Dean crouched down at the back of the building and carefully jimmied the window lock with a knife.

Luckily for him, Helping Hands didn't have enough funding to up the security on the crumbling centre, so it was easy to slip in with minimal fuss.

Although the receptionist hadn't known the other two guys in the photo, well, three now that Sam had pointed out the last one, he thought they must keep some sort of record of who volunteers.

There was something utterly depressing about the place.

As he walked through the dark, using his flashlight as little as possible, there was a distinct smell in the air. Almost Grade school like, all gloopy glue and chalk, but underneath it was something else.

An animal like smell.

The stench of poverty, desperation and maybe, a little fear.


Can you keep a secret?

His life was one big secret.

If there was something his Dad had taught him well, drummed into him with words and sometimes fists, it was the ability to keep a secret.

Don't tell people who you are, don't tell them what I do, don't tell them about your mother, don't tell them you're on your own in the motel while I'm away.

Keep secrets was second nature to Sam, but this was the first time he'd kept one from his Dad.

He almost told Dean about the book, but something stopped him and instead, he slipped the book under his pillow until Dean was sleeping and his Dad was still hunting, straining his eyes in the weak glow from the lights outside, he opened the brand new book, inhaling the crisp, untouched paper smell.

Call me Ishmael…..

This was his.

Not his Dads, not Deans, not something handed down from someone else or found in a motel room or truck stop.

A tiny worm of excitement squirmed in his belly at the thought of this secret.

Such a small thing.

A small item.

A small secret.

He nearly gave up.

Whoever run admin in this place clearly wasn't getting paid enough, or possibly at all.

Every cabinet and drawer yielded papers in no order. Nothing alphabetized or collated, just stuffed in the nearest space.

Just as he was nearing the end of his tether he found it.

Jammed in the back of a drawer, a folder labelled "Camp trip 2005".

"At last…" He muttered, opening the file and flipping through it.

On the last page was a hastily scrawled list of names and addresses.

The first three were all dead, which left just one more.

Tearing the page out, Dean stuffed it in his pocket and headed back out through the window.

"Can you help me Sam?"

Of course he'd help.

After school most days he gladly stayed behind to help clean up the classroom, or collect some books from the library ready for the next days lesson.

Sometimes Mr Green would have him pull up a chair and they'd talk. About what Sam wanted to do when he was older, his favourite books and TV shows, he'd laugh at something some kid had said during the day, or do an impression of one of the other teachers, the tight lipped teacher in the room next door, or even the principal.

He'd open his drawer and fish out candies, sharing them with Sam while they chatted.

And maybe sometimes Mr Green would hug him a little tight, or keep his hand on Sam's shoulder just a little longer than he liked.

But it was nothing.

Who was he to make Mr Green feel bad for being friendly, when all he'd ever done was been nice to Sam.

It was Nothing.

And Sam slept fitfully, the sheets bunched up under his legs where he was kicking, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

From time to time he called out for Dean, his