motel, his last three attempts at finding his brother having gotten him jack squat. His first course of action had been to get the damn cursed lighter that had started this whole thing stuffed in the damn curse box. He had gone through the ritual so fast that he was pretty sure that the chant had become one long word, but it had done the job. He had sealed it up with the wax, carefully pressing the sigil into the hot substance and then had taken it out to the car and put it in the trunk. He had assured Randolph that the thing was done and it was over and then went outside.

The next thing he did was search every room in the damn place, both occupied and unoccupied. The occupants had not been particularly helpful about that, not that it really mattered to him. He had been forced to kick down three doors, and had walked in on several sex acts that he was pretty sure were illegal in this state at the very least. He had broken up a drug drop, and what he was pretty sure was some sort of blackmail payoff. Not that he gave a flying fig about any of that. What he cared about was his brother, the unhelpful little brother that was in none if the rooms.

His next stop had been the pitiful little office. The bored clerk had seen nothing, and Dean was pretty sure that was a standard answer for whatever question was asked of him. Dean had insisted in his own inimitable way on a slightly more helpful answer, a process that had left the clerk a bit worse for wear. But it did not help much. The clerk did mention a dark van that had been parked behind the hotel for the last several hours that had left about the same time that Sam had disappeared, however he had never seen anyone leave the van and he hadn't gotten the license. Dean walked around to the back of the hotel with a flashlight, and found where the van must have been. It was a vacant lot, and there was a very clear set of tire tracks, newly made that showed where it had been. There were some cigarette butts near where the passenger side window had been, which meant there had been at least two people in it, but nothing else. Dean looked around, and his eyes caught movement on the awning of the store across the road from the vacant lot. There was a camera mounted on it, a moving camera that just might be at the right angle to have gotten a shot of the van.

It was possible that the van had nothing to do with Sam's disappearance, that it was just one of the drug dealers or someone else, but Dean was not prepared to leave any stone unturned. He had gone into the store, a liquor store it was, and asked to speak to the manager. The little old guy behind the counter had shrugged and said the manager wasn't in till morning, to count the till. Dean had asked about the camera, and the old guy had said that the recorder was in the office, which was locked until the manager got there. Dean would have had no trouble kicking it in, however since the door to the office was in the little plastic box that the old man was in, that was not an option. He had reluctantly left, though not after a careful consideration of the amount of C-4 that he had in the back of the Impala. He decided on a slightly more subtle approach in the morning.

Entering the motel room he had shared with Sam earlier he found himself staring at the bed furthest from the door, Sam's bed, where Sam's duffle sat. Absurdly he hoped that whoever had taken Sam was at least keeping him in a warm place. His brother was not handling the cold well, and he didn't need a brother with pneumonia on top of whatever the trials were doing to him. He dumped his keys on the table and sat down on his bed. He knew he would not be sleeping tonight. He pulled his own duffle over and dug in it for his bundle of fake . He sorted through until he found one that he was pretty sure would do the trick. The manager was probably pretty well versed in the local law, and few people were really impressed by the whole FBI thing anymore, but he thought this one would do it.

He had brought Sammy's laptop in from the car, and he opened it and booted it up. He really needed to see about getting his brother a tablet. Why haul this thing around when they could have a much smaller easier to use tablet? The graphics looked pretty good on those things, and he knew they could get wireless, so why not. He pulled up the local paper and started searching for any similar disappearances. He had to rule out everything he could.

He didn't find anything that set off his alarms in the local news however he did see something that set off his hunter instincts, but not in the usual way. It was an article from a city about fifty miles away, that the local rag had evidently pickup up on a slow news day. I was about how a local child serial killer had evidently moved on, or else was biding his time as the ongoing manhunt had put him off. The article mentioned that five children had been killed in a horrific way, one a day, in a manner that Dean recognized as the usual M.O. of a rawhead. He also knew that they didn't just 'move on'. Once they found a feeding ground they stayed until there were no more children to kill, or they were taken out by a hunter. That is what must have happened here, but Dean was not sure who it had been. There were so many fewer of them now than there had once been. The apocalypse had seen the end of so many of the hunters, and the leviathan had taken care of a lot of those that had managed to survive. It was getting to the point that he and Sam and a few others like Garth were it. He knew for a fact that Garth was not up here, and he wondered who was. Maybe a new hunter was coming up, like those kids, the next generation. It made Dean feel old.

Putting aside the thoughts about a new hunter he continued to scroll through the information, finding nothing. He pursued a few more ideas, but found the same. Damn it, why was there nothing with a big damn sign on it saying 'Little brother being held here'? He finally gave up after several fruitless hours and spent the rest of the night lying on the bed trying to think of something, anything he could do to locate Sam.

Chapter 5-

Sam woke the next morning still cold and hungry. He had wrapped himself in the wool blanket, leaving on his coat and wrapping the muffler around his head. He had wished for the knitted cap that had evidently been lost when he was captured, but it was long gone. He had been happy to find that the mittens that he had so disdained a few days earlier were still in his pockets. The wool blanket had made it barely tolerable, but no worse than some nights that they had been forced to stay in the Impala when money was tighter than usual or Dean was on a losing streak.

He rolled out of the cocoon of the blanket, pausing as the vertigo swirled in his head for a moment. He pulled off the mittens, carefully putting them back in his pocket and availed himself of the facilities after a glance down the corridor. He couldn't do much about the privacy issue, and it wasn't like he could turn off his bodily functions so he was just going to have to suck it up. He did a few exercises to get his blood moving. There were some sturdy pipes that ran across the ceiling of the cell, and he used one to do some pull ups. His stomach growled in hunger and he had to think about when he last had something to eat. It had been lunch yesterday, which had been some soup and bread. He wouldn't have even done that if Dean hadn't insisted. Evidently fasting was doing wonders for his appetite. A glance at his watch showed it was just after six, about the time he usually woke. He had a sudden and unusual for him attack of homesickness for the facility. He would have shuffled down to the kitchen and started some coffee and gotten a bowl of cereal or made some oatmeal. It was a completely unfamiliar thing to have a place, but he missed it already.

His attention was drawn to the corridor when a man wheeled a closed cart into the area. He had not seen this man before. As he watched the man started sliding trays in to each of the cells. As he approached Sam could see what was on the trays, and his stomach turned as he could see the raw meat on several. The vampire received a bag of blood like you would get in the hospital for a transfusion. Sam was next on the drop off and he received a tray with a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, a small cup of coffee, and an apple. The man never even looked at him. Well, guess that put him in his place, he was just another animal.

He sat down and ate the food, after a short bit of doubt about what might be in it. He decided that it really didn't matter, as he was dependent on them for food, and refusing to eat would be counter productive if he wanted to escape. He set the apple to the side for later. When he was done he put the tray back down on the floor near the opening, figuring that it would be collected in time. He needed to start figuring out what he was going to do to get out of here, and failing that what he could do to contact Dean. There had to be a way.

"So, this is the great Sam Winchester, famed in song and story." It was the vampire, leaning against the glass of its cell. "You'll forgive me if I'm unimpressed." Sam cast a glance in that direction then went back to studying what he could see. He really didn't care about what the vampire thought of him. As far as Sam was concerned once Dean showed up they would take care of all the supernatural things on their way out of this place.

"I mean really. You and your brother are like the boogie man of my kind. We scare the newly made by telling them about hunters like you. And yet here you are, pale and sickly and stuck in a cage. Tsk tsk tsk."

"Sort of like you?" Sam asked sharply. The vampire stopped laughing and sneered at him. "Well I'm new to the neighborhood, but how long have you been here?" He wasn't sure that the vampire was going to answer at first, but then it caved.

"I've been here a week. The spirit was here when I got here as was our less than live friend over there," It pointed to the zombie. "The harpy, too. My friend over here," it pointed to the rawhead "was brought in at around the same time I was. You probably can't see it, but there is a rugaru in the cell on the end on the other side. It appears to be hiding under the bed. And thus you know us all. Everyone, behold Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire and late of hell itself if the rumors are true." Sam decided to ignore the sarcasm.

"Can I assume that no one has tried to escape so far?' he asked.

"Tried being the operative term. As you are no doubt familiar I am stronger than you, and I can not break this glass or whatever it is. I watched the rugaru attack it intermittently for several hours with not so much as a scratch." Sam nodded. Trying not to think about how much this vampire was starting to remind him of Benny, though he didn't have the Cajun accent, Sam directed his gaze up at the system on the ceiling.

"They pull the windows up and out of the way to get us into these cages, right." He got a nod. "Have you tried lifting it by the food opening?" The vampire narrowed his eyes but then turned them to the slot. He bent and hooked his fingers into it and then tried to straighten. The window moved, but it only rose a few inches and Sam could tell that the vampire was giving it all it had. Finally it allowed the window to drop back and stood back, gasping. It shook its head.

"Too heavy. It's got to be over 700 lbs." Sam nodded.

"It's ballistic glass. The old layered style. If it were one of the newer types with the carbon polymers it would be a lot lighter."

"Oh well, I'm so glad I could help you work that out. I know I'll rest easier on my little concrete bed for the rest of my very, very long life knowing what it is that is holding me in here. Of course I will have the satisfaction of seeing you shrivel up and die, so there is a bright side." Sam ignored him again, thinking furiously.

"Did you see any part of the rest of this place? Do you know where it is?" Sam asked. "I was unconscious, but they couldn't tranq you."

"They used dead man's blood, just enough to debilitate me. I wasn't at my most observant. We are somewhere in northern New York, Somewhere near Glens Falls I know that. It's a large warehouse style building, inside of a guarded fenced compound. It's all white on the outside, very neat. I caught the first part of a sign on the building. The first three letters were 'Tri'. The inside was a little clearer. Our friend Mr. Holbrook is quite the collector. This appears to be his little museum. There are a bunch of old cars, paintings, ceramics, that kind of crap all laid out like some kind of museum. And then there's our little corner of hell. If you don't mind me asking what is this information going to do for you? Did they forget to take your cell phone?"

"No, but if we can get a message out to my brother somehow he can come and…"

"Kill all of us and rescue you?" The vampire said. Sam looked over at him. "What? Your brother is just as well known as you are. He's quite the legend too. Also it is well known that he is…intolerant of vampires. Even with Lenore and her nest I understand he was less than happy. Something along the same lines as your Daddy, no?" Sam could not dispute that Dean hated vampires, Benny being a notable exception, and he had noticed that this one hadn't made any claims to not having attacked humans. As to John, there was no chance that John would have allowed any vampire to live, no matter what rationalization they made.

