I can claim little credit for the bulk of this chapter, Snarkymuch2 wrote most of it. Hope you enjoy.

If you've read my Brotherhood story Bound By Blood, you'll recognize the voicemail/narrative style. That was an idea I stole from this story.

Chapter Two

Dean, I know you're upset, but you need to come back. It's been two months now, and you haven't called once. I know you're going through a lot, but I need to know you're okay. Please call me.

Dean waited for Bobby's voicemail to play out and then he deleted it. Dropping the phone down onto the bed, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. No matter how much he drank, it didn't seem like there would be enough alcohol to drown out the thrumming pain in his heart. His brother had left him, chosen someone else over him, and there was nothing he could do about it. The pain Sam's decision left in Dean's heart felt like a hole nothing could fill, nothing but having his brother back again.

He clasped his hands around the bottle and shook his head. He didn't know what he was going to do. How could he go on hunting? Should he? Part of him wanted to rage out, to destroy, but the rest of him just wanted to curl up in the dark and let the world pass by. He supposed he didn't need to know right then, all he needed to know was that he was alone and there was nothing he could do about that. Sam was gone and so was all meaning he'd had in life.

Dean, please listen to me. You're not alone in this. You have people that care about you, and we're worried. We can get through this together. Please call me.

Dean zipped the duffel closed and slung it over his shoulder then stepped out of the motel and into the night. The air was cool and damp, and a thunderstorm rumbled in the distance. He looked over to the horizon and sighed. He was headed straight into the storm. He walked over to the Impala and pulled open the door, tossing the duffel in before him. He started the car and pulled out of the small parking lot, heading toward the dark skies ahead. The three victims all had had their throats torn out and were drained of their blood. Textbook vampire kills. Maybe if Dean was lucky there would be a nest. As far as he was concerned, he had nothing to lose.

He found the old farmhouse the reports all pointed to easy enough. It was at the end of a dirt road off the main highway. The gravel grated beneath his tires and the windshield wipers squeaked, trying to push off the drizzling rain.

He pulled to a stop in front of a white, rundown farmhouse. Its paint was chipping and the porch rail hung haphazardly from the few nails it retained.

Dean grabbed his duffel and swung the door open, climbing from the car. He walked up toward the house, pulling his knife out as he went.

The door swung open at his touch. He stepped inside, the old floorboards squeaking under his weight. He held his breath and listened. There was a shuffling sound coming from upstairs, and he reached back, instinctively reaching for Sam, to ensure he was safe. The absence he felt made his heart twist painfully in his chest.

He set his jaw and turned his attention back to the hunt. He made his way up the stairs and toward the footsteps he could now hear. A second later, a man appeared, he smiled at Dean, tilting his head to the side. Dean could see the teeth. This was clearly a vampire. Dean clenched the knife in his hand and braced himself.

The vampire's smile fell and he charged forward, down the stairs. Dean braced his free hand against the railing and ducked as he shoved his shoulder into the man's stomach. The man twisted and rolled over Dean's back, falling down the remaining stairs. Dean spun and quickly made his way to the vampire's side. He raised the blade in his hand and quickly brought it down across the vampire's neck. Blood spilt out over the old wooden floorboards. The sight sent a rush through Dean. With blood-covered hands, Dean grabbed his duffel and headed back out into the night.

Dammit, Dean, stop being an idjit! I've had enough of this silent shit. Call me and let me know you're alive.

The bar was nearly empty and the night was coming to a close for most when the door swung open and a group of men made their way inside. They wore leather vests adorned with matching patches. It was clear they were in a motorcycle gang. Dean scoffed at them as he finished his glass of whiskey.

One of the bikers turned and gave Dean an appraising look and Dean rolled his eyes. The biker scowled and nudged his friend on the shoulder.

"Hey, Jed, look at this guy," the gruff looking biker said.

The man Dean assumed to be Jed turned and looked at Dean. Dean locked gazes with him, not backing down. "You have a problem?" Dean asked.

