Restoring the Balance

By Floralia

Wow. Firstly I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who took the time to let me know what they thought of the story so far. For those of you I didn't reply to personally, sorry, I'm lame, your kind words were very much appreciated. So much so they spurred me on to work extra hard so I would have something to post this week. In an all time first for me, I have actually written a semi plan so I kind of know where I'm going now and won't be taken by surprise by my own changing direction again. In other firsts, I also attempted writing in the bath – not as tricky as you might think – and managed to eat pizza without burning the roof of my mouth. Not highly relevant, but an achievement I thought I'd share.

Disclaimer: Same as before. I'm as unofficial as they come.

-0-

It was one long scream, but it contained twenty three years worth of responsibility and failure, and it seemed to last as long as his brother's life. One scream that was so much like Sam, because it was the only thing Dean had in the world. The only thing he could hear, the only thing he could feel - tearing at his throat, burning his lungs so badly he would never be able to use them again. And when it was over, so was the rest of the world. It simply stopped, smothered in a coat of darkness that was the absence of Sam.

This morning he had been teasing Sam about his choice of coffee and now his little brother, the life he had sworn to protect, was lying dead in his arms. Dean had always considered himself to be strong, to be unstoppable, but now he was aware only that he was numb, that his body was oh so heavy and his vision was beginning to dim, tunnelling out until all he could see was Sam, locked in the very centre of his gaze. Silent and unmoving.

Watch out for Sammy.

He hadn't even seen it happen. Hadn't known. Hadn't been there when he'd been needed the most.

Nothing bad is going to happen to you.

Well he was here now, and he would not let Sam be taken from him. Not like this. His brother would not go out on some filthy backstreet choking on his own blood.

Trembling hands reached outwards searching desperately for a pulse, but he felt nothing. He could see his hands connecting with his brother's neck, his shoulder, his forehead, fisting the material of his jacket, trying desperately to pull him close, to feel, even if it was to feel the coolness of Sam's skin beneath his own warm sticky hands. But he was completely and utterly numb.

Physically at least. He was still aware enough to know how much this hurt. The pain of losing all physical connection even while his brother was right in front of him, so pale he was beginning to blue.

He was moving as though in slow motion and his hands felt useless, far too big for his body, but he had to do something. What would his father say if he was watching? What about Sam? How would he feel if he knew that Dean had sat idly by and watched him die? Too broken himself to even try to fix him.

CPR was almost automatic, and it was only later that Dean would be glad that he had ever had to do it before, because if the first time had been for Sam… if he hadn't known… been sure… hadn't seen it work…

The sound of his own blood was rushing in his ears, his own pulse mocking and deafening as it beat, beat, beat, and he pounded on his brother's chest, willing to share it, to give Sam that sound if it mean he didn't have to hear it any more. Be reminded of what his brother, the baby he had raised, now lacked.

The whole world took on a hue of red and blue, flashing in and out of focus in time with the hateful rhythm in his head. Red and blue, the colours that were Sam, and the image was so unnatural, so surreal, that all he could do was grip his brother harder, knowing that he was tiring. Knowing that they would both die here, but a part of Dean was okay with that, as long as he didn't have to move forward alone.

Shadows hovered just beyond his vision. Voices. Shouts from a different dimension, one he didn't belong to, and while he didn't know what they were saying he knew what they wanted. Sam. They were here for Sam. They were here to take his brother away.

Well, he would not let them take him. Sam was his responsibility. His life. And as long as he had breath. As long as he had this hateful, stupid, useless heartbeat that insisted on making itself known, then he would still keep his place, right between danger and Sam.

Their hands were on him. Their grip was gentle but they were moving him away from Sam and no way in hell was he going to go. No way was he going to let them take him.

They were becoming more insistent now, more forceful, and suddenly Dean realised that he could feel again, because he could feel the strong hand encircling his arm, feel the hard concrete scraping his knees as he was dragged away, feel the huge empty gaping void in his arms where Sam had been stolen from him.

He was also suddenly aware that he was screaming. Not what he was saying, not that it mattered, just the fierce primal sound that he hadn't been aware he could make. That only Sam would be able to elicit.

That only Sam could silence.

And he was fighting, too. Not when it had really mattered. Not when Sam had really needed him to, before that evil thing had dared to touch him. Dared to snuff out the light of the world. But he was fighting now. Fighting with everything he had.

But there were too many of them, and the blackness at the edge of his vision was starting to expand, and his strength was starting to fail. Sam had already been out of his arms for so long he didn't think he would ever be warm again. And he was glad that they were overpowering him. Glad that he was being forced down, that his head was pressed against the ground, his cheek absorbing the warmth that had once flowed through his brother's veins. Glad somehow that it would end like this. That he would go out like this. That he would die for his brother even if Sam was no longer aware of the sacrifice.

And then he went to find his brother in the blackness.

-0-

It took Sam three attempts to start the car, and by the time it finally rumbled to life the relief of it rippled through him like a shock wave, and it was suddenly so very hard to breathe. His vision began to swim and he tried to grip hard on the steering wheel to force the world back into focus, but it was no good. For one brief moment he didn't even know where he was going. What the world was supposed to look like when it didn't shimmer about and dance with spots of white light, and then he was back. Sat in the driver's seat of his brother's car trying hard not to vomit, shaking uncontrollably and drowning in the knowledge that his body was going to rebel. Was not going to let his mind to do what it wanted.