"Maybe we can work out an agreement, a cease fire so to speak until we can get out of here." Sam jerked his chin toward the rawhead and the zombie. "They are not going to be any help, or the rugaru. So no deals for them." He offered. The vampire shrugged.

"I could care less about them, little more than animals in any event. I notice that you didn't include our ghostly friend."

"I may have an idea. But I'll have to think about it."

"You do that. If you and your gung ho brother can get me out of here I promise no open hostilities unless I am attacked, and that cease fire doesn't include our host or his minions." Sam bit his lip. He really didn't feel right green-lighting a vampire to attack a human, but then these humans had kidnapped him and showed every intention to keep him for at the very least a long time. He also had few illusions about what would happen if he failed to 'entertain'. Holbrook would put him out with the trash. He nodded agreement and went to his bed looking around his bare cell. The day stretched out before him, and he missed the library.

Just as he thought that the man with the rolling cart reappeared. He collected what empty trays there were. At the vampire's cage he offered a selection of books. The vampire refused. When he came to Sam's cell Sam looked over the book selection. It was obvious that the books had been pulled from some sort of library collection. They were all leather bound quality volumes that someone would have in their study. He scanned the titles. Classics all, most of which he had read numerous times. He finally selected a collection of philosophical writings that looked to offer at least a little bit of intellectual stimulation. The man with the trays raised an eyebrow at his choice, but other than that there was not a word said as he slid the book into the slot and rolled away. So much for the 'entertainment', whoopee.

So the day went. The man returned with lunch for Sam, evidently the others did not require a midday meal, and other than some snarky comments exchanged with the vampire, who had finally unbent enough to offer the name James, it passed with no interaction at all. Dinner appeared in the same way, and Sam asked for another book, mentioning that he was already halfway through the first, eliciting another raised eyebrow and gaining a rather thick volume of the writing of Marcus Aurelius that barely fit through the slot. He continued to pass the time reading, plotting, or wondering exactly what Dean was doing right then. It was several hours after dinner when he heard James make a disgusted sound from his cell.

"What?" Sam asked, dropping the book on his chest. James moved forward so that Sam could see him and Sam sat up and moved closer to his own window.

"Time to be 'entertaining'." James said with a scowl. At Sam's puzzled look he nodded his head toward the entry. "I can hear them. Holbrook is showing off his collections. He'll run them through the cars and the art and then he'll spring the freak show on his group of giggling guests. He'll expect us all to be at our freakish best, so that everyone will be suitably impressed. Don't worry it'll only last a small eternity, and maybe they won't tap on your window like they were trying to get the attention of some fish in an aquarium." The lights suddenly dimmed. "Ambiance." James growled.

Sam sat back down on his bed, unsure of what was about to happen. Again he was unsure of exactly what was expected of him. As he told Holbrook it wasn't as if there was any outward signs of his freakishness. Of the abomination that was his mixed blood. He couldn't exactly pop out a slide show of his time in the cage. It was almost half an hour before he too could hear the sound of people talking and laughing as they came down the connecting corridor. He had noticed that the dinner server had pulled a screen across the opening of their area, and he could barely make out people milling around in the corridor. Finally he could hear Holbrook talking, though he could not make out the words. Making an introduction he assumed. Then the screen was pulled aside and a group of people entered.

They were all very expensively dressed, obviously for a cocktail or dinner party, and they were all holding various types of glasses. Eyes wide, they filtered into the area. They stayed in a group, going to each cell, reading the information and staring at the inhabitants. The women screamed as the rugaru charged the glass, wolf-like jaws slavering as it tried to reach them. Sam noticed that Edmunds was there, dressed again in the 'safari chic' No doubt to act as the knowledgeable guide to the freaks for any questions. Holbrook hung back, smirking at the reactions.

Sam could hear him talking about expanding the collection as time allowed, playing up the difficulty of finding the creatures and the expense of imprisoning them in such a way at to keep the viewers safe. Strange, Dean and Sam never had any trouble finding the damn things, and they had better way of dealing with them once they did find them. Sam found himself almost feeling sorry for the creatures as they were gawked at. James obligingly displayed his extra teeth and hissed at the crowd as they knocked on his window. Edmunds passed a packet of blood through the slot, Sam had wondered why he had been the only one fed that night, and he was noticing that bloody meat was being passed in to the rugaru and the zombie to make them feed to the crowd's fascinated disgust.

Finally most of the group had filtered down to his end cell, and they were all standing around reading the placard at the side of his cage and he wished again that he could see what was there as the people looked from the information to him with doubtful looks. Holbrook worked his way through the crowd until he was at the front. Edmunds stood at the back, a smirk on his face. Sam suspect he was not going to enjoy what was about to happen.

"And here is my latest addition to the collection. As you can all see he appears to be human, however he is in fact the epitome of unusual. I'm sure you've all read the excerpts from the books based on his life in the display, and you may have even read all of the popular series, thinking it was some sort of modern myth. I assure you that just as the creatures you have already seen are real all the stories about Sam here are true. He has been to hell, and come back from it, been dead how many times now Sam? Two, three, more, and come back. He's been to heaven, seen angels and demons. He has been a vessel to the greatest evil that exists, Lucifer himself. He was the devil personified. Think of the things that Sam has seen and done. And he is here now to answer your questions about it all. Aren't you Sam?" Holbrook turned as he said that and leveled his gaze on Sam. There was an implied threat in that look, and Sam saw the smirk on Edmunds' face grown even bigger.

He had stayed seated on the bed as the people had approached and stared at him, and he decided that he was not going to dignify this whole thing by standing up and going to the window. He shrugged, seeing Holbrook's jaw tighten.

"Sure, I have nothing better to do since I was kidnapped and am being held here against my will. What better way to pass the time than by answering asinine questions from entitled rich people. My life is an open book, literally." He leaned back casually on his arms, smiling at Holbrook's dark look. He knew there would consequences, but he could not help channeling his brother.

There followed a series of inane questions about his life, what he had experienced, hunts he had been on. He answered most of them, figuring that it was all in the books anyway, He ignored or redirected personal questions about himself or Dean. When one of the women asked him about hell he simply looked at her and let that part of him that would probably always be tainted by Lucifer come out, and answered her truthfully. It was somewhat gratifying to see the women gasp and the men pale as he described one torture session. When he was finished he cast a glance at Holbrook and raised an eyebrow at the man's scowl.

"What? Too much? I can never tell?" He drawled. He had never shared with anyone, not even Dean who was the one person that might really understand, the details of any of the countless torture sessions that Lucifer and Michael had amused themselves with during his time in the cage. Whatever it was that Castiel had done when he had taken on Sam's memories of hell, it had allowed Sam to view all of it from a distance, to push it away, and lock it in the back corner of his mind where so many things languished. Now he could take those memories out, one at a time and view them dispassionately, as if it were someone else having their skin flayed off their bones one morsel at a time to the soundtrack of bickering archangels. Not that he wanted to of course.

The crowd of partiers, all looking slightly nauseas, had moved on the ghost's cell, casting nervous looks in his direction. Holbrook stayed in front of his cell, jaw set tight. As the others started discussing the ghost he turned dark, cold eyes on Sam.

"You do that again, and I will make your life a living hell. And don't think for a second that I can't." Sam scoffed at him.

"Were you listening? I've already been there. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn't been done a million times." He knew he was pushing the man, but he could not help it. He needed to give Dean time to find him, but this guy was such a dick! Holbrook leaned closer to the glass.

"Maybe, but I can make a pretty good attempt, and I am sure some of your fellow prisoners would love a shot at you on general principle. Wouldn't that make a fine spectacle?" The dark face got darker, "And if that isn't enough, then let's think about your brother out there all alone, and worried about his missing brother. What if something were to happen to him? Maybe someone drops a word to the local authorities about a wanted criminal in our midst, or maybe there is an unavoidable accident. You need to think about that the next time you think about letting your mouth get away from you." He stepped away, shooting his cuffs and straightening his tie. "Maybe a day or two with no food will help you to get a little introspection. Why don't we try that to start?" He sauntered off to merge with his group of guests. Edmunds who had been hanging around behind Holbrook slid into his place in front of Sam's cell. He smiled. It was a nasty twisted thing.

"Maybe I can make sure that Mr. Holbrook knows that I would be happy to take care of your brother for him. I'm sure I can arrange all kinds of very painful accidents. It would be my pleasure." Sam scoffed, hiding his fear for his brother.

"You couldn't take Dean on his worst day. He can out hunt, out drink, out shoot, and definitely out think you. The only way you could hurt him would to be from a distance like you took me with the dart gun. Like the coward you are." Sam drawled. He turned his back in contempt, and was satisfied with the thump of a fist he heard on the window. Holbrook called Edmunds' name sharply, and Sam grinned over his shoulder at the angry hunter. "Master's tugging on the chain, better run." Edmunds slammed his fist again before moving off to Holbrook. Sam heard James chuckling.

"It's like reading a chapter of 'How to Win Friends and Influence People', watching you. You really know how to keep on their good side." The vampire observed. Sam gave him a half shrug.

"Skill I learned from my Dad, and my brother, and possibly as a natural talent." Sam watched as Holbrook guided the group out of the area, with one dark look over his shoulder at Sam.

"Oh to be so popular. When I first got here and refused to perform for the first group they didn't feed me for three days. I decided to participate after that. I don't believe that you are going to do quite so well with that as I could." Seeing as how the vampire would survive, even if starved, Sam was sure of that. And if they cut off his water he would have been in even more trouble. No, he needed to get word to Dean somehow, and that meant he had to get out of this cell at the very least.

Sam lay back down on the bed, carefully moving the small packet of food that he had saved from his lunch and dinner plates to a safe place against the wall, along with the apple from his breakfast plate. He was glad he had the foresight to store up. He needed to think.

Chapter 6-

Dean just wished that he could think. He had been pushing all day long, following clues from one thing to the next. Climbing up the ladder that he hoped would lead him to Sam. He was living on bad coffee and fumes at this point. He hadn't slept the previous night, simply staring at the ceiling as he tried to figure out his next steps.

That next morning he had pulled on his suit and put his pistol in a shoulder holster. Once he was happy with his appearance he headed out to the liquor store. He parked a ways back from it, knowing that the Impala did not exactly fit the image he wanted to project. He took a deep breath and let his new persona settle over him. He reached over and grabbed the briefcase he had dug out of the trunk earlier. He then marched toward the door of the store. He was going to get that tape.

