Warning: Non-con and sexual assault featured in later chapters.

Dean stood with his head down in the shit shower of the shit apartment that John had dumped them in so long the skin on his fingertips began to prune. He didn't mind that though, because the water got so hot that it felt like needle pricks all over his skin. He'd scrubbed most of himself raw until his skin protested and turned violent red with each forceful wipe of his rag. But, dammit, he still felt filthy and disgusting.

It wasn't until Sam pounded on the door that Dean turned his head back up and realized that he'd been in there too long. "Dean! Stop using all of the hot water, you jerk! I gotta shower tonight, too! You know what Dad said about jerking off in the shower!"

Dean's jaw clenched. Jerking off was the furthest thing from his mind right now, he was tired, pissed as all hell at everyone and everything and just wanted to clean himself up a little bit. Or at least stop shaking. No, jerking off wasn't even close to where his head was now. But, nonetheless, he turned the knob of the shower and its squeak echoed in the bathroom. Dean grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist and stopped in front of the mirror. He used his arm to wipe away the steam that fogged it and look at himself, really. There was a cut in the corner of his bottom lip, the skin beneath his eye was beginning to swell and bruise and there was another cut just across the bridge of his nose.

"Great. Just fucking great." He remarked. He shut the light off before he opened the bathroom door in an attempt to hide his sorry state from Sam, who stood with his arms folded across his chest in the hallway waiting for his turn in the bathroom. Dean kept his head low as he bristled past and Sam turned and let his gaze follow him down the dimly lit hallway back to their shared room.

"Why the heck are you limping? You know, on second thought, I don't want to know." Sam's only response was the door to their bedroom slamming shut.

Dad, where the hell are you? I can't keep doing this shit.

::::::::::

It had been ten years since Dean thought about that night or anything involving those days. The night, he tossed his tattered clothes in the dumpster behind their apartment building, and took the money he "earned" and bought food that he couldn't stomach to look at, let alone eat much of. John didn't show up for another week. When his phone beeped in his jacket pocket after a text of coordinates from John, Dean's heart sank. Fuck.

This particular Podunk town was in Ohio and Dean was sure there were more cows there than people. There was a gas station, a local grocery store, a library, a bar, a diner, a school that housed both elementary school kids and high schoolers and, as Sam was quick to point out, a Wal-Mart two miles just outside of town.

"God, I remember being here as a kid. Nothing's really changed." Sam paused and rubbed his chin, "I guess nothing really changes in a town like this. " He said as Dean pulled into the lot of the grocery store. There were no motels close enough by (naturally), so they rented out a small apartment just above the store. The doors of the Impala squeaked open as they climbed out and headed to the trunk to grab their duffel bags.

"No, I bet nothing does."

"Huh. It was nice. Dad left us there for, what, a month? Yeah, a little over a month, actually. It was quiet. Peaceful, even."

Dean flashed a grim grin and nodded before he heaved his bag over his shoulder. "Peaceful." He muttered.

They unpacked in silence. Sam set his laptop on the "dining room" table of the small apartment and Dean pulled out stacks of beige folders overflowing with newspaper clippings and printed off data.

"So…" Dean began.

"Right. So, um, there have been these disappearances all over town since the 90s." Dean nods as Sam talks and flicks through the files and pulls pictures of the last six victims.

"What do these guys all have in common with each other?"

Sam shrugged. "I haven't been able to place it. The name of the first guy to go missing Dad sent disappeared 7 years ago. I mean, the timing's sporadic at best but the MO appears to be the same for each of the three guys. The target's always a guy, all roughly the same age, which isn't all that unusual considering how small towns like these work. Some were married, some were single, some had kids, some—"

Dean held up a hand to cut Sam off. "I get it. But they are all from this town, Sammy. That's about as obvious a connection as we're gonna get. Small town like this—everybody's connected."

"Dean, half this town lived and breathed under one another their entire lives. That's not a connection, that's a coincidence. At this point, I think Dad's just screwing with us. We should be tracking the thing that killed Mom and Jess, Dean!" Sam's fist clenched at the end of his laptop and his nostrils flared.