He got the car moving finally but his vision still didn't clear, and he couldn't process any way to look at the map, the road, and remember how to drive all at the same time. He was on another deserted road out of town, but this time he was crawling, unsure where the accelerator even was, or what it was, or what he was holding in his hands. But he must have had some small particle of awareness, because he knew to slam on the brakes before….

He woke up cradling the steering wheel in utter blackness. It was the familiar rumble and smell that told him he must be in the car, so he reached out to turn on the headlights, wondering absently how he had got here without them.

His clothes had never really dried but they were now soaked again, this time with sweat, but while the nausea was still overpowering he could at least see, and his breathing was beginning to calm. A few more steady breaths later and he was able to get the shaking under control. He wished now that he had been strong enough to leave his brother behind in their shelter and run/hobble for the car. It would have saved time, and it might have left him with the strength to continue. The old wound in his stomach throbbed in time with the new, and while the external scar was intact he was suddenly terrified that he had ripped at his internal stitches, because something inside him felt horribly wrong.

But perhaps that was just the thought of what he had left behind him. The knowledge that the only hope his brother had was fighting hard not to shut down.

There were far too many 'what ifs' involved in this plan for Sam's liking. While Bobby might think it was likely, they hadn't even confirmed that it was Kane behind this, and even if it was, he must have a hundred hideouts scattered across the state. The odds that Sam would stumble across him on the first try…

His brother's absence was painfully obvious in the silence so he flicked on the radio, but the depressing strains of country music did nothing to sooth his nerves so, rolling his eyes even at himself, he nudged the tape back in. If Dean couldn't be here in person then he could in spirit, and Sam found it oddly comforting to listen to the music he associated with his brother.

He had got used to driving through the barren stretch of nothingness, but sooner than Sam expected he left this behind him and the trees lining the road continued to increase. The road was deserted and painfully straight so he felt safe shutting off the headlights, needing to feel as though he was at least doing something to remain undetected, but the darkness was momentarily so overwhelming that he couldn't help but wonder if he had passed out again.

Not for the first time did Sam curse that his brother's logic and stealth did not stretch to having a quieter car. Before he reached the turn off to Kane's cabin he decided to ditch the Impala and proceed on foot, turning the car about first so it was facing back in the direction of the motel, just in case he needed a speedier exit. While he hoped to be in and out in no time at all he was also beginning to curse the fact his brother's car was black. Yes, it was the perfect colour for all the night work they did, for all the times they needed to slip by unseen, but Sam was suddenly terrified that if he left the car now, without the aid of daylight he would never find it again. The darkness was that complete.

He tried to think only of ways that could play in his favour.

A figure like Kane would no doubt have numerous security measures to stop just anyone stumbling across his retreat, so the further he travelled without tripping any obvious alarms, the more Sam's unease increased. Was the road unblocked because Kane wasn't there, or had he in fact already set off several warning bells and was moving even now straight into Kane's waiting arms?

Whichever turned out to be the case, he had no choice but to continue on, moving as carefully as he could.

Or, he did have a choice. He could always go back.

Somehow the knowledge of that fact, that he was here of his own free will and had a clear goal in mind, was reassuring. Made him feel a little more in control. Yes, there was every chance he was walking into a trap, but he wanted to know for sure if he was. Because if there was even the tiniest, slimmest possibility that he would make it, then the effort of grasping onto that possibility was worth more than the thousand obstacles against him. He was aware on some levels that he was mentally weighing his own life against Dean's, and it was the fact he valued his brother's more highly that kept him moving, but even though it exasperated and infuriated him every time Dean made the same calculation, his brain was too tired to make anything of it.

Before long Sam found what he assumed must be the dirt road that led to the cabin, and for a brief moment he couldn't help but stop and marvel at how many out in the middle of nowhere log cabins there were in existence, and how many of them seemed to house something nasty. Or be a source of food for something nasty. Enough movies were made about it; you'd have though even the most oblivious of people would have spotted a trend by now. But no. They were still being built. There always seemed to be just one more secluded woodland hideaway to check out.

He ducked into the undergrowth, moving alongside the road out of any obvious line of sight, praying that he wasn't about to disturb a twitchy hunting party with shotguns. The wind was bitter cold, the same cold front that had prompted Dean's whirlwind shopping expedition the week before, and Sam couldn't help but smile at how happy that had made him. Sam had been cold and he no longer had a jacket, and there was a problem that Dean could instantly and effectively fix. With hindsight perhaps Dean's enthusiasm then should have been a huge neon sign pointing out his emotional vulnerability. Dean hated shopping.

Sam shivered violently at a non-existent gust of wind, and it was several seconds before his mind associated the action with the cell vibrating in his jacket pocket. At least he had remembered to put it on silent.

Text message.

If he opened it up here it would light him up like a Christmas tree, but it could be something important. It could be from Ash – he'd asked him to let him know if he learnt anything Sam needed to know before getting in too deep with this venture. Maybe he'd discovered a way of doing this without having to access the original cloth at all. Sam knew this was naive, but enjoyed the brief millisecond of indulgence in that belief. It could even be Dean, wide awake in the motel and texting to ask where the hell he thought he'd wandered off to in the middle of the night

But no. Dean would never text. He'd ring and he'd yell, and the fact that he was doing neither of these things made Sam suddenly very sad, and steeled his resolve to instantly check the phone.