And he had. It had taken only a flash of his ID and the badge that he had clipped to his waistband to have the store manager bending over backward to do anything he could to help out Agent Hammett with whatever they could. He had been a bit surprised when Dean had asked for the tapes of the previous afternoon. But a vague reference to unpaid taxes on ill gotten gains and shady dealings at the motel across the street had been enough to make sure that the man had not only let him see the tape, but had made a copy for him on CD. Dean had thanked him for his help and retreated to the Impala where he had Sam's laptop. He had pulled up the approximate timestamp and watched as a dark van had pulled into the vacant lot across the street. Thinking back he was pretty sure that it was about the same time that they had pulled up in the parking area of the motel. He was getting a very bad feeling about this. He watched the van sit there for what seemed like ages, but really was about ten minutes. He could not make out any faces of the occupants while they were inside, but he saw the glow of the cigarette from the passenger side. After twelve minutes the passenger got out of the van, and while Dean could not see the man's face he knew two things about him. One, he was carrying a rifle of some sort, and two the man was a hunter, a hunter of the supernatural, a hunter like he and Sam.

Dean knew that the rifle had to be some sort of dart gun because he hadn't heard so much as a crack of a rifle firing. Even with a suppressor there would have been some noise so close to the motel. Also that explained why Sam had been taken with no noise or fight. As to the second thing, he couldn't see the man's face, but he could see him move, and there was just something about a hunter that stood out, even Garth could project it if he really got into it. Also the camera was at such an angle that it caught the passenger somewhere below his chin when he got out of the car, and around the man's neck was a talisman, an anti-possession talisman. Dean would know that shape anywhere and he was willing to bet it was silver. What the hell did a hunter want with Sam?

Dean watched, jaw twitching as the passenger and another man who must have been in place before the van got there came back carrying a dark bundle that had to be Sam. They were not gentle as they tossed it into the back of the van and drove off. As the van pulled out of the lot the front of the van was head on into the camera and the angle was perfect. Dean wrote down the license plate number. He put the laptop to the side and started the Impala. All right, He had his first lead, now he needed a little bit of help from the police.

Four frustrating hours later he had finally worked his way through enough departmental paperwork to have considered just burning the place down and starting over with some other police department. His ploy of that morning had not got him very far here. He had been shuffled from department to department, spinning his fake story, and asking for help getting an ID on a license. He had filled out more forms than he knew existed, and finally it took being left alone in one of the offices with access to a computer for him to get on the system and pull up the data. He barely managed to write down what he needed and get back in the visitor chair before the newest detective had returned, apologizing for the hold up. He had then of course requested yet another form that Dean had not yet filled out, and he promised to get that and come back after lunch. He wondered how the police around here ever got anything done with so many friggin' pieces of paper to be filled out for everything.

He was now sitting outside the address of the van owner's house. The house was currently unoccupied, and he was about to break in to see what he could see. There had to be some clue. There had to be. He had shed his suit and was back in the more comfortable jeans and shirts, and he was glad that he would blend in better in the neighborhood. He sauntered casually cross the street and up to the door. He carefully looked around, but there was no one on the street, and no one appeared to be looking out of the houses. Most of the occupants of this place were probably at work now, and the kids would be in school. Perfect. He had picked the lock and was inside within minutes. He might not be quite as good as Sam, but he was no slouch.

He tossed the place expertly. He soon knew the guys name, where he worked, and he sat down on the couch to look over the work schedule that he had found a copy of in the desk with the computer. Thank god for people who still used hard copies. The pay stubs said that this guy worked for something called Tri-Brook Industries. The schedule showed that he had been due to clock in at four o'clock yesterday, and the schedule said 'off-site assignment'. It also had a small note regarding the submission of the necessary paperwork for the personal vehicle use reimbursement. Dean would make sure that the man was paid for his work. He was saving the guy paperwork. According to the schedule the guy was due off in an hour, and Dean hoped that he would be coming directly home. He was pretty sure that he was not going to be in a better mood the longer he waited. He helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator and settled back on the couch with the remote, might as well pass the time recharging a little.

He had just turned off Judge Judy-and who wanted one of those yappy little rat dogs anyway, they just pooped all over and got you sued on TV give him a pit bull or German Shepherd any day, then lets see someone complain about getting his yard pooped on then-when he heard a car pull up in front of the house. Looking cautiously out the window he was unsurprised to see the dark van from the night before. He loved it when a plan came together. He had figured out exactly how he was going to do this, and he positioned himself behind the door, pistol ready.

The door opened slowly, and the man that Dean was supposing was the van's owner walked in, looking through his mail. When he had pushed the door closed Dean stepped forward and slapped the pistol against the back of his head. The man was out like a light.

Dean dragged the man into the kitchen where he had prepared his tools. The kitchen was in the back of the house, and farthest away from the road so any…noises should be stifled. To be sure Dean put a gag in the man's mouth after he tied him to the chair. Dean took care of a little housekeeping and waited for the man to come to. Once he had done so and shaken off the confusion of the blow his eyes fell on Dean, sitting on the table, tapping the pistol against his thigh. The man's eyes widened. Dean smiled at him.

"Hello. You don't know me, but you are about to. And I think that it is only fair to you to let you know that how well you get to know me is going to depend on how cooperative you are." Dean slid down from the table, and he could see the man's eyes going to the knives and other implements that he had spread out on the table. The man paled. Dean smiled again. "You have a choice. You answer the questions I ask, with out lying, and we part company, as strangers. You refuse to answer, or you lie to me, and yes, I will know, then you are going to get to know me very, very well. Do I make myself clear?" The other man nodded. Dean reached over and picked up one of the larger knives. He studied it carefully.

"You know Don, I hope that I can call you Don, we are getting to know each other after all, but you know I think that the first thing that you should know about me is that I only have one thing that I really truly value. Well, two if you count my car, she is my baby, but the first thing, the thing which I will do anything for, that would be my little brother." He laid the blade flat side along the other man's face and drew it off slowly. "Do you have a brother, Don?" Don shook his head. "Too bad, I am afraid that you might not really understand then about how I feel about my brother." Don shook his head frantically in negation. Obviously he thought he could understand. Dean paced around behind Don and put the blade to his throat, this time using the sharp edge. Don suddenly froze.

"Anyway Don, this little brother of mine, the one that means everything to me, he went missing yesterday evening." Don's paralysis seemed to extend to his breathing suddenly, and Dean knew that Don had figured out exactly who he was talking about. This was good. It would be less work.

"Now I am sure that a sensitive guy like you can feel my pain, the pain that I am feeling missing my brother." He drew the blade lightly over Don's throat, opening a thin bleeding line. "Can you feel my pain Don?" There was a cautious nod. "Good." Dean moved around so that he was in front of Don and met his eyes, the big knife in his hand. 'I am going to ask you a question now, Don, it will be a yes or no question, and I want you to remember that I will know if you lie, so consider your answer carefully."

He paused for effect.

"Last night you helped someone else kidnap a man from the no-tell motel downtown, you used your van in fact, didn't you? Probably still gotta fill out that personal vehicle usage form and all." Don was staring back at him with big eyes, and Dean could almost see the man trying to figure out what the best answer was going to be. It was a matter of who he was more scared of at that moment and how much he thought Dean knew. Finally Don made a decision and he shook his head. Dean stared at him for a moment then gave a deep sigh. Obviously, Don had not made the right decision, too bad.

Dean started flipping the knife he held in his hand, alternately catching the blade then the handle. He did that several times, waiting until Don's eyes were glued to the knife flipping faster and faster in his hand. Then, on a flip where he held the handle he suddenly stepped forward and drove the blade through the other man's left thigh. Don screamed into the gag, his breath coming out in sobs. Tears were instantly flowing down his face, soaking the gag. Dean studied the wound clinically. The blood was welling from the wound slowly. He had chosen his placement carefully, well away from the femoral artery, very painful, but quite effective.

Dean casually leaned against the table, allowing Don to pull his act together. Once the man had calmed down, and his breathing was sounding less like sobs Dean stood back up. He picked up another knife. This one was thinner than the first, a filleting knife. Dean tested the sharpness on his thumb. He nodded his satisfaction and met Don's still watering eyes.

"Now Don, I feel that we have gotten off on the wrong foot. You obviously did not understand me when I said that if you lied to me that there would be consequences. I think that you now understand that, don't you Don?" The other man nodded shakily. "Good. Then let me ask you that question again, in case you might have forgotten it. Last night you helped someone else kidnap a man from the no-tell motel downtown, you used your van in fact, didn't you?" This time Don nodded quickly. Dean rewarded him with his nicest smile, the one that usually got him laid.

"I really feel that we are making a connection here, Don. Now, I am going to ask you the next question, and I want you to think long and hard about what you are going to answer, because I would hate to have to use this knife to peel back some of the skin on your face like I was peeling an apple. You don't want me to do that do you Don?" Another frantic head shake. "Good, good. Now Don, there was a man that was with you, the man that was in the passenger seat, the one with the rifle. I want his name." Dean started to reach for the gag, but then stopped.

'I am going to trust you here Don. Based upon this budding friendship that I feel we have established. I am going to take the gag out of your mouth and you are going to tell me the name of the man, and you are going to give me an address, the address where you took my brother." Dean considered the filet knife again then looked back at Don. "You know my brother is really good with knives, Don, has been since he was a little kid. Was better than me by the time he was fourteen. I miss my brother, Don, and when I miss my brother I get a little short on patience and kinda testy. That means that if you try to, oh say, yell out for help, or if you try to give me anything but the information that I have requested, I am afraid that I am going to let my lack of patience make me do something that you will not enjoy. Do you remember my question, Don?" Don nodded. Dean reached for the gag.

"Edmunds, 18569 Talbot street here in town." Don said succinctly. Dean patted the man on his back, smiling.

"See, that did not hurt at all." He said, pulling the gag back up. He slipped the filet knife carefully into his jacket pocket. It had his prints on it, and while he didn't think Don was going to be reporting this to the police, it did not hurt to be cautious. He had already wiped down everything else he might have touched, including the remote. That only left one thing. He leaned down so that he was on eye level and he pulled something out of his other jacket pocket. It was a knitted hat. He dangled it in front of Don's eyes.

"You see this Don?" He asked. Don nodded with a frown. "I found this laying on your counter. I gave this to my brother about four days ago because he hasn't been feeling very well lately, really feeling the cold, ya know. Now, because of you and your friends my little brother is out there without his hat, and if he gets sick from this, or if he is hurt in any way, I'll be back, Don, and we will continue our bonding. Do you understand?" Don nodded. "Good." Dean said as he reached out and jerked the knife out of Don's thigh. Don screamed into the gag again and then passed out. "I'm glad we understand each other." Dean wiped the bloody knife on Don's sleeve and carefully put it back in the sheath on his belt. Then he left, locking the door behind him and wiping the handle. He had a brother to find.