"Sam, you don't know how badly I want to get out of this shithole, but people are disappearing and we need to figure this out. And then we can put this God forsaken town in the rearview mirror and go find Dad." Dean's chair squeaked as he pushed back from the table and he walked over to the nightstand between the two beds. By the dusty lamp, he'd thrown a pack of cigarettes down earlier and didn't realize how badly he needed one until he caught the flare of the reflective packaging from the corner of his eye. He palmed a cigarette, reminding himself to buy more tomorrow and walked towards the door. "Gonna smoke," he said to Sam, with the cigarette dangling from his lips.

He closed his eyes and took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he pushed it out through his nose. The store had closed hours ago and the parking lot was deserted, save for the store's owner beat-up pic-up and the Impala sitting off in the distance. Dean rubbed a shaky hand through his hair and brought the cigarette to his lips again. Fuck. He promised himself that he was going to quit back. Sammy and John didn't need him bent over and wheezing while they were chasing the Thing That Killed Mom (and Jess) because he couldn't shake this habit. But when he found himself in some crap diner in some crap town trying to suck the leftover nicotine from his fingers after a particularly nasty hunt, he figured he could allow himself this one vice every once in a while. Really, he was only human.

He'd finished half of the cigarette before Sam came out to join him, jacket in hand. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Your coat." Sam smirked and Dean glared from his seat on the curb.

"No shit. But what's it for?"

"Dude, I'm starving. There's a diner a few blocks from here. Come on, I know you're hungry, too." Sam knew he was right and Dean did, too. He'd finish sulking later.

Dean tapped the cigarette out of the bottom of his boot and dragged himself to his feet. "We can walk. Dude! A little fresh air won't kill you, Dean..." Sam fastened his jacket and took a few steps away before he half-turned his head to add: "…but those cigarettes might."

"Fuck you."

It was a chilly October night and Dean pulled his jacket collar up around his neck before shoving his hands in his pocket. They walked across brick streets lined with old-timey street lights that buzzed and hummed as they turned on. "Charming" little shops dotted the landscape and Dean couldn't help but wonder what people did towns this dull. He grunted. No, he knew what people did in towns like this. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Instantly, he felt nauseated and could taste the acid in his mouth. For once, he was particularly thankful for Sam's freakishly long legs as he stalked ahead of him. That way, he couldn't see Dean's posture slouch and his grimace as he pushed his vomit back down into his hunger-pained gut. He was never one to question John's directions and orders, much to Sam's dismay, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why John had sent them back to this…place. When they had left the first time, John had convinced himself that Dean was hiding something and questioned him about the faint trace of a bruise under his eye and Dean felt his teenage anger rise up in him as if he wasn't hiding something. If John had come back in a week like he was supposed to, there wouldn't be a bruise under his eye and would be able to sleep peacefully at night without sneaking into his Dad's stash of whiskey.

::::::::

There used to be an apartment complex just outside of the town, years ago. Dean was 14 and Sammy was 10 and, God, could that kid eat. John had stocked the cabinets with canned soups and vegetables and the freezer had a week and a half worth of meat. He'd bought two loaves of wheat bread, peanut butter, two boxes of sugary cereal, and two gallons of milk before telling Dean to "make it last." Dean nodded obediently, of course, and watched as John walked off into the summer rain to the Impala.

He said he would be gone for a week, tops. There was a poltergeist a few counties over and that he would call when he got the chance.

A week turned into two, and before Dean had noticed, a week "tops" had turned into three. The cupboards were nearly bare, there was no extra money, and three meals a day was a forgotten luxury. Dean would fix himself and Sammy ever-shrinking servings of Lucky Charms in the morning to Sam's whiny complaints of still being hungry. Dean would eat two spoonfuls of his own portion before pushing the bowl to Sam.

"Here. You can finish mine."

Sam's nose would turn up while he examined the contents of the bowl. "What'd you do to it?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You love Lucky Charms…"

"Yeah, well, not today. You said you were still hungry. So, eat up." Satisfied, Sammy would nod and his hair would fall into his eyes before he would finish Dean's bowl of cereal and Dean would walk to the sink, refill his glass of water, and down it in one gulp to silence his stomach.