The rest of the bikers turned at that moment and they all glared at Dean.

"Are you stupid, boy?" the bartender whispered, "Don't you know who they are?"

Dean raised a brow, looking the bikers up and down. "Looks like a bunch of leathered up pussies to me."

That did it. The group came forward as a whole and Dean jumped up from his seat. His hands curled into fists reflexively. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the bartender slipping out the back.

Dean licked his lips and smiled. This was just what he needed: a fight, a distraction from the aching hole in his chest. He knew the odds weren't in his favor, but in a way, that fuelled him more.

He slammed his fist into the jaw of the closest man, sending him reeling back. Dean charged forward, sloppy and uncaring. Soon he found himself restrained as the men took turns punching him in the gut and face. He was a bloody, lumpy mess when they finally felt like they had taught him the lesson he deserved. They let him drop to the floor and turned back to the bar, leaving Dean lying there like a pathetic waste as they hollered for the bartender to get them their drinks.

Hell, I don't even know if you're listening to these messages, but we need you back here. Stuff's happening and we need every hunter on the case we can get. Call me.

Dean's back strained as he hoisted the last of the bodies into the hole. He looked down at the pile of twisted limbs, his face devoid of all emotion. He dusted off his hands on his jeans and reached for the salt. Some part of him knew that he should feel bad for what he'd done, but he pushed it down. Nothing really mattered anymore. The line between good and bad was blurred, a hazy grey fog. It was getting harder and harder to see the people behind the faces, but maybe that was a good thing. It made it easier in the end.

He poured salt over the bodies and then the gasoline. He struck a match and dropped it into the hole. The bodies, innocent and not, went up in flames.

I know you miss Sam, hell, I do too, but hiding isn't the way to go. You need to come back here so we can work together to get past this. Please call me.

Dean ran through the dense forest, following close behind the werewolf. He'd already clipped it once and it was struggling to keep ahead. Raising the gun again, Dean took aim. He shot twice and then heard an anguished howl. The werewolf stumbled over its feet and collapsed on the ground, skidding to a halt against a tree. As Dean ran up to it, he took aim again, but he didn't aim for the heart. Instead, he shot it in the gut, wanting it to suffer, wanting it feel some of the pain it had caused its victims. The werewolf whined in pain and then shifted forms. In its place lay a naked man, eyes pleading with Dean.

"Please. I'm sorry," he said as he gripped his bleeding stomach.

Dean narrowed his eyes. He lifted the gun up and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet straight through its heart.

I've been hearing things, Dean, there's some kind of renegade hunter out there, doing all kinds of shady stuff. Please tell me that isn't you.

The demon laughed as he tightened his grip on the woman's arms. She wriggled, trying to get free, but she only caused herself more pain.

Dean's gaze flitted between the demon and the innocent woman that it was using as a shield. There were tears in her eyes.

"Please, help me," she said through choked sobs.

The demon had already killed a mother and her three children and Dean knew if it got away, it was going to kill again. Dean adjusted his grip on his gun, swallowing thickly. He knew what he had to do.

"Put your gun down and the woman lives. It's that simple," the demon said, dragging the woman back a step. She whimpered and a tear rolled down her cheek

"There's nothing you can do, Dean," the demon said. "I'm a killer and you, my friend, are going to let me walk free. You know why? Because you're weak. You'll let her live so your pretty little soul can go to heaven with a good conscience."

Dean's jaw clenched and his expression hardened. That's where you're wrong."

Dean squeezed the trigger, feeling so much and so little at the same time. No matter how detached he tried to be in that moment, he knew he would never forget that woman's face as the bullet pierced her.

The bullet traveled straight through her and into the demon, dropping them both to the floor. The woman lay gasping, clutching her chest as the demon tried to crawl away. Dean took aim at the demon and shot, again and again, until his clip was empty.