Chapter 7-

The next day Sam was not included in the meal hand out in the morning or for lunch. He didn't really care until he was also passed up for dinner since his appetite was gone again. He waited until the man had left and pulled out the half of peanut butter and jelly sandwich he had saved from the previous day's lunch. This having not much of an appetite might just pay off. Of course that meant he would be weaker than he was already, and that was not acceptable. He needed to get things moving before that happened. He needed to contact Dean. He rose from his bed, scratching at the scruff that was his beard, and moved to the window, but this time his focus was on the cell to his left. He couldn't read the information on the display as it was too far away and at the wrong angle, and he needed to know it. The ghost was standing at the glass, staring back at him, and he was pretty sure it had not moved since he had gotten here. He gave it a tentative smile.

"Can you tell me your name?" He asked her. It was not uncommon among spirits long dead for them to forget what they were called in life. Only their cause, the reason that they remained, was clear in their minds sometimes, that and the anger. Almost all ghosts were still here as the result of violence or some sort of disastrous death, and the main feelings that remained was the terrible anger of having their lives cut short. There was a long pause then she spoke.

"Violet, Violet McCreedy Hutchings."

"How did you die Violet?"

"My husband, he thought I had lain with another man. That our two youngest children where not his. He…" Sam couldn't help but wince. Suddenly gone was the nicely dressed turn of the century woman, in her place was a horrify corpse. Sam could tell from the wounds that she had been hacked repeatedly with an axe or hatchet. The worst wound was the one that nearly split her skull in two. Well that explained the lingering spirit thing.

"I'm sorry that happened to you. But it's been a long time. Even with the sigils these boxes shouldn't be able to hold you, why are you here instead of wherever he killed you?" It was a very important question. She turned her eye toward the wall of her cell, and Sam followed her gaze and saw what he had not seen before. On a small hook set on the wall hung a locket. It was of the old style and he suspected it had a rather large compartment in it. He looked at Violet who was gazing at the locket.

"A lock of your hair?" He asked. It had been a common practice in those days to keep a hank of hair form a dead relative. Violet shrugged. She probably really didn't know. Most ghosts didn't know what held them here until a hunter tried to destroy it and them. He looked over at James who had been listening in on the conversation.

"Can you read the display by her cell?" He asked. The vampire frowned but nodded. He read off the information, and Sam made mental notes of what he thought was the most important points. Sam turned back to Violet. The ghost was staring at him again.

"Violet. Do you want to leave here?" He asked. She pondered the question.

"This place or this...existence?"

"Both, or either. Would you not like the chance to go to your well deserved rest? To your heaven, to be with your children." Sam knew he had taken a misstep when the woman's spirit started sobbing hysterically.

"My babies, my babies!" She wailed. The locket was swinging wildly on the peg and the blanket, which she obviously had no use for flew across the cell and draped over the sink. "I can't leave my babies with...him." the contempt and fear and hate with which she spat the last word told Sam exactly what he needed to know, or at least he thought so.

"Violet. Violet!" he yelled at her, trying to get her attention. "I can make sure that you and your children all get to go home. Help me, help us, and I will help you and your children." She quieted and the wind that had been whipping around the cell slowed to a stop.

"He has them. He won't let them go! He said they weren't his but he won't let them go." She said quietly.

"I understand. My brother and I, we do this all the time. We can find what is holding him here. We can make sure that he is gone, and then you and your children can go. Just please...please help us get out of here and I promise I will help you." Sam made his plea. He knew that Dean would go along, probably more so than the truce with James. After all, dealing with vengeful spirits was what they did, when they weren't busy saving the world that was. She considered it then nodded. Sam let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"Great, that's great. Now the first thing that you need to do is move the locket outside your cell." He knew ghosts could manipulate things. Over the years he had had just about everything thrown at him by angry spirits, but he also knew that ghosts could manipulate things calmly, Bobby had shown them that. Violet had obviously never tried as she stared at him in confusion. He tried to remember what Bobby had said he had been forced to do to make things move. He told Violet what Bobby had told him, and she seemed to understand. She went to where the locket hung and reached out her hand to it. At first her hand just passed through it, but as she stood there, staring at it, she wrapped her hand around it and slowly, very very slowly it began to rise as she lifted her hand. It was evidently too much for her to support when it was unhooked and it fell to the floor. She knelt beside it and the locket was soon sliding across the floor toward the slot. It fell out and onto the floor. Almost instantly Violet blinked out of her cell and stood outside it next to the locket. She smiled at Sam who smiled back.

"That's great Violet, just great. You picked up on that very quickly. Now, can you move about the room?" She did so, disappearing from where she stood to reappear at the end of their area then back again. Sam nodded. "Okay, now you need to go to James' cell, and put your hand on the edge of his window where the food slot is. Wrap your hand around so that you are touching both sides of the window. Hold your hand there. Don't be afraid, there is nothing that can happen to you. I just need you to hold your hand there for awhile. I'll tell you when you can let go." The ghost went to where he had asked, and wrapped her hand as he had instructed. She had to concentrate to hold her hand apart instead of it passing through, but she did it. As Sam watched the glass began to frost over. The white rime growing slowly over both sides of the glass. He looked up at James.

"You need something strong, metal, like a piece of pipe." As soon as he said it James turned and ripped the sink off the wall. The basin went flying to shatter into a hundred pieces, leaving James holding a three foot length of pipe. Well, that should do it thought Sam with a blink.

"Now what?" James asked. Sam looked back at the window. The corner of the window was heavily frosted now.

"Violet. Step back now. Out of the way." she couldn't be hurt, but he wanted her away anyway. He looked at James. "Glass is a liquid, even this stuff. Ballistic glass of this type is several layers of glass stuck together. It is brittle when it is frozen. Hit it, with everything your have, right at the corner where the slot is." Almost before he finished speaking James had hauled back and let go on the glass. There was a resounding crack and the inside layer of glass spiderwebbed, James hit it again and the spiderweb was on both sides now. Several more blows did not further the destruction and Sam had Violet move back in. She did so and they repeated the same process over and over until the glass was shattered enough that James could kick out that portion like a trap door in the window.

Sam felt a surge of optimism. This was going to work. He would be able to contact Dean soon. But then he saw that James was heading toward the entry. He was leaving Sam here!

"James!" He yelled. Without the vampire he had no chance. The creature looked back over his shoulder with a small smile which Sam could almost say was apologetic, but then he turned to leave, and would have probably done so if Violet had not been standing in his way. But this wasn't the pretty, plainly dressed woman. This was the mutilated corpse of a dead woman, her eyes were crackling with power. She raised one arm, pointing back towards Sam's cell. When the vampire tried to simply push past her she became a whirlwind of ectoplasm and electricity. The vampire went flying back down the corridor, sliding to a halt against Sam's window.

The vampire tried again. But this time when he hit Sam's window it was at the top not the bottom. Even the supernatural creature was moving slowly when it climbed to its feet. Violet packed a punch. Finally James turned to Sam and shrugged.

"Had to try. No hard feelings?" He asked, picking up the pipe again. Sam shook his head. He had not been really surprised at the betrayal. He gestured toward the ceiling and the hoist.

"That's going to be a lot faster." James dropped the pipe and headed toward the hoist controls that were on the wall beside one of the cells. After a few attempts he got the hang of the controls and had maneuvered it over Sam's cell. Another bit of experimentation and he figured out how to attach to the window and was hauling it up. Sam slipped out of the cell as soon as the opening was high enough.

He was somewhat disappointed that it was not any warmer out here than in the cell. He had been cold for days now, and he had kind of been looking forward to getting warmer. Of course he knew that Violet was not exactly warming up the area, but it was colder even than she would have been making it. He huddled further into his coat and wrapped the muffler around his neck. He refused to wear the mittens. Leaning over and scooping up the locket and carefully placing it in his jeans pocket, he headed toward the connecting corridor, hoping that they would simply be able to walk out, but suspecting it would not be that easy. If Holbrook was using this as a museum for his treasures, it was sure to be guarded at the least, and was probably locked down pretty well. He took some comfort that most places, not counting prisons, were not set up to prevent breaking out, just breaking in.

The made their way down a long corridor past several large rooms in which Sam only glanced. He saw statues in one room and a collection of jewelry and stones in another. There were no windows in either room. Guess that explained the lack of warmth. No need to heat what was a really a glorified warehouse. The gems and statues wouldn't care, and neither would the supernatural creatures. Why spend the money? Sam also noted camera's mounted in the corners of the rooms, and rushed by the open doors, hoping that the angles would hide them from any watchers. Evidently they hadn't felt the need for camera's in the 'zoo'. After all there was no chance of them getting out, right?

They came to a wide sweep of stairs, not your regular warehouse steel steps, obviously Holbrook wanted his guests to be comfortable. James put out an arm, barring Sam's way when he went to go down. The vampire cocked his head in a listening attitude. Sam bit his lip. Was it possibly a roving guard? They really did not need that.

Suddenly James was in motion, running down the stairs at a speed that to Sam's eyes made him into almost a blur. He heard a broken off sound that could have been an aborted scream and then nothing. After a few moments James reappeared. He was wiping at his mouth and Sam felt a sick feeling in his stomach. The vampire had evidently fed. He couldn't really say anything about it, that had been part of the deal, but it went against every bit of his training to allow it, even when the human that had been killed was complicit at the very least in his kidnapping and imprisonment. The guards had to be aware of the cells upstairs, and they had done nothing. James indicated that Sam could come down and he did so, Violet following behind as he did so. It was surreal, working with a vampire and being backed up by a ghost.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs James held up a cell phone and Sam snatched it out of his hands, bringing up the screen on the smart phone.

"It's locked." James said, indicating he had already checked it. Sam gave him a grin and started using some of the tricks he had learned over the years. In a matter of minutes he had the code and was punching in Dean's number. The phone tried to connect, but he saw that there was only a little over one bar. He shook his head.

"Not enough service in here." He moved the phone around, stepping in several feet in each direction. He could get almost two bars, but it was not enough for the call to go through. He stopped in the area with the best coverage and started typing. He glanced up at James "Sometimes when you can't make a phone call a text can get through. It is a compact data package. If I can get this through to Dean it will help him find us, and we can keep trying to get out of here ourselves." He grunted in satisfaction when the phone showed that the text had gone through. He slid the phone into his pocket and looked around. To one side was a room with what appeared to be sliding doors. Through a small window in the doors he could see a large room with painting hung along the walls. Evidently the art gallery, in its separate temperature controlled area. Looking the other way he saw a large open area that was filled with cars. He scanned the high ceiling. He did not see any obvious cameras. Evidently it had not been deemed necessary to monitor this area either. Since no one had appeared at the sudden disappearance of the guard, and he wondered just where James had stashed the body by the way, he hoped that there was only one man on duty, and that he monitored the camera from where ever he was stationed when not checking the area. That would be helpful.