He veered off further into the undergrowth where there was a better chance the merger light the phone gave off would be hidden, and shielding it with his body best he could he flicked it open.

TIMESCALE FOR REVERAL: 6 HOURS – ORIGINAL HOST. 12 HOURS – ANNOINTED VESSLE. 12+ HOURS – QUALITY AND QUANTITY REDUCES.

Wow. That had been quick. Sam remembered the line of symbols this related to, but it hadn't made anything close to sense.

No, he would be grateful to Ash for having worked it out (although not as grateful as he would have been if the time window were longer, or retrieval unnecessary), and push down the mild irritation that he had not been able to figure that out for himself.

So. He had six hours between Dean setting the link in motion and it severing completely. It had taken at least six hours for those people to die. Six hours of being trapped in their own private fears and emotional failures. While Sam was grateful that he had that time to work with, he was also appalled that he was glad the other innocent victims had suffered for so long.

He was also sorry that he would not be able to avenge their deaths. Finish the hunt he had dragged Dean here for in the first place. As much as he wanted to make Kane pay for the suffering he had seen his brother endure, he knew he had to avoid confrontation as far as possible. And if he achieved his aim then Kane would go to ground, and it was unlikely they'd find him again. By the sound of it Bobby's sources had been aware of his activities for quite some time without ever getting close enough to him to put a stop to it. This was perhaps the best chance they were likely to have to shut Kane down for good, and all it would take was for Sam to hold off. To wait for Bobby and additional back up to get here. To wait for someone who was fitter and more able than he. Hundreds of future victims could be spared.

And all it would cost was Dean.

He was less thrilled by the whole 'having a choice' thing now. He would gloss over this part of his escapades when he related them to Dean, once he got his brother back. Dean had been upset enough at the one unknown life that Sam had accidentally traded for his after taking him to the faith healer, and then there was their father. He wasn't sure how Dean would cope with the knowledge that Sam had deliberately sacrificed hundreds. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that himself. Exactly where that placed him on the morality scale.

He could flirt with logic all he wanted – Kane was technically human after all, and there were millions of evil humans in the world that they'd never consider involving themselves in – but in truth he didn't think anyone could have seen the look on Dean's face and not need to reverse it. He defied anyone who could see what Kane had reduced his brother to and not want to, if not kill him, at least rip several limbs off. It would be much harder to produce more wares minus a few limbs. God knew that was the urge Sam was fighting against right now, and it was perhaps a good thing that he was so painfully aware of his own limitations, because he didn't doubt that was the only thing stopping him from taking the Dean route through fraternal devotion.

And they both knew how well that had worked out.

Guilt and worry and the determination to avoid emotional display. Man, his family was screwy.

He was prowling through a possibly mystically booby trapped forest towards a definitely mystically secured hide out, and a large part of the motivation for that move came from what his guilt over the guilt his guilt over his brother's misplaced guilt surrounding his accident was now putting Dean through.

And his brother had the audacity to tell him he babbled when he was nervous.

Okay, so six hours. Obviously he hadn't been thinking clearly enough to set a stopwatch going the second Dean had absorbed the connection. Sam suddenly had the alarming image of a digital clock face counting away the duration of Dean's torture tagged into the corner of his vision, and an annoying 24 style ticking filled his head. When he had watched the clock enter its second minute he began to seriously worry about his own sanity, and he had to concentrate hard to force the image away.

Six hours.

One had been wasted in the alley, through a combination of his own stupidity at carrying his fully grown older brother just hours after the effort of bending down to pet a puppy had seemed like a feat beyond endurance, and his own minor emotional meltdown. 40 minutes in the car. Perhaps another (with a cringe) 40 minutes back at the motel talking to Ash and Bobby and generally psyching himself up to leave. About another 30 minutes in the car, and 15 on foot, meant Sam had used up at least three of his brother's hours.

He had been without Dean for three hours. And that wasn't taking into consideration the time lost every time he spaced out.

Take out the hour he'd need to get back to Dean he had under two hours. Less than two hours to break and enter, thieve, and carry out whatever ritual was required to transfer Dean's negative emotions back into his body, where they could fester out of sight where they belonged.

Something about that realisation shocked Sam back into sharper awareness, and he hadn't even realised the extent to which his brain had been allowing itself to wander, the fog it was fighting through, until it was removed. Everything took on a sudden clarity. While that meant the pains in his body were more apparent now that the mist his mind had created to conceal them had lifted, his determination and his vision and, he was also surprised to learn, his balance, had also increased.

He knew exactly what he needed to do and why. He knew there was a chance that he would fail, but he also knew that seemingly impossible things happened every day. And that if they got out of this, when they were both at full strength, then they would take Kane down. Even if they never found him they could do enough damage to his operations and reputation to be sure Dean was never left to wonder if Sam had made the right choice in saving him.

If the essence Kane sold had a shelf life of 12 hours, then the deal would be over long before Bobby got here, and as soon as the deal was done, so would Kane be. Even if Sam waited it would do no good. Kane would be gone, and the possibility of achieving any good at all would have passed them by.

No, it was clear that Sam had to act. Unfortunately it was also clear that he was not the only one who did. Kane's prospective buyer was also on a timescale, and introducing a third party into the mix could only complicate matters.

-0-

Dean opened his eyes to a blinding white light, but he tried to push down his disappointment at this fact because his little brother had always loved clichés. There was perhaps three seconds of strangely detached emotionless bliss, and then he heard it. The loud rhythmic beeping forcing its way out of the sheer white. He knew what that rhythm was. It was the same tune that had mocked him so cruelly the last time his eyes had been open.

His own heartbeat.

He blinked through the white, and suddenly it was just the haze of sunlight hitting his eyes, the bright reflection of the sterile cold walls, floor, ceiling. He really was encased in white, but it was not the kind he had wanted.

There was no foggy wave of confusion. His brain didn't even allow him a mere minute of ignorance on resurfacing. The world shifted back into view with an instant and horrifying clarity. He knew exactly where he was, exactly what had happened. He knew with an immediate and brutal force that Sam was dead.

Sam had gone, and he had tried to follow, but it turned out he couldn't even do that right.

There was a bustling movement in the room and a young nurse fussing about him, no doubt alert to the fact he was now awake by the marked change in his heart rate the return to reality had caused. He knew she was talking to him, trying to help, but the unreality of the situation was too overwhelming to let him respond.

He shifted slightly in the bed trying to sit up and take in his surroundings more fully, but a pain in his head and left arm sent him spinning back into the bed. He glanced over at his shoulder and was vaguely surprised to see bandages protruding from his hospital gown. He genuinely didn't remember having hurt it.

The nurse scurried away to fetch a doctor, probably thoroughly concerned by his lack of response, and Dean took the moment of solitude to fully let the room sink in.

It wasn't as light out as he had first thought. While the daylight was streaming in through his window and haloing his pillow, it was muted. The day was already on the decline.

How long had his little brother been alone?

Where had they taken him? Was he here, at the hospital?

The though of Sam, pale and cold on some morgue slab somewhere… Abandoned and beyond his reach….

It was irrational. He knew that Sam was gone, but he was also sure that Sam would know Dean wasn't with him. Had let him go through the proceedings with strangers. Alone.

There was movement in the room again. It was a middle aged man this time, smiling through a kind of forced calm. Dean allowed himself to be prodded and poked, to take in the occasional word like 'concussion' and 'bruising' and 'bed rest' and 'lucky'.

Lucky. It was that last one that caused Dean to let out a brief snort of disbelief, the only sound he had made since waking. Since he'd been talking to Sam. And he'd been right, his throat was beyond sore, but he couldn't imagine that it would matter now. He had no one left in the world to talk to.

He nodded mutely at the doctor's words, hoping somehow that if he looked to be playing along, looked like he cared about what he was being told, then these people would leave him alone. Would let him suffer in peace. And even as he thought this he was suddenly struck by the overwhelming fear that the doctor actually might leave, because then he really and truly would be alone, and the next, solitary, chapter of his life would begin.

He couldn't even begin to think what he would do with it. He couldn't even get revenge. Sam's last act had been to steal that comfort from him.

But if Sam hadn't acted the creature would have got him too, and with a gasp Dean realised his question of the night before had been answered. How Sam could possibly have had a coherent thought to spare on aiming and firing while his life was seeping from him at an alarming rate.

He'd done it because he'd known Dean could not.

Sam's last action had been to save his life, and there was a part in Dean that found the ability to be angry at that, because that was not Sam's place. That was his job, his purpose. Sam had to deal with the visions and the guilt and the quiet rumbling uncertainty of fate. All Dean ever had to cope with was making sure he stood between the sweeping claws and Sam. Because that was the only thing he could do. The only comfort he knew how to give. And Sam had felt the need to take that upon himself too, leaving Dean with nothing.

The doctor hadn't left. He was staring at Dean with unease, barely disguised trepidation, and it was a moment before the ex-older brother realised why. They had finished talking about him. The doctor had said all he needed to say about Dean, but still he seemed to be waiting with increasing nervousness for a question Dean was yet to ask.

And then it hit him. He was waiting for him to ask about Sam. The doctor was wondering if he should tell Dean about his brother… And while he was desperate to know, hungry for every single detail in a way he would never be for food again, he couldn't bring himself to form the words. He had given his voice to Sam, and he had the absurd notion that he should get Sam's permission first before using it again.

The wary look in the doctor's eyes spoke the volumes of his failure, and Dean just couldn't bear to ask. He didn't need them to tell him what he had already lived through. Didn't want to hear them talk about Sam as if they'd known him. As if they could have any comprehension what Sam had been in life.

But on some levels these doctors did know him. Perhaps more fully than Dean would ever have the chance to, because they had shared his most intimate moment. They had been present the instant of his death, had cared for his body after he had vacated it.

He didn't want the details of how he'd failed, but he needed to know:

"Can I see him?"

He barely recognised the voice that came out of him, but it was vaguely familiar all the same. It had belonged to his father once. The first thing John Winchester had said to Dean after Sam had slammed the door to his life closed to them had been in that exact same voice. It had taken Dean by almost as much surprise as Sam's leaving, so he'd never actually caught the words themselves. Just the broken way they were delivered.