He walked over to demon and kicked it in the gut, sending blood splattering against his leg. The demon laughed, a bloody, gurgling sound. Dean grabbed the demon knife and then sank the blade into its chest, twisting the blade a little as he withdrew it.

He pushed himself to his feet and wiped the blood from his hands on his jeans with a grimace. The room was silent and when he looked over to his side, he saw that the woman was dead, blood slowly pooling on the floor around her.

Hey there, Mister Renegade. I've heard all about your latest escapades, and I am at a loss for words. I know Sam said to fight, but this isn't what he meant. Come back here and we can fix this.

Dean sank down on the motel bed and closed his eyes. Even though he'd showered, there was still blood on his hands, at least to his eyes. It wouldn't wash away. He rubbed his hands together and then stood, walking over to the table and grabbing the bottle of Jack. He took a long pull from the bottle. It felt good. He couldn't help but wonder how much more killing, how much more death at his hands it would take to secure his ticket to hell, but he was willing to keep going if it meant a chance to see his brother again.

Dean, it's been a year and a half now. I know you're hurting, I am too, but you can't shut me out. You can't keep on like this. You're going to get yourself killed.

The Arachne was dead. Dean had done his job, but there were still the victims to deal with. He walked over to the web-covered man closest to him. He knelt down in front of him and cleared the webbing from his face. It was Roy. Roy's eyes opened and he blinked wearily. He looked relieved to see Dean. Dean took a deep breath, shaking his head. He knew there was nothing that could be done to save them. The poison was eating them alive. If one Brown Recluse could kill, there was no doubt in his mind the damage the Arachne could cause. Without another moment's hesitation, he pulled his gun out from his jacket and stood up. He pointed the gun at Roy's head.

"Dean... Please," Roy begged.

"Killing this thing saved a lot of lives. I couldn't have done it without you."

Roy's eyes went wide. "No!"

"You're a hero," Dean said as he pulled the trigger, shooting Roy in the head, splattering blood across the room. Dean turned robotically, found each of the other men, and shot them one by one. Putting them down like animals.

I heard about Rhode Island. What were you thinking, Dean? The police are all over this mess. You better hope you didn't leave any evidence behind. Call me.

Dean hung his head as he let the warm water wash away the blood from his hands. He watched the pink water swirl its way down the drain. He looked up at himself in the mirror. Bobby's last message was still fresh in his mind. If what he'd done in Rhode Island seemed bad, Bobby wasn't going to want to hear the details of his latest hunt.

Dean lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. There was dirt smeared across his brow and blood slowly wept from a gash above his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the memories of the victim's screams.

His hands shook at the memories of what he'd done. He splashed some of the cool water over his face and then reached for a towel. He dried his face and then tossed the towel off to the side. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. The life was slowly draining out of him and he just wanted to give up.

Things are happening, Dean, bad things. There are all kinds of fuglys that haven't been seen out of Asia suddenly making home over here. If you come across something you haven't seen before, you haul ass out of there and call me. You need my help, Dean.

Dean stumbled in the door, shoving it closed behind him. It was late and the hunt had gone bad. He was hurting and there was no one there to patch him up. It made him miss Sam even more. He pushed the feeling down and focused on the present. He limped over to the table and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. He uncapped it and took a swig, grimacing at the bite of the cheap liquor. His shoulder was out of place at the least.

He walked over to the bathroom doorway and braced himself against the frame. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his shoulder hard against the wooden frame, pushing it back into place. It resisted at first, but then snapped in with a pop. The pain sucked the breath out of him. He stood there gasping for a moment and then tested the movement in his arm. It was sore but it worked okay still.

Sighing in relief, he walked back over to the table and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. Taking a swig, his thoughts drifted to Sam and he wondered what his brother would think of him now.

It's a bloodbath out there, Dean. Hunters are being targeted by this new nasty. We've no idea what they are other than the fact they bleed black goo and nothing can kill them. It's not safe for you to be on your own out there. Please call me.