When Sammy had finished and cleaned the dishes, Dean opened the cabinets and frowned at the site before him: three cans of green beans and a can of chicken noodle soups. He had rationed out the food to the best of his abilities, but they had to eat at some point. Four cans of food, the ends of a loaf of bread and tap water wasn't going to hold them over much longer. He'd even started watering down the milk when there was only half of the last gallon remaining.

"Dad, where the hell are you?"

:::::::::::

When they got to the diner, Sam saw Dean's paled reflection on the door. "You feelin' alright?"

"Peachy."

"Uh-huh." Sam shifted carefully. He backed away from the door and folded his lanky arms over his chest.

"Tired."

"Wanna get the food to go?"

"Uh, yeah…I'll wait out here. Get me whatever you're getting. Unless it's a salad. Never a fucking salad."

Sam's brow rose and he eyed Dean carefully for a minute before nodding. "I put your cigarettes on your jacket pocket."

Bless that kid. Dean pawed himself looking for his half-empty pack of cigarettes. His hand shook on the Zippo so badly it took a few flicks of his thumb before it caught. Dean closed his eyes and took a deep inhale on the cigarette as the butt lit up a brilliant orange at the end of his hand. He leaned against the railing outside the diner and hugged an arm around his middle. This place was gonna drive him over the edge if he'd let it.

He opened his eyes to Sam shaking his shoulder shoulder, bag in hand. Dean looked down at his cigarette, nothing more than ashes at this point, and flicked the still-glowing butt on the ground. They walked in merciful silence most of the way home with Sam's head craning every which way to take in the town. He really had a totally different view of this place, Dean thought. This town made Dean's skin crawl and his heart race but it seemed like Sam was thisclose to retiring and setting up shop early. Fucking weirdo, that kid.

"Look, if you're mad at me for what I said about Dad, Dean, I'm sorry." Sam said with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. When they made it back to their room, Sam sat the bag down and unpacked the two Styrofoam containers and the scent of hot food filled the room; two orders of meatloaf, with a side of potatoes and corn. Sam practically inhaled his meal while Dean picked around the edges of the meatloaf, not hungry after all, choosing to focus his attention to his bottle of beer.

"What are you talking about?" Dean eyed Sam for a second and went back to picking at the label across the bottle, wet from condensation. It was a habit their father developed, too, and neither of the Winchester was sure who'd started doing it first.

"This. You were quiet the entire trip to the diner and back and you stood outside and you aren't eating. Dean, you've never "not hungry"…"

"A man eats when he feels the need to. And I stayed outside to smoke. Stop taking everything so personally."

"Yeah, there's that, too. You've been practically chewing on those cigarettes of yours since Dad sent us the coordinates to town. What's up with you, man?"

"Nothing is up with me! Since when did me smoking turn into the Spanish fucking Inquisition?"

"I'm just worried about you, Dean. What is it about this place that's got you so spooked?"

"You don't wanna know." He muttered barely above a whisper.

Sam leaned in closer across the table, "what was that?"

"Nothing! Nothing's got me spooked. I'm not spooked! So when you finish stuffing your face, can we get back to the case, please?"

"Sure." They ate at the table in another bit of silence. Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair and Dean kept his eyes on his plate, trying to ignore the rustling of Sam's chair and his fidgets. If he was totally honest with himself, he'd admit that this place had started to get to him a long time ago and had never really stopped.

He'd put hundreds of miles between him and this county but there was still plenty of nights where he'd wake up in a cold sweat with the name Phillip Jacobs fresh on his lips, leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. But fuck, he'd been a kid then. He'd seen and done things that most people couldn't bring themselves to fathom and faced all sorts of creatures that went bump in the night. But that name struck a chord in him that no black-eyed bitch could come close to hitting.

So, when Sam turned his laptop to him with a picture of the first victim staring back at him, it was no surprise that his mouth went dry and his knees buckled under his weight. Fuck. What had surprised him, though, was when his head connected with the corner of the table on his way down. Fuck!