There was a door at the end of the building past the cars and Sam led the way toward it. Sam was not really into old cars like Dean and his father had been, but he had to admire some of the machines they passed. They really were beautiful. He also recognized some newer cars that looked very very expensive. As they approached the door he noticed that James started slowing down, and he finally stopped when they were about ten feet from the door itself. Violet did the same. Sam stopped and looked back at them when he noticed that they had not followed him the final few feet. He had peripherally noticed that there appeared to be a keypad next to the door. Evidently you had to enter a code to exit. Well that was going to make things a little more difficult, but not impossible.

"What's wrong?" He asked. They were so close, even with the coded lock. James shook his head and pointed down. Sam looked down and mentally cursed. There was a metal circle imbedded into the concrete, and Sam was willing to bet that it was iron. It ran in a semi circle from one side of the wall in which the door was to the other side, encompassing not only the small door, but also the large garage style door through which the cars had obviously been brought. So, they had taken some precautions in case the supernatural beings they were holding got loose. A second ring ran just inside the other, and seemed to be made of embedded rock set end to end. Sam was willing to bet that the rocks were rock salt. James and Violet would not be able to pass.

He looked frantically around. Even if there were hand tools there was no way he was going to be able to pry that iron ring out, or chip out the rock salt. There was no telling how deep it went. Maybe if he had a jack hammer, but there was little hope for anything else. He looked back at Violet and James stuck on the inside. Wait a minute….

"There has to be another entrance." He said. James frowned.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you're here, you are all here." Sam pointed out. James gave him a clear 'duh' look, and Sam explained. "They had to get you in here somehow. You said you had only been here a week. This wasn't done in the last week. That means that they had to have a way to bring you in that was not warded. Something hidden." He looked around, but other than what appeared to be some restrooms, there were no other doors. He looked back the way they had come. Something niggled at his brain. He snapped his fingers and headed back toward the stairs.

"What?" James asked, following. The silent Violet did as well. She seemed content to follow his lead, and he was more than happy to have her there, considering that he was not really comfortable with James being at his back. Violet had shown that she wanted Sam's help in freeing herself and her children from their hell on Earth, and she was willing to do whatever she could to get that accomplished.

"You said that you saw the paintings. If they had brought you in from any door on this side there is no way that you could have seen them unless those door were open." The windows that Sam had been looking through were at his own eye level. James was a good four inches shorter than he was, and he could not have seen through. "That room is climate controlled for the paintings. They wouldn't just leave the door open and it looks like they close automatically. There has to be a door in there somewhere that is not warded."

They went past the stairs, and this time Sam caught sight of the legs of the guard who James had stuffed under the stairs. He gave a mental head shake. He had to let it go, had to count it as a casualty of war. The doors to the gallery opened automatically with a sound not unlike some science fiction airlock, and they entered into a warm dry environment. Just a few steps inside and the temperature went up about twenty degrees and the humidity dropped to about half what it was outside. Sam could stay in here for a while, just to get his body temperature up to something approaching normal.

The walls were hung with almost a hundred paintings, many of which Sam recognized as being by old masters. There were literally millions of dollars in this room alone. He nervously looked up at the cameras that were hung in each corner. There were no alarms going off, but that didn't mean that someone hadn't seen them and was coming. They needed to move fast. He spun around, looking for the door, but he didn't see anything. James was doing the same. They ended up looking at each other with a shrug.

"It has to be here somewhere." Sam said.

"Maybe you were wrong about the doors." James suggested, looking again. Sam shook his head.

"No, you can feel the difference in here. You don't go to this much trouble to keep it like this and then just prop the doors open when you feel like it. It's not like he would have had a bunch of his friends touring when he brought you in." Sam moved toward what had to be one of the outside walls and stared running his hands up and down the walls, avoiding the paintings.

"What are you doing?" James asked, tagging along.

"It has to be some sort of hidden panel, somewhere on one of the outer walls. Even a well insulated panel is going to be cooler, be leaking some colder air. We should be able to feel it, or some air movement." James nodded his understanding and went to the wall on the far end and started doing the same as Sam.

Sam was almost all the way down the wall when James gave a "Ha!" He looked over and saw the vampire running his hands along the wall in what would seem to be the shape of a door. He rushed over. As he did so he saw James draw back a hand as if he were going to plunge his hand through the painting that hung at the edge of what had to be the moveable panel.

"No! There should be a release in here somewhere." He managed to get a hand on James' arm before he destroyed what Sam could see was an exquisite Le Trec. He might not like Holbrook, but he wasn't going to destroy a priceless treasure out of spite, or allow the vampire to do it either if he could help it. James scowled at him, but he lowered his arm then stepped back to allow Sam access.

"Le Trec was a aristocratic, rude, nasty, little man. I knew him, and the world was infinitely better off when he managed to drink and screw himself to death." He moved away. Sam gave a mental shrug. Evidently there was a little bitterness there.

Sam looked closely at the wall and could see where the door had to open. The Le Trec was right next to what had to be the side that opened. He looked at the ornate gilded frame that held the painting and began running his hands over the carved vines and flowers that made up the frame. In the bottom left corner one of the flowers gave way under his questing fingers and the door moved smoothly in towards him.

He pulled it further open and could see the regular door set in to the concrete wall. There was a number panel next to this door too, but when he looked down there did not seem to be any metal imbedded in the small piece of concrete that was visible. James had also been able to approach so it was a pretty sure thing that this one was clear. Sam looked at the code panel. He needed to get the top panel off. He must have muttered that out loud because a hand reached around his shoulder and with a wrench the top was torn off. He gave the man a nod in appreciation and turned back to it.

He manipulated the wires as he had learned and soon there was a click from the door lock. He tossed a grin over his shoulder at James. He pulled the door open and glanced cautiously out. The door opened in to a corridor, but he could see an open area outside at the end. He jerked his head at the others and moved cautiously down the corridor. It was silent outside, and Sam could just make out a chain link fence about fifty feet away. The corridor ended in a sort of loading bay. Sam started to turn back to speak to James who was following when a lance of fire seemed to pierce his left side, spinning him into the wall.

As he slammed into the wall he caught sight of Edmunds dropping his rifle and scrambling for the machete that was on his thigh as the blur that was James charged at him. Sam was vaguely aware of two or three other men moving toward him. He tried to rally, to get up, but gravity seemed to be acting peculiar here and he could not fight the pull. As he hit the ground he felt the temperature drop and Violet, in her most gruesome mode, pass by him headed for the two men. His last thought as the darkness claimed him was he really hoped that Dean got his text.

Chapter 8-

Dean was sitting in the Impala across the street from the address that his new friend Don had given him. It was just after 6:00pm and most of the people had come out of what appeared to be a local office of Tri-Brook Industries. Google had provided him with a pile of information about the corporation that was of little value as far as he could see. The corporation was wholly owned by some rich guy named Holbrook who on paper at least reminded Dean of the dearly departed Dick Roman. That was probably not a good thing. He had wondered briefly if the Leviathan had somehow managed to do an end run around the whole back to purgatory thing, but had discounted that almost immediately. They were not that subtle.

From where he sat he had a clear view into the parking garage that serviced the offices. There were only a few cars remaining, and once they were gone he was planning on doing a black bag job on the office to see what he could find. He slunk down in his seat as a dark van, not unlike the one that Don had been driving drove into the parking lot. Damn it he hope this wasn't a cleaning crew. But instead of parking the van pulled up to the door that connected the garage to the office building and honked twice. A moment later a man came out the door and strode toward the van, and Dean sat up straight behind the wheel, hands clenching into fists. He would recognize that walk anywhere. This was the hunter he had seen with the rifle. The on that had gone after Sammy. His idea of black bagging the office went out the window. When the van pulled out of the garage he was behind it.

An hour later Dean was if anything more puzzled than he had been before. He had followed the van out into the country side not far from the city. Luckily traffic had bee heavy enough that he could blend in pretty easy. They had pulled in to an old graveyard. Dean had stopped outside, knowing he would be seen if he followed them in. It seemed unlikely that Sam was here, but Dean could not take the chance that there was some sort of building where he was bring held. That he might be occupying a grave here was not something that Dean wanted to contemplate.

He scaled the crumbling brick wall that surrounded the graveyard and using the the old tombstones and monuments managed to move within a hundred feet of the van without being seen. The men had lit up the place with some work lights, and were moving around with purpose. He watched as the men unloaded what appeared to be a net, but he noticed that each point where the mesh met there was a shiny metal charm. He was willing to bet they were silver. What the purpose of such a net was he could not figure. A net meant you wanted to catch something, not kill it. Any hunter worth the name went for the kill.

He watched for almost half an hour as the men went about setting up what could only be described as some sort of trap. A corridor of salt led from a mausoleum to a wider circle around a fresh grave. At least they didn't dig the newly buried person up. Dean really didn't want to know if these guys were grave robbers on top of kidnapping.

What they were up to became apparent soon when the door to the mausoleum creaked open from within. That was never a good sign. As soon as the form stepped out he recognized what it was. A ghoul. He watched, fascinated as the ghoul was herded to the grave and once it accepted that it was not going to get any other opportunities due to the salt blocking it's way, it started digging at the fresh dirt. Before it could make any progress the net dropped over it and the men worked together to wrap it tightly in the net, completely immobilizing the creature. Once that was done they packed it into the back of the van and packed up their gear. Dean took this to mean that they were done and would be heading out soon so he made his way quickly back to the Impala. Trying to figure out what the hell.

He got there just in time to see the van pulling out of the graveyard. He followed, thankful for the half moon which provided just enough light for him to do so without turning on his lights until the van had merged back onto the interstate, headed away from the city from which they had come. This was promising.

Dean was starting to get frustrated when an hour later the van was still driving. What were these guys up to, opening a free lance long range creature hauling business on the side? He was giving the Impala's gas gauge a wary look when his phone suddenly range with a tone for a text message. Who the hell would be texting him? Garth liked to talk, Kevin usually had more to say than a text would entail, and quite frankly they really didn't have anyone else that would be texting them. He glanced at the phone, quickly, trying to see who it was that had sent the text without driving off the road or into incoming traffic. But he did not recognize the name. He tossed the phone back on the seat beside him, into Sam's place, and pushed the Impala a little closer to to the van. He did not want to lose them.