Dean leaned back on the bed and tilted the bottle to his lips. It was a quiet day—he hadn't found himself a new hunt—though an important one. It was two years to the day since Sam had left him, and he was hurting.

He'd made his way back to South Dakota, wanting to be close to the place he had last seen Sam, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to make the last of the journey to Bobby's. He had no doubt that Bobby would welcome him back, he'd called consistently for the last two years and left messages, but Dean couldn't face the man. He didn't blame Bobby for what had happened to Sam, nor did he really blame Castiel; the problem was him. He wasn't the same man that had walked out of the door two years ago; he had done and seen things that had changed him. Bobby would be expecting to see the old Dean, and he was long gone.

He flicked on the TV, hoping to distract himself from thoughts of his missing brother with some mind-numbing entertainment. He was ten minutes into a movie and failing miserably at distraction, when he heard a sound he hadn't thought he would ever hear again—it was the rustling sound of an angel's approach. He looked up expecting to see Castiel, but it wasn't the stoic angel standing opposite him, it was another.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" he asked belligerently.

The archangel put his hands on his hips and turned, taking in the room. "Nice place you've got here, Deano. It's a little moldy for my tastes, but it suits you perfectly. It goes with the whole exile thing you've got going on."

"What do you want?" Dean spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

"I want you to put that bottle down and try to act like a human for a few minutes. Do you think you can manage that?"

Dean took a long draw from the bottle of whiskey and raised his eyebrows, goading the archangel.

Gabriel sighed and pressed a hand to his temples. "Okay, perhaps acting like a human was a long shot, I can see you're long past that, but do you think you can at least put aside your woe-is-me crap for a couple of minutes?"

Dean sat up on the bed and scowled. "'Woe is me'? You do know who you're talking to, right? You know what I've lost."

"Do you know who you're talking to? You aren't the only person that lost someone. My brother is gone, too."

Dean's face reddened with anger. "The brother that you didn't see for millennia because he was in the Cage since he fucked up. Don't compare what you're feeling to me. I lost Sam."

"Boohoo, my brother chose the Devil over me," Gabriel said with a sardonic smile, "and you got left behind in the big cruel world."

Dean's anger was building. Gabriel had no idea what he had lost, what had been taken from him. He didn't have anyone in his life like Sam. Gabriel's brothers were all dicks that had fought one another for eons and royally screwed the world over in the process.

He took another slug of whiskey and took a deep breath to lay down some facts to Gabriel, but the archangel cut him off.

"I am here because—and I really hate saying this—I need you. I get that you've got a lot going on with this whole pity party you've thrown yourself, but something big has happened and you're going to have to suck it up and get with the program. People need you, your friends need you."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus his alcohol sodden thoughts. The mention of his friends had captured his attention. The only friends he had left were Bobby and Castiel, though he wasn't sure about the latter given the way their last meeting had ended. If Gabriel had tracked him down, it meant something had happened to them. He wasn't so absorbed in his own misery that he didn't care about them.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Not now," Gabriel said. "I've already wasted enough time searching every grungy motel in the state for your sorry ass."

"How did you know where I'd be?" Dean asked. "I thought Castiel's rib etchings blocked me from angel radar."

"Weren't you listening? I have been searching motels for you for far too long. Lucky for me, you're predictable. Where else would you be on the anniversary of your brother's grand exit? I had the state; I just needed the right motel." He tapped his foot impatiently. "So, are you coming?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'll come. But I'm driving. I'm done with being bounced over the globe by angels."

Gabriel snorted. "You're driving? You think I'm letting you behind the wheel when you're so soused you can't see straight. I don't think so, Deano. You have a nice little nap and we'll expect you in the morning."

Before Dean could saw a word in protest, Gabriel had crossed the room and pressed two fingers to his temple, sending him to sleep instantly.

It's been two years, Dean, and I haven't heard a word from you. Please be alive.

So… Dean's doing a fabulous job of living without his brother, right? Don't fret, he won't be alone much longer.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx