Chapter 2

Robert Stephen Singer wiped his calloused hands down the sides of his faded and torn blue jeans in an attempt to remove the greasy remnants of the oil change he'd just given the 1993 Mazda sitting on the car lift in front of him.

It had seemed like ages since Bobby had had a real chance to tinker with his old cars that lay strewn across his front yard, and he was glad of the reprieve…even if it was nearly midnight.

His crooked smile peeked out from behind his short graying beard, and bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the brim of his well worn baseball cap. He glanced at his watch once more to convince himself that the initial time had indeed been correct.

"Ha! Done in under ten minutes!" Bobby placed his hands on his hips in triumph, "Looks like Dean'll have a new record to beat…or try to beat anyhow." He boasted in his distinctive southern drawl.

He chuckled to himself at the look he imagined on Dean's face when he told his young friend that he had beaten Dean's 'unbeatable' record for fastest oil changing, and went about slowly lowering the grass green car to the ground.

The old lift whined as the gears held the weight of the car, and as the ageing hunter quietly celebrated his victory, a small jingling noise came from somewhere in the distance, threatening to spoil the moment. The lift paused in its descent, but the noise was gone just as quickly as it had come. Bobby ignored the nagging feeling in his mind that had suddenly appeared with the sound.

A few moments later the noise occurred again, and Bobby began to wonder if the neighborhood kids down the street were rattling his chain link fence again…

And just like that, Bobby recognized the irritating sound…

"Ah, crap! The phone!"

He took off at a sprint towards the old wooden house that lay partially hidden behind the mounds of old cars that stood like pillars all over Bobby's front yard. By the time he had reached the front porch, winded and gasping for air, the ringing had stopped once more, and Bobby could hear a familiar voice floating over the answering machine speakers.

He cursed silently as he heard clearly the last of Sam's message…

"…come looking for us. Thanks."

There was a small *click* as Sam hung up the phone on the other end, and the answering machine chirped cheerfully, indicating that there was now one message to be heard.

Bobby gazed ruefully at the machine as he muttered to himself, "What on God's green earth have those two gotten themselves into now?" He tried not to ponder the endless possible answers to that question, and slowly pressed the 'replay' button.

A frown slowly replaced the gleeful grin that had previously been on his face as Bobby listened to his friend's voice, and noted the worry in it. He glanced at the old cuckoo clock that hung on the far wall…it was now eleven p.m.

And suddenly, thoughts of gloating victories were lost in the darkness, and silent worry filled the void in Bobby's mind…

He was content…floating aimlessly through dark warmth. No painful memories to deal with here, no relentless demons chasing after him, no little brother to constantly worry over…just peace and quiet.

Well…until the relentless pounding in his head began anyway…

It started as a slow throb in the bridge of his nose, but quickly escalated to jack-hammering behind his eyes.

"Oooh….m'…'ead…"

Dean heard his own voice from a distance as he moaned the complaint from his state of half consciousness, and tried his best to slip back into its inky depths.

'C'mon Dad…five more minutes…'

Unfortunately, the construction workers in his brain had other plans. Slowly, Dean relented to the pull of the waking world as it clamored for his attention once again, and as he did, he became acutely aware of the pain that was presently drilling a hole through his skull.

'Man…been a while since I got this wasted..'

He attempted to raise a hand to his forehead and assess the damage, and was surprised to find that his limbs refused to obey his commands. He then tried to open his eyes and see what was hindering his progress, and was even more surprised to learn that they, too, were not in the mood to cooperate.

"What the?…did Sam glue me to the bed? Oh, he's so gonna pay…"

But that didn't make any since…he was sitting up…or was he?

Panic began to seep under the cracks in his armor, but he quickly reined it in…

'Come on, Winchester, don't be such a baby!'

With a start, Dean began to recall the events that had led to his current predicament. Another moan made its way past his lips as the details of the "librarian encounter" swam their way through the fog in his mind.

"Ohh…cra-a-p…sh'…der-r-r-ug…ed…meee…"

The slurred revelation, under different circumstances, might have sounded rather funny to him. But Dean found that being deceived, drugged, and then knocked into unconsciousness while he was helpless to defend himself, was anything but funny.

Dean mentally kicked himself for letting his guard down.

As if that weren't bad enough, Dean also recalled why the woman…Andrea, was her name…had suddenly become so volatile.

Upon entering her apartment, Andrea had promptly sidled into the kitchen to the right, and Dean had stopped dead in the doorway. He had found the contents of the establishment to be rather disturbing. Gruesome paintings of death and destruction adorned the walls, and he had frozen mid-stride as his eyes lit upon the pentagram that hung from the living room ceiling.

"Uhh…Andrea? There anything…about you… that you might have…forgotten to mention?" He had stated haltingly as his fingers brushed the silver handle of the pistol that was hidden in the waistband of his jeans.

Dean was most dismayed to recall that he had failed to assess the fact that there was a second entrance to the kitchen on his left side, and had been equally dismayed when the lovely librarian had leapt out of it and stabbed him in the arm with a needle the size of the Chrysler building.

After that, paralysis had quickly set in, and his hostess had proceeded to monologue for more than thirty minutes about the fact that she was a member of the secret protectors of the man-eating, evil-nightmare-from-the-pit-Chupacabra that he and Sam had been hunting for what seemed like ages. And soon after that, she had played a little golf with his cranium.

And now, he was regretting ever setting foot in the library…again.

As he contemplated his predicament, Dean felt a tingling sensation tickle its way through his fingers and up to his wrists, and was astonished to find that when he tried to move them they obeyed.

Unfortunately, his small stroke of luck ended there, and the rest of his body remained under the influence of the mystery drug.

"Grr…ate. Sam'll…be…fri-i-gg'n… ou'…"

Dean's drunken sounding observation fell on deaf ears, and his prone figure remained mostly immobile on the cold, hard floor.

In the dark, Dean heard a scratching noise…followed by a tiny squeak…and then all hell broke loose…