Ten minutes later the interstate had become the main street of a small town and what traffic there was had stopped at a light. Dean was three cars behind the van. He sighed and instinctively turned his head, ready to entertain himself with his brother, only to be jolted again with Sam's lack of being there. Damn it. He snatched the phone up, remembering the text. If this was some spam call he was going to have Garth hack whoever it was and screw up their servers. He started reading the text and almost dropped the phone in his surprise. It was from Sam!

Traffic started moving again. Dean was torn, should he pull off or follow the van. Would Sam be telling him where he was or just saying come and get me? He could not afford to allow the van to get away if it was the only lead.

The traffic ahead of the van slowed to a halt as someone tried to make a left turn. Dean seized the moment to read the text in full. He was glad as soon as he did that he had not lost the van, but at least he knew where they were probably going. He had seen the sign for the town Sam mentioned about ten miles back. They still had about five miles to go. Dean managed to pull in to the other lane when there was a break in traffic and he accelerated around the van. He would get there first, and wait for the van at the edge of town. Always better to follow someone from in the front.

Fifteen minutes later Dean was watching the van pull up to a closed gate that was part of an impressive looking fence that ringed a large white warehouse that had the words Tri-Brook Industries painted on the side. The van waited, idling at the gate for almost five minutes before the side door opened and one of the men got out. He went to the gate and rattled it, looking through the gate toward what Dean could see was a guard shack. There was no response from the shack, and the man turned and spread his hands to those in the van. The man in the passenger seat, the one Dean knew was a hunter, probably the Edmunds that Don had mentioned, slammed out of the van, digging in his pockets. After finding a key card and then punching in a number on a keypad the gate slowly started to open. The men got back in the van.

Dean got out of the Impala, and went back to the trunk, he got out a shotgun and a small duffel. The gate had finally made it's way open and the van pulled forward and through. It disappeared to the right. Dean sprinted from where he had parked and barely made it through the gate before it clanged closed. He looked after the van. It seemed to be heading toward the far end of the building. Dean moved in to the shadows cast by the building and ran after it.

The van stopped at the end of the building. Dean stopped too, puzzled as to why it had done so. There was no door near where they had stopped. As he slunk into a deeper shadow the passenger door opened as did the sliding door on the side. The hunter got out, holding a rifle and two men climbed out of the back, taking out guns as they did so. They talked for a moment then headed in the same direction as they had been going before. Dean moved after them, thanking the shadows for the concealment as he passed the van and slipped around the corner. He saw the three men standing in front of what appeared to be a dock. As he watched the hunter lifted his rifle and fired at something inside the dock.

The hunter tried to work the action of the rifle, but it seemed to have jammed. He dropped it and went for the machete that was strapped to his thigh. Dean had figured that was there for the ghoul, in case it got loose. As Dean watched in amazement another man that he had not seen before ran out toward the hunter from the dock, he was moving at an incredible pace, and as he neared the hunter, who had finally cleared his machete, Dean saw his mouth open to display a second set of teeth. A vampire.

The other two men were starting toward the dock as the hunter and the vampire started to circle each other, each making swipes at the other but not connecting. Dean decided to ignore them for the moment, and dropping the duffel, raised his shotgun planning on taking out one of the other men. But just as he was taking up slack on the trigger a whirlwind of ectoplasm and electrical energy spun out of the dock like a mini tornado. Dean easily recognized it as a very very pissed off ghost. What the hell was going on here? The hunter and his friends pick up a ghoul, they come to some warehouse in the back of beyond and get attacked by a vampire and a poltergeist. Was there a freakin' convention in town?

Dean decided to move in closer since everyone seemed to be busy and he had yet to see any sign of his little brother. He cautiously poked his head around the side of the dock, fully prepared to draw it back quickly in cause a wendigo was waiting there to chew on him. Instead he found a Sasquatch, HIS Sasquatch. Sam was laying against the wall, still wearing the same clothes he had been taken in, but the jacket had fallen away from his side and Dean could see a growing stain of blood. That bastard had shot his brother!

He was starting forward when he heard a sound that he was well familiar with. The sound of a machete passing through the neck of some fugly. He turned to find the hunter standing over the body of the vampire, and as he turned the hunter's eyes met his. Dean didn't know what the man saw in his eyes, but he bet it was not pretty. The hunter wavered for a moment, but just as Dean was jerking up his shotgun the other man's nerve failed and he turned and ran. Dean put a load of rock salt into the man's ass.

The hunter was far enough away that the load only made him stagger, though Dean was willing to bet that the bastard was feeling that salt. Dean was torn between chasing the man down and going to his brother, but only for a moment. There was time for vengeance later, for now Sam had to come first. Sam turned back toward the dock, and found that the ghost had evidently taken care of the other two men. Even with all his experience he still had to grimace at the bloody remains that lay in two heaps on the ground.

He felt no remorse for the two men, they had evidently known what they were getting into, and they had obviously been involved in taking Sam. That had meant their lives were forfeit anyway, so the ghost had saved him the trouble. He would have been a little more grateful if the ghost, now in the shape of a very chopped up woman, hadn't been standing between him and Sam. He started to raise the shotgun again when he heard Sam's voice call out.

"Violet, he's not one of them. He's here for me, please don't hurt him." Sam gasped out. "We'll help you I swear, but you have to let him help me." The ghost moved back toward Sam, and as she did the gruesome wounds closed and by the time she was at Sam's side she was a plain but tidy looking woman in an old style dress. Sam looked at Dean and tried to smile.

"Took you long enough. Almost rescued myself, well with a little help." He quipped, trying to drag himself upright against the wall. Dean bounded up onto the dock, keeping an eye on the ghost who now seemed content to watch. He got a hand under Sam's arm and helped him up. He could feel his brother shivering and wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the cold, or both. Sam leaned heavily on him.

"Edmunds, the hunter, he..."

"Ran away Sammy. We'll deal with him later. Looks like we need to get you taken care of now." He started Sam toward the stairs off the dock, but Sam resisted. "Sammy..." He started to say, but his brother was shaking his head.

"Can't go yet. There is a rugaru, a harpy, a zombie and a rawhead upstairs. We have to deal with them before we go."

"What the freakin' hell Sam?" Dean exclaimed. "Is there a convention in town that I didn't get the invite to?"

"Not a convention, Dean, a collection, a zoo of freaks. Rich dude wanted to have something that no one else did, and he chose supernatural creatures. Ran his friends through here like they were touring some museum. He had it all set up with displays and explanations. Edmunds did his collecting for him, set up the sigils and cages."

"You...you were in a cage? They put you in a cage?" Dean's question was a growl, and he could see that Sam regretted that he hadn't found a slightly better way to break that news. Ever since their adventure with the backwoods wilderness family, the Benders, and then the whole thing with Lucifer's cage Dean had been particularly sensitive to Sam's dislike of cages or cells, or even particularly small rooms. Maybe even more than Sam was. The thought of his brother locked up like some freak made his blood pressure spike. He had to mentally pull his attention back to Sam who was still talking.

"I got out Dean, but we can't leave those things here. He'll just move them somewhere else, start all over. We need to destroy them." Sam was staring at him, puppy dog eyes in full deployment. Dean reluctantly nodded. He might as well give in now, because once Sammy turned on the eyes it was just a matter of time. He tugged on Sam's arm, continuing the way he had been going. He might be caving, but it was going to be his way.

"Fine Sammy. We'll do the whole multi-pack fugly thing, but first we are taking care of that wound. Then you are staying in the car while I do the deed." Sam complained as Dean dragged him towards the gate. It was no surprise to find the van gone, but the beheaded body of the ghoul laying in the parking area was. Guess this Edmunds dude didn't want any extra baggage to slow him down. Probably a good plan since Dean was planning on hunting the hunter as soon as he had Sam settled somewhere safe.

He tried to ignore the ghost that followed along with them, but when she moved into the back seat when he lowered Sam into the front passenger side he couldn't do it anymore.

"All right Sammy, I know I've always said that you need to pick up a girl every now and then, but I gotta tell you I was thinking about someone a little less...dead. Who's your friend?" As Sam explained who Violet was and how she had helped him escape Dean got out the first aid kit and exposed Sam's wound. Thankfully it was a through and through. No bullet to dig out. But it was still sluggishly bleeding. It need some stitches, but that was not something Dean could do here. He sprinkled some coagulating powder on the wounds and then covered them with field dressings.

He left Sam sitting in the car with the ghost sitting silently behind him, and while it made him a little nervous, he shook it off as he got what he would need to take care of the fuglies. He had mentioned to Sam that he was all for killing the creatures tossing a bunch of salt in and burning down the whole thing, but Sam had thrown him such a bitch face that Dean was afraid that his face would freeze that way. Sam had patiently explained that there were paintings and antiquities that were priceless in there, and that they could not burn them. Dean had his own priceless item, sitting in his car where it was supposed to be, and quite frankly didn't care about a bunch of scribbles or pots or whatever, but it meant something to Sam, so he caved again.

It took him almost an hour to kill, salt and burn the creatures. It was kinda convenient having them all caged up and waiting. He lit off each one inside the cells so that the fires would be contained. It was tiring and gruesome work, and he missed having Sam there to help, but he persevered. On the way out he spent a little time in the garage portion of the warehouse. He might have promised Sam that the antiquities would survive, but he hadn't made any other promises, and all the cars in there were not classics.

His final burning was the ghoul laying in the parking area. He squirted the last of his accelerant on the body and added the last of his salt. He was not used to doing this wholesale. He needed to hit the club store for the extra party pack next time. He walked away as the ghoul burned merrily, sliding into the car next to Sam. He had left Sam locked in with his Taurus in his lap and covered with a couple of blankets. He was glad to see that Sam was still conscious, and aware enough to reach over and unlock Dean's door after he had dumped his supplies in the trunk.

Dean slid behind the wheel and took a good look at Sam. His brother was pale, and he was shivering a little even with the two blankets. Dean cranked the engine and turned the heater up full blast. He would probably be sweating soon, but Sam needed it, so...He pulled out onto the road and looked into the rear view mirror to see Violet watching him. He gave her his best smile. He could hardly fault Sam's loyalty to the ghost after his thing with Benny. And it wasn't like she was going to be set loose to haunt some place.

He pushed the Impala as hard as he dared without getting a ticket. It did not seem like a good idea to get pulled over with a smelly, bearded and shot little brother in one seat and a ghost occupying the back seat. Dean hoped that Sam appreciated the fact that he had not mentioned that Sam was ever so slightly ripe, and the heat in the car was not helping. He finally felt that it was safe enough to find a motel, and he pulled into one that looked like it might be on the upper end of their usual range.