Fortunately for Dean the doctor had no such difficulty. He probably had to deal with that tone all the time. Perhaps it was more of a shock to him when his patients' words were clear and whole.

They did take him by surprise however, stopping him from answering and forcing Dean to repeat them. And before he did so he saw again that image of Sam cold and pale on a table, and he wondered if they would have stitched him up. If it would be obvious by looking at him, the pain and trauma of his death. While he knew the image of seeing his Sammy like that would haunt him for the rest of his natural life, Dean also knew that he didn't have a choice. He had seen what that creature had done. Dean's mental view would never be unscarred again. He needed to see it through for Sam. Needed and owed it to him to be with him at the end. Desperately needed to see for himself if death had wiped away the look of agony, had taken away the heavy burden that had lined his features.

He was weak now his purpose was gone, and he wanted to reassure himself that his Sammy had found peace.

"Please." Sam's brother had never begged. "My brother. Can I see him?"

A brief flicker of uncertainty. Of trepidation. Of something Dean almost took for relief. Then:

"Okay. Soon. But only for a little while. Your blood pressure's still too low. But if the stories of the fight you put up in the alley this morning are true, I doubt you'll let a little thing like that stop you."

Was it possible that this man, who seemed all calm smiles and reassuring bedside manner, was making fun of his devotion to his brother? About the fact he had failed?

"They should be due to remove him from recovery to the ICU soon, and when he's settled I'll see about getting one of his doctors down here to talk to you. Then, if you're still feeling up to the trip, I'll get someone to take you up there. Okay?

A blank look and silence.

"What?"

All the air had gone from the world.

"I said we'll see about getting you upstairs to see your brother soon. Sir?" The look of hesitant concern was back, but then so was the fog and the confusion. Dean suddenly had absolutely no idea what was going on. Was he a brother again or not? Toying with him like this was just cruel. He defined himself so completely by relation to Sam that he was losing himself amidst the uncertainty.

"He… he's okay?" No. Dean had seen him. He knew there was no possible way 'okay' could ever be used to describe him again, and he realised the cagey look on the older man's face had never really passed.

A sigh. He really didn't want to be the one to tell Dean this.

"He's holding his own. That's really the best we can hope for right now, considering the extent of is injuries."

"But he's alive?" God he sounded so small and simple.

"Yes."

"And he's stable?" His voice was returning. Sam was letting him have a little of it back.

The look of ill disguised panic had returned. The doctor was no doubt recalling exactly what he'd heard about the fight that Dean had put up against the figures that had tried to take his brother from him, and was terrified of giving him any information that he might not like. He didn't need to say anything however. The milliseconds stutter before the professional front fell back into place told Dean all he needed to know.

"They're monitoring him closely, and he made it through the surgery. He's a fighter."

Yes. That was the crux of the problem.

Dean nodded mutely and his doctor – Dean suddenly realised with a pang of weakness he hated himself for that he hadn't caught the man's name, anything to make this moment less impersonal – became suddenly warm and gentle.

"Look. I haven't been in charge of your brother's care. But as soon as I can I'll get someone in here that can give you the full picture, okay?"

There was that stupid word again. Nothing about this situation was okay. Dean suddenly needed instructions. He wanted to be told what it was alright to feel. Some of the hollow emptiness was gone, and he had a purpose again now, but it was somehow so much heavier a burden than it had been before. He knew more clearly than ever what was at stake, what the cost of failure on his part would be.

Sam might be alive, but Dean knew his condition was serious.

And he was still alone.

Dean hadn't even been going to ask. He'd completely given up on his little brother, who was even now still valiantly trying to hang around and set him on the right course.

He tried to feel relief at that, but found only guilt and failure. And a paralysing fear. He was no doctor, but he knew what he had seen, and he didn't understand how Sam had lived through it. If he lived through it.

The pain of losing Sam once had been devastating. To get him back only to have to sit by and lose him again…

If possible he had now learnt to fear the void that followed his brother's death almost as much as losing Sam itself.

-0-

There was a light in the darkness growing steadily less distant, and by some bizarre reversal it made Sam feel suddenly so very exposed. He had been moving through the darkness with a newfound strength of purpose, stumbling through brambles and colliding into trees with as much stealth as he could manage. But he had been walking blind, and there was some comfort in that. Now the end was in sight, and while he was still in the shadows, it was possible that he was in sight too.

Sam could see nothing but the fact the cabin was close and had at least one light on, but he knew he was in the right place. The air shifted the closer he got to it, tingled as though it carried a slight charge. This was defiantly Kane's base, and by the looks of it, he was home.

He crept as close as he could without breaking the tree line. The old log cabin was set back in its own small clearing, meaning in order to gain entrance he would have to leave his cover behind. For perhaps seven seconds he would be visible to even the most casual of natural glances. For someone like Kane he might as well announce his presence with a megaphone.

The light was on at the front porch, and several of the windows at the front of the house were brightly lit. Sam skirted around to the rear of the property. He wasn't stupid enough to think this was any less well defended, but it was still in near darkness.