He got just one room, like usual, then wondered what the hell he was going to do about the ghost. Sam might be used to having the spirit hanging around but Dean was so not sleeping with the woman standing there staring at him. When he pulled up to the room Sam was stirring from the nap he had been taking as they drove. Still blinking sleep from his eyes he twisted around in his seat with a wince and was digging in his jean pocket. With some grunting he managed to produce a small locket. After a moment's hesitation he hung it over the rear view mirror, leaving it dangle there. He then turned and looked at Violet.

"We'll get you to your children as soon as we can. But we have to sleep. You can't be seen or there could be problems." She nodded and faded out. Okay, that was taken care of. Dean helped Sam stumble from the car to the room. He led Sam directly into the bathroom though Sam had tried for the bed furthest from the door. He settled the hulk on the closed toilet and started peeling off Sam's layers. How could the kid be cold, he must have been wearing half of his clothes? He pulled off Sam's boots and socks, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Three days of no bathing was not a good thing for Sasquatch. No wonder the other name for them was skunk apes.

Sam struggled back up to his feet and unbuttoned his pants, pushing them down so that Dean could pull them off. He stepped into the shower still wearing his boxers, an act that Dean appreciated. There were just parts that he did not want to see of his brother. The water turned on and the boxers came flying over the top of the shower curtain. Dean kicked them into the pile of discarded clothes.

"I'm gonna just burn these on the spot, Sammy" He yelled over the sound of the water. "That way I don't have to touch them again. Don't mind the smoke, I'll just turn on the fan to take care of the fumes." Sam's head poked out of the shower.

"Don't burn the jeans or the boots. Those are the hardest to replace. The rest can go." He said. His hair was covered in suds. Should have guessed he would go for the hair first, Dean thought with a smirk. He kicked the boots and jeans out of the pile and scooped the rest into a handy garbage bag. He scooped the jeans and boots into another bag and took both outside. He left the bag with the boots and jeans tucked under the back of the car. He was not stinking up his car more than necessary, and if anyone stole them overnight, then they got what they deserved. He threw out the other bag.

He returned to the room and left a few item on the vanity in the bathroom. It was almost a half hour later when Sam came out of the bathroom, clean shaven and still dripping but with a towel wrapped around his hips. He chucked the extra large can of deodorant that Dean had left in the bathroom at Dean's head and went to his bed.

Dean had laid another towel out and had the field kit spread out on the nightstand, and he helped Sam sink down onto the bed. Sam stretched out and let out a sigh. His wound was seeping a little in the front and Dean figured the back was probably much the same. He needed to get the stitches done. He reached over and picked up one of the ampules of morphine that they had. Sam shook his head, but Dean nodded his in answer.

"Gotta do it Sammy. I've gotta probe both wounds for any debris and then sew you up. You need the sleep and we aren't going anywhere tonight." Sam sighed.

"Just the one." He assented. Dean agreed and gave him the drug. He was soon taking care of the wounds, carefully turning Sam to access the wound on his back. When he was done he positioned his brother on his good side and pulled the covers up over him. He sat down next to Sam who instinctively curled up around him, one hand coming up to curl in the hem of his shirt. He had forgotten how good that felt, that connection with his brother that they had lost when Sam had hit puberty and touching became a girly no no. He ran a hand through Sam's mostly dry hair, and let himself come down off of high alert. His brother was back where he belonged, with Dean. He might be slightly worse for wear, but Dean could handle that, and Dean would handle the ones that had done this.

He sat for a while longer, his hand resting on Sam's head, just taking in the feeling. If no one was there to see the chick flick moment but him, then it didn't happen. After a bit he went to stand, but it turned out that Sam was not ready to let his big brother go. Even in is unconscious state Sam was holding on to Dean's shirt with a firm grip. Dean could have pried his hand loose, but he was not going to hurt his brother further, so he slipped out of the shirt. Sam drew it in like a teddy bear and hugged it to his chest, face buried in its folds. Dean grinned and fished out his phone, taking a few pictures. Hey, black mail was blackmail, and everything was fair game.

With Sam safely tucked in, but not going further than his own bed in case of nightmares, Dean opened up the laptop and started doing a little research. He had some people that he needed to find.

Chapter 9-

The next day Sam was feeling predictably worse. That was just the way of it with gun shot wounds. The shock had allowed him to function to some degree the night before, but now all of the nerve endings in the area were protesting and it hurt. He refused anything but extra strength Tylenol, but that only really took the edge off. He tried to convince Dean that they needed to take care of Violet, but he had refused to even consider leaving that day.

With Dean being uncooperative Sam had resigned himself to a day of research on Violet's behalf. He had noticed that Dean had used his computer, and knew what for. When was he going to realize that wiping the history really didn't hide where you had been if you knew where to look? Sam sure was not going to tell him. It worried him to some degree that Dean was plotting against Edmunds and Holbrook, but he knew his brother well enough to know that there was no stopping what was coming, it would be a matter of Sam being the voice of reason and keeping Dean from doing something that he would regret later, or something that SAM would regret later on Dean's behalf more likely, since he knew Dean would have no mercy for the men that had taken him, human or not. Sam suspected that Edmunds was going to take the brunt of Dean's anger. Holbrook might be an entitled rich ass, but Edmunds was a hunter, and you just didn't turn on other hunters like that, especially for money.

Sam shook off that thought for another time, knowing that Dean could not put his revenge into action until they got moving again anyway, so he tried to remember all the information that James had read off to him from Violet's information display. It took him almost an hour to find her using a combination of hunter's websites of known hauntings and some genealogy web sites that he had hacked some time ago. She had married Turner Boyd Hutchings in 1895 and had given him six children. They had lived in a small town in Connecticut that was not far from Bridgeport.

He switched over to the town newspaper site and was glad to see that while they did not archive their own back issues they had sent all of their historic issues, those over a hundred years old to the Connecticut University for archiving. The university site had access to most historic papers in the region online and Sam took full advantage. It took him most of the day, but he finally found what he was looking for.

On January 15th 1911 Turner Hutching had evidently left the local bar after drinking to excess. While he was there a 'friend' of his had told him that he had heard a rumor that his wife had been sleeping around with another man for the last four years and that the same rumors said that their last two children where not his. Hutchings had made several threats on both the life of his wife and the supposed other man, but no one had thought to do anything about it. From there most of what happened was supposition, but it was pretty clear that it was close to what had happened if not right on. Evidently Hutchings had decided that his wife was more to blame than any other man, so he had gone home and had driven his older children out into the winter weather in the middle of the night in little more than their bed clothes.

The eldest, George, had gathered the other three children together and sent them to the neighbor's house for warmth and help, then he had tried to break down the door. Soon after the others left he heard horrible screaming coming from the house. He broke through a window and climbed inside, but he was too late. Hutchings had killed his two youngest children in their beds. His wife he had killed with a hatchet kept in the kitchen for making kindling. It had been too much for the kid who had stumbled out of the house and into the arm of the rescuers who quickly became a mob. Hutchings was dragged from the house and hung from the tree in the front yard. His body was left there for days before being cut down and burned since the graveyard at the parish church where his wife and two children were buried on hallowed ground had refused to take him. The real tragedy was that the 'friend' had admitted after the fact that he had just been 'joshing' with Hutchings, jealous of the loyal wife he had when his own had left him the month before. Sam was somewhat pleased to note that the man had been subsequently run out of town.

Sam was sure they would be able to find the grave sites of Violet and her children since most churches kept fairly good records of burials. But she had indicated that her husband was also hanging around, and that he was somehow holding her children there. There was nothing like murder and subsequent hanging to make a ghost into a vengeful spirit, but since his body had been burned that meant that there had to be something else holding him here. Sam accessed the county land records and found out that the property that had belonged to Turner Hutchings was currently owned by a George Thomas Hutchings, Jr, who must have been a descendent of the oldest son. County records indicated that the man was in his eighties, which would be about right. There was no sign that the house had been rebuilt over the years, meaning that it was probably original to the time that the tragedy had taken place. They would have to go and find out what it was that was holding Turner there. After that there was a good possibility that Violet and her babies would be able to go willingly, but if not then Sam and Dean could burn their bones and the locket. Sam had asked Dean to confirm that the locket had indeed held pieces of hair and his brother had said that it did, and in fact it looked as if there were a variety of colors of hair in there. Sam thought it was possible that Violet had a hair sample from each of her children in there. Unlike the usual ghost he suspected that it wasn't that Violet couldn't move on. He thought that it was that she wouldn't move on without her children who were stuck here with Turner.

He bookmarked all the sites with the info he thought they would need. There was no record of any hauntings in the house where the Hutchings descendent still lived, but it was possible that Turner had just not gotten up to speed yet, or that the hauntings had been of such a manner that the family just accepted them and didn't say much. It had been known to happen. Sam could site a number of hauntings, especially in the British Isles, that were practically counted among the family wealth. If you didn't have an ancestor or two hanging around then you weren't anyone.

Dean returned from his dinner run with a salad for Sam, which he picked at without much interest, and a burger for himself. Sam cranked up the puppy dog eyes and asked when Dean thought they could leave. He mentioned that he knew where Violet had lived and it was only about two hours away. Dean had chewed slowly, obviously considering. His gaze had dropped to Sam's mostly uneaten salad and then back up to his face. Sam sighed. Okay, so that was how it was going to be. He picked up his fork and shoveled a bit into his mouth. Dean nodded with a smirk and sat back in his chair.

"I figure we can hit the road tomorrow morning, go and gank the bad guy ghost, free the woman and kiddie ghosts and have it all done with by the end of the day." Dean said. "Of course if you help we won't be done till the day after tomorrow, but I'll let you hold my lighter if you make nice." Sam rolled his eyes and kept eating his salad though he really was full. He had made a bargain with Violet, and that meant they needed to get on with it, and if that meant pandering to Dean's obsession with his dietary intake so be it. That night Dean insisted that he at least take a slightly stronger pain killer which allowed him to get a good night's sleep even if he was a little woozy when he woke in the morning. They packed up and went, Violet appearing in the back seat soon after they had pulled out of the hotel. Sam twisted as much as he could to see her.

"We're going to your old house now. We should be there in a couple of hours. If we can find whatever it is that is holding your husband here then we can burn it. That would make him move on. Do you have any idea what it could be? Is there any of his hair in the locket?" Sam had unhooked the locket from the rear view mirror and he held it up. She shook her head and reached out to caress the locket as best she could without being able to touch it. "Only your children?" he confirmed and she nodded. Sam told her that her grandson still lived in the house. That he was her oldest boy's son and she beamed with pleasure. She seemed no more inclined to speak now than she had before, and Sam wondered if that was simply a function of her personality before she had died.

Sam had spent most of the morning drive sleeping off the remnants of the heavy pain killers and after stopping for a lunch of soup and a half a sandwich that Dean insisted on Sam eating, they pulled into the small town where Violet and her family had lived just after one o'clock. Sam gave Dean directions to the house and they pulled up across the street from it. It was a typical Victorian house with the gingerbread and other decorations. It looked to have been very well maintained and the yard was very nice if you liked the whole picket fence, manicured flower bed thing. The large tree that must of once held the body of Turner Hutchings still stood at the corner of the lawn.

Dean and Sam had come up with a plan on the way. They were both dressed in their suits, though with no ties. They were writing a book on hauntings of New England. While at a local diner last night someone had mentioned that if any house in the town should be haunted it was this one, and could they please talk to the owner? It was plausible, more so than some of their plans in the past, so they hoped it would at the least get them in the house. Sam had a theory that if the ghost of Turner Hutchings was haunting the place then when they brought the locket, and Violet, into the house that should set him off. They had planned to move the old man out as soon at the first sign of violence, with the excuse that they knew how to deal with this because of their familiarity with so many hauntings. The truth alwasys made the best fiction.

In the end it was just about that easy getting in. Mr. Hutchings had been a nice old man who was anxious for any company to chat with. It turned out that he was the last of the line. None of the other Hutching children had any offspring, Two had died during the flu epidemic of 1918 and another during the first world war. Only George had survived and George Jr. was an only child who had no children of his own. He was quite ready to talk about the family scandal and about how late at night you could hear footsteps heading toward the room where the children had been killed and after that you could hear the screaming of a woman in the kitchen. He had seen a large man, who resembled his father, walking down the hallway with a bloody hatchet in his hand. The ghost had disappeared on the way down the stairs. So far the ghost never interacted with anyone, though his care giver recently had been mentioning that she had been feeling like someone was watching her when she went about cleaning the house.

They had asked George if there was anything left over from any of the victims or the murder, saying that their editor liked to have pictures of stuff like that in the book. After some consideration he had nodded his head. He had mentioned the locket, which his mother had worn for many years as a concession to his father, but which had recently been stolen, and also a flask, made of silver and engraved by the company that Turner Hutchings had worked in for twenty years the month before the killings. Turner had carried whiskey in it, and George's father had kept it, just as it was that night as a warning about the evils of liquor. It was in a frame hanging on the wall of the kitchen.

They had asked for a tour of the house, and they had ended up in the kitchen where Violet had been killed. Sam slid the locket out of his pocket while Dean was talking to the old man and he hung it on a small nail that was in the wall with nothing on it. Almost immediately the temperature of the room dropped. The house had been silent up till then except for their voices. At the drop in temperature the old man had stopped talking and they clearly heard the sound of heavy footsteps moving across the wood floorboards above. The sound was coming toward the stairs. Sam exchanged looks with Dean. Dean nodded and put a hand under George's arm. He started steering the old man toward the back door which was only a few feet away. The old man looked from Dean to the kitchen door, through which they could now hear heavy boots descending the stairs.

"He's coming, and this time he isn't just going to watch?" The old man asked. Dean nodded.

"We'll take care of it. We've seen this a lot, what with doing the book and all." They were over the threshold and Sam pulled the bag of salt out of his jacket pocket and started pouring a ring of salt around where he stood. They would be safe from the ghost itself, but if he went poltergeist kitchens were always a bitch. Dean came back in the door and he had grabbed the duffel that they had stashed back there for this very purpose before they had knocked. As he walked in he tossed a shotgun toward Sam who straightened in time to catch it. His side was hurting, but he was determined to do this. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Violet manifest in between him and the doorway just as a large man dressed in clothing of the early 1900's appeared, bloody hatchet clutched in his hand. What almost broke Sam's heart were the two smaller apparitions that barely were visible hovering near the doorway. Turner drew their spirits with him, unable in his bitterness and anger to have any pity for them.

"Is this the man you been cuckholding me with Violet?" He screamed, pointing at Sam with the gory hatchet. "Is this the father of your bastards!" Sam was aware of Dean kicking a metal garbage can over beside the salt ring and snatching the framed whiskey flask off the wall. He smashed it on the floor to get to the flask. This drew Turner's attention and he growled and rushed at Dean. Sam fired off a salt round which made the spirit dissipate. How long he would be gone depended on too many factors to count on, and Sam noticed that items that were sitting on the counter were starting to vibrate. They were on the edge of something very nasty here.

"Dean." He said in that tone that they had perfected over the years. It said hurry up and get it done or we are going to get our asses handed to us by some fugly.

"Going as fast as I can, Sammy." Dean stained to open the flask, no doubt rusted closed over the many years. They needed to open the flask since whatever bits of Turner remained were probably on the mouthpiece. As he put everything into it the ghost rematerialized near the counter. Sam ducked as a knife shot off the counter and nearly went through his eye.

"Not fast enough." Sam observed. He looked at Violet. "Violet, we have to be able to burn the flask. Can you slow him down?" She looked doubtful, but then she nodded and her form melted into the grotesque image of what Turner had left when he had attacked her so long ago, then morphed again into the whirling ball of energy that had killed the two men back at the warehouse. Turner growled and dove at her with the hatchet raised and Sam had to stop himself from firing into the maelstrom that the two formed. It would hurt Violet as much as Turner now, and she might be their only chance to do this the 'easy' way.

Dean was doing everything he could to get the damn cap off the flask, but it was resisting all the way. Sam wondered if Turner was helping with that. Dean was digging through the duffel and muttering, and came up with a pair of pliers. They needed just a few more minutes. Violet seemed to be giving way to Turner as he pushed toward Dean. Sam grimaced, he hadn't wanted to do this, but needs must.

"Violet," He screamed over the roar of the energies colliding. He hoped she could hear him. "If he wins you and your children will be stuck here forever while he does what he wants. It is only a matter of time until he kills someone else, kills someone else's babies. You don't want that to happen." The battle seemed to ramp up at that and the sound became almost deafening, but Sam was able to hear Dean's cry of triumph as the flask finally opened. Perhaps Turner had been holding it closed, and when he had to use more energy to fight Violet he lost control of it. They would never know for sure.

Dean dumped the flask, whiskey and all in to the trash can and poured some accelerant in just for good luck, though from the smell of the whiskey it would have been sufficient. He poured salt on top of it all and then dropped in a whole burning book of matches. The trash can went up with a whoosh. Across the room Turner stepped back out of the fight and turned on them, hate in his eyes. He started toward them, hatchet raised but just as Sam was about to fire another salt round he disappeared. They both heaved a sigh of relief. But Sam saw Dean's eyes widen at something behind him, and he turned to see what it was.

Violet had not stopped her rage when Turner had disappeared. Perhaps she could no longer control whatever it was that sent spirits over the edge. The items on the counter were once again starting to vibrate and Sam knew it was just a matter of time until they were playing dodge the knife again. Sam stepped out of the salt ring, something that was against Dean's express orders, and grabbed the locket off the wall. He had never known if the burning hurt the spirits, and probably never would until he had the misfortune to be on the other side of it. But there was no choice, Violet was out of control. He stepped across the room and dropped the locket into the still burning trashcan.

The whirlwind that was Violet seemed to explode out like a star going super nova. Both Dean and Sam were thrown against the wall. Sam felt like he had been shot all over again and he gladly took Dean's helping hand to get back to his feet.

"Do you think that..." Dean started to ask when he must have seen Sam's gaze was fixed over his shoulder. He turned to see what had caught Sam's eye as soon as he rose.

Violet, the calm quiet version, stood in the doorway. In one arm she cradled a small baby, a girl if the pink blanket and bow in her golden hair were any indication and her other hand was holding the hand of a toddler, no more than two also with golden hair, but this time a little boy. Both children looked whole and healthy. Violet was smiling. Her eyes were happy for the first time since Sam had first seen her in the cell. The three of them seemed to be getting brighter and brighter and just before the light became too bright to keep looking anymore Violet spoke.

"Thank you." And she and her children were gone. Sam was sure it was to a heaven where Violet could be with all her children once more since she had waited so long for her two lost ones. He slumped back against the wall and could see that Dean was looking at him with concern. He looked over the mess that was the old man's kitchen. There were scorch marks on the low ceiling from the fire, there were utensils and loose items all over the floor. There were a few knives impaled in the walls. This was not going to be easy to explain. Sam figured that he would let Dean handle that since Sam was felling so bad and all.

An hour later they were back on the road, headed back to the facility. It was hard to believe that all this had happened over the space of four days. Sam was very very tired, and he hoped that the next trial wasn't going to be tomorrow, or even the next day. He snuggled down in the seat as best he could, his knees against the dash. Dean turned down the radio to a low murmur and that along with the purr of the engine lulled him into sleep. Sam started to drift off, only waking slightly when Dean draped a blanket over him. It was good to be home.

Chapter 10-Epilog

Edward Holbrook's day had not been good. He was looking over the reports from the warehouse. Three men dead, Edmunds and another man missing. The damage upstairs at the building was limited to the cell block room. The exhibits themselves were gone, burned to ashes. Nothing else upstairs or down in the art gallery had been touched. No, the vandalism had been limited to the garage. All of the classic cars had been untouched, but every single one of the super cars, not one worth under half a million dollars had been beaten to a pulp. Not a single piece of glass either in or out remained intact. No panel was undented. Every engine had salt dumped in the oil and gas tank. The remaining junk piles had been splashed liberally inside and out with paint from the supply closet. Each and every car was totaled. The damage was well over ten million dollars.

That in itself didn't really concern him. He had plenty of money and the insurance would pay out eventually though reluctantly. The families of the dead men would be compensated and that would all go away. What really had him mad were the words that had been painted onto the wall, obviously a message to him. He was not used to being threatened. He was usually the one doing the threatening. But this...he would have to admit to a small bit of trepidation, and maybe some second thoughts about what he had done. He picked up the picture that his agent had sent him from the warehouse after the morning guard had discovered the escape and destruction.

The message had been painted on the wall with oil based paint and then the letters had been set on fire, burning the message into the wall. It was simple, crude, and straightforward, just like the man who had left it, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was meant for him. He looked at the words on the wall: "Your ass is mine."

He knew this was not over.

The End

Author's note: Yes, I am going to do a sequel about Dean's revenge. I just though it would be better as a stand alone story. I hope that you enjoyed it so far.