Flickering shadows darted in the windows and he ducked back with a silent curse. He had been watching for the time it took for his heartbeat to get over the sudden shock before he realised there were not several figures moving around inside. The back rooms were lit by candle light, and the dancing flames made every inanimate shadow seem alive.

The lights were on at the front for a reason. Kane must still be awaiting his guest. At least that meant the thing Sam was after was most likely still here.

As far as he could see the windows were heavy, their frames warped with damp. He doubted they would lift easily or quietly. He could probably break one, but again that wouldn't be quiet, and the windows held more wooden supports than actual glass. He was sure he'd read somewhere that you could squeeze your body though any gap that had been big enough to get your head through, but now probably wasn't the time to try it. It was possible that was only one of the many Dean 'facts' he'd picked up in life. Like Dean's insistence that it wasn't true that you could fit a pool ball in your mouth but couldn't get it out again past your teeth. Dean had been so sure that one was an urban ledged he'd been willing to let Sam have a go just to prove society wrong. Sam almost wished he'd gone along with it just to see it Dean would actually let him do it; but it was a dangerous game of chicken when playing against Dean, and he'd always been the first to back down. Mainly because he was more afraid of his faith in Dean being misplaced than he was in the outcomes of his 'experiments'.

Okay, so the window was out.

That left the door. Rickety and no doubt creaky, but with an old lock that looked almost laughably easy to pick.

He ferreted around in his pockets. Lock picking it was.

He got the tools out ready, practically rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet trying to pick the best moment to move, when he heard the distant rumbling of an engine.

A car was approaching.

A car?

Well that was vaguely disappointing. Okay, so he was with dark illicit contraband being exchanged in secluded woodland clearings in the middle of a storm struck night, but somehow the fact the buyer was arriving by automobile, with the headlights on full beam at that, was strangely disappointing.

Full beam…

He just managed to throw himself back into the cover of a nearby clump of briars as the twisting dirt driveway caused the headlights to sweep over the spot he had been stood in seconds before. The headlights clicked off, and the return to the near darkness was disorientating.

There was the heavy click of a latch, the sound of boots on the solid wooded porch, and distant rumble of voices raised in falsely polite greeting.

They were both at the front of the house. Outside. He was never going to get a better moment than this.

Launching himself from the tree line, Sam again cursed his lack of speed and stamina. The short burst of energy had left him nearly exhausted, and vaguely dizzy again, and his fingers fumbled clumsily with the lock. Soon fear of failure and adrenaline were back in control, and with a click that sounded to Sam like a shotgun blast, the door slid open with the faintest of whines and he slid stealthily inside.

He wanted to immediately drop to the ground where he'd be more concealed and out of a standing figures line of sight, but that was not really an option. Well, he could probably get down there, but moving about and making any kind of a quick rise and get away would be out of the question, so he settled instead for pressing himself against the shadows of the wall.

There was no exclamation of surprise or burst of noise from the front of the house, just the continuing steady rumble of pleasantries, and Sam's disgust at the transaction rose even further when a few of the words drifted in the open window at the front of the cabin.

The car! They were discussing the car! It was like he had stumbled into some evil warped Deanland.

The few seconds he'd been moving between the cover of the trees and the eaves of the cabin had left him not only exposed to view, but also the elements. The rain was still falling ridiculously fast and he prayed that it would continue, because the noise of the wind rushing through the creaking wooden structure, and the driving force of the rain, were doing a lot to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing and shivering limbs. He was also painfully aware of how loud the water dripping off his soaked hair and jacket sleeves seemed to be as it hit the hardwood floor, but his grip on logic remained intact enough to know he was the only one who could hear it.

Hear it, yes. See it, no. Wet muddy footprints and a dripping trail of water, almost like a blood trail, would lead Kane right to him. If he saw them.

If Sam snuffed out some of the candles, would Kane think it was the wind, or would he instantly become suspicious? One or two couldn't hurt. They were sparingly placed as it was, so Sam felt slightly better after extinguishing the source of light nearest the door, where his entrance and period of wet musing would be the most apparent.

Now. If I was an evil sole sucking artefact, where would I be?

There really was only one answer to that question. Where were these things always kept in places like this.

The basement.

Okay, if I was a door leading to the basement where would I be?

Tentatively he crept forwards, moving as quickly as he dared. The cabin was old and the floorboards shifted alarmingly under his weight, but there was no point putting it off any longer. They were going to creak whether he moved now or wasted 10 minutes strategising about it, and he would be better of getting the noise out of the way while both of the other figures were still outside.

The back rooms of Kane's hideaway were surprisingly humdrum. There was nothing even slightly suspicious about them, which Sam found suspicious in itself. It was set out like a cross between a hunting lodge and an academic's retreat, sparsely and simply furnished but with shelved overflowing with books and other assorted nick-knacks, none of them overtly supernatural in nature. It could be that the rooms were just for show, to appease any curious or lost hikers that stumbled across Kane's land while he was absent. Or it could be that Kane kept his retail and manufacturing spaces separate. If his goods were in demand, perhaps it paid not to allow too many 'people' to view how he worked.

This could simply be a genuine woodland retreat and nothing more, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the case. There was a definite 'something' in the air that one item and whatever (apparently so far unsuccessful) security measures Kane had put in place together couldn't account for. Sam just hoped that when he found the source of that feeling he would also find Dean's soul. That Kane would have left it with the rest for the big reveal, and that his showmanship would extend to lengthy small talk and bartering over the price.

He moved smoothly through a simple kitchen, trying to ignore the knife rack that seemed to take up an entire wall, and was just about to cut across another, more exposed hallway into the other half of the house, when he thought he had found what he was looking for.

A lone door, the only one he had seen so far that came with its own lock.

The hallway he was now standing in led to the front of the cabin, and light spilling from the rooms there reached him even where he hid.

Movement and shadows. The slamming of a door. Footsteps that practically vibrated the whole structure, and Sam didn't dare even breathe in case he was discovered. He could see the shadows of two figures leaking out into the corridor from a room at its left far end. Sam was currently lurking in the kitchen doorway at the other end of the passageway, off to its right side. Between these two rooms, on the same wall as the one Kane occupied, was the object of his search.

The shadows shifted again, tauntingly close. It was all well and good retreating back into the kitchen where he couldn't be seen, but he would achieve nothing until he made it through that door. He was just going to have to risk it. Trust that whatever conversation they were having would remain in that room. His own shadow would fan out behind him, not crossing their threshold. He still had a chance. Surely Kane was too gentlemanly to do business in a hallway.

As if to confirm his thoughts one of the shadows retreated, and the sound of tinkling, then pouring liquid, reached Sam's ears.

"Why Kane. Much more hospitable that our last meeting, I must say." And the second figure also took a step further into the room, leaving Sam with only a split-second's more hesitation before making his move.

He crept as quietly as he could to the door, pulling out his lock picking tools once more and going to work, heart racing at how utterly exposed he now was, standing in a practically fully lit entrance hall next to a room containing a mystical merchant and a who knew what. He was also staking a lot on the fact the door that potentially led to Kane's private workshop would be easily pickable. As if Kane used a normal key.

The newcomers voice had sound low and somewhat menacing, with the lilt of an untraceable accent, but Kane showed no sign of being intimidated.

"That's because this time you aren't going to succeed in cheating me out of any of my supplies."

"What! I never..."

"I must say, I was surprised when I got your call. I thought you'd made it clear that you would not be requiring my services again."

"Times change Kane, I…" A slight hint of panic, but Sam missed the rest of the sentence. It was overshadowed by the faint pop of the lock, and his own ridiculously loud intake of breath.

"That they do. And it's in that spirit that my prices have also changed. You're going to be paying me double."

The resulting expletive gave Sam the cover he needed to whip the door open and slip inside, closing it firmly behind him, aware as he did so that he was sealing himself in.

The door had opened onto a stairway leading downwards into an open space, lit with an unusual red glow - like a dark room but with a hint more pink. Sam had no idea where the light was coming from. He didn't think it was electric.

The ground, when he reached it, was packed earth and he felt more confident about moving around down here than he had on the wooden boards. The basement seemed to take up a lot more space than the entire lower floor of the cabin would allow for, and while there were no walls down here, the space was divided into sections by several wall hanging and thick curtains, concealing more of it from Sam's view than he was comfortable with.

He could hear Kane and his guest moving around directly above him. They were still arguing and their voices, though muffled, were surprisingly clear, and it was easy enough for Sam to make out what they were saying. The movement was alarming but repetitive. They were not changing locations. It seemed that one of the party was pacing in agitation. Sam doubted it was Kane. His voice was annoyingly calm, the same smooth arrogance that had whispered against his neck back in the alley, and Sam shivered violently again as though he could still feel the wisp of breath there, and felt tainted.

Forcing himself to focus he took in the room. There seemed to be only one entrance and exit, the stairs he had just come down, so he needed to work fast.

The sight before him was shocking, even if Sam had been preparing himself for what to expect. Shelves lined all the walls and several of the partitions. Freestanding cabinets and bookcases formed small rooms of their own. Tables and workbenches seemed to fill every inch of floor space, and every surface was crowded. Books and papers covered in symbols Sam didn't even begin to try to decipher. Small bottles and vials of who knew what ingredients and potions. Vast jars of strangely glowing fluids, often with items suspended in them that Sam would have paid good money not to have to look at too closely.

This was a workshop the scale of which Sam had not anticipated. Kane's operation was huge. If this was just one of dozens of different locations he had been sighed and known to work from… If every one of those sites had a lab like this… How was it possible they had never known about this guy before? How was it possible there were others like him in different states, working so large scale, and Sam had never even read hints about it in all the numerous texts and websites he had perused over the years?

Sam was sure the room must have been organised in some logical fashion, but it made absolutely no sense to him. To find what he was looking for, he was going to have to search it all. Going to have to check each of the hundred shelves and work stations. Rummage through all of their clutter and check each for hidden compartments.

This could take hours.

He started to the right of the stairs, noting the direction in his head so he could keep better track in the labyrinth like layout of where he had been. The room was set out in such a way that there was no easy or obvious way of moving from one side to the other. Sometimes thick velvet curtains blocked his path and he could find no way though, they were single solid sheets weighed down at the bottoms to form effective walls. Sometimes they could be easily moved aside, forming only fake partitions into hidden anti-rooms, and every time he reached one he was hit with the same uncertainty and terror. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to find on the other side. No idea if there was anything living down here other than himself.

Or anything recently dead for that matter.

The strange red light seemed to hum softly somehow. It made his skin tingle like it was burrowing its way into him, planting doubts and paranoia even as he fought desperately for calm. His every sense was on the alert, even ones he wasn't aware he had. He was feeling unease in parts of his of his body he had never even noticed before. The air was unnaturally thick, and seemed to even smell its colour, and Sam was getting more and more jumpy and light-headed the further into the room he moved. He tried to push it away but that didn't work, so he tried to focus on exactly what it was that was unnerving him and realised that despite the rooms apparent stillness, he didn't feel alone.

Every step he took into the confusing maze, every dead-end and retraced step, made him more and more aware of how far from the stairs he was straying. While he could see them at almost all times, possibly the only part of the room that was constantly visible, he ached with the knowledge that he could not easily reach them. He was beginning to feel like Theseus, and wished that someone had given him a thread so he could find his way back out again. Kane's cabinets and desks were tall and unmovable. Even at full strength, with his long legs working to full non-wobbly capacity, he would have had a hard time scrambling his way over their walls and out. And he really didn't want to have to touch any of the objects on their surfaces unless he could help it. He had no idea what anything did.

The voices were still going at it strong and steady above him, but every time one of them stopped, every time there was a pause for breath or the pacing range extended, Sam was convinced his time was up. But it seemed like the pair were just getting warmed up. Sam didn't really understand the full extent of their disagreement, this was hindered even further by the occasional shift into a different language, but he caught enough to work out what he imagined the problem to be. Something about Istanbul, the still beating heart of an immortal, and a deranged zombie. And they both kept accusing each other of thievery and treachery, which Sam couldn't help but think was probably a given. Look where they were for crying out loud.

He was getting quite intrigued despite himself. It was the most bizarre, slightly abstract argument he had ever heard, and some of the images painted were exceptionally vivid, although not always appealing. It seems they had each suspected the other of a double cross so Kane had substituted some ingredients, hence the insane killer zombie rather than the placid servant that had been expected. Kane denied all charges blaming misuse of his pristine wares, and the fact that if – Sam still couldn't distinguish between the newcomer's name and some of Kane's more imaginative or foreign insults – hadn't stolen other items from him and no doubt contaminated the ritual, it would never have happened.

Sam wasn't sure exactly whose side he was on in all this and as long as they kept it up, or possibly even killed each other, he didn't care. But no. There was a line they never crossed. They each needed the other to thrive, and the argument was predictably cyclical, always coming back to the matter of price whenever it got too heated. Before either party could let their emotions get away with them.

It did give Sam some hope however. If Kane's side of the story was true, and it would be a strange lie to create about your own operation, it was possible to steal from him and live to tell the tale (or abjectly deny it). Someone had done it once, although Sam couldn't help but imagine they had merely grabbed the nearest thing they had come across, because searching for one thing in all this arranged chaos, knowing you could be disturbed at any moment... It took a lot more nerve than Sam possessed. It took every ounce of will he had - and the image of Dean's steady decline on his motel bed, tormented and alone - not to bolt every time the wooden structure around him creaked, or one of the thick drapes fluttered in the non-existent wind.

"Exactly how long are you going to keep this up?" It was that calm and arrogant tone again, laced with amusement, and its change in direction and air of authority caused both Sam and the newcomer to take in his words.

Sam's eyes darted to the ceiling despite himself, before flicking back down to the shelf in front of him, frantically running his hands across the wooden supports and opening draws, knocking anything that looked non-threatening aside to have a thorough look; hands protected the best he could by the sleeves of his jacket. He wasn't stupid enough to touch anything with his bare hands; not while his presiding emotion was barely contained panic.

"I don't know what you…"

"Oh, I think you do." Smug and vaguely sickening. "I think you know exactly what I mean. This little act. Coming here at all. I only play along because it amuses me, but your arrogance has started to try my patience."

No. no. no. You have much more patience, surely. Why had Sam not bought gloves? They'd picked up practically every other winter accessory over the last week. Dean had even insisted on buying him a woolly hat with floppy ear warmers that they both knew was going to get lost or ruined beyond repair at the first possible opportunity, but no gloves. Would this have gone faster with gloves? If he wasn't too freaked out to touch anything? To feel for hidden compartments?

"My arrogance…!" The guy had a point.

"How long did you think it would take?"

"What? This deal? I thought it would have been over long…"

"No you didn't. You can't lie to me; I know everything that goes on under my roof."

Really? Perhaps you need to recheck some of your sensors then.

"How long a distraction were you planning to make?"

Oh God.

Sam froze. Kane's guest might have been struggling to work out what was going on, but Sam was suddenly struck with the horrible realisation that he knew exactly what Kane was talking about.

"How long were you going to keep me busy up here?" It wasn't anger, but amusement in his voice. "How long did you think it would take for him to find it?"

"Who?"

"Your boy. The one standing directly below us clutching a copy of The Lexicon of Common Malignant Paranormal Biological Pathogens".

Kane stamped violently on the ceiling showering Sam with dust; shocking him so badly he dropped the book he was holding.

This was not good.

Even as the accused launched into a tirade of denials Kane was moving for the door.

This was not good on so many levels.

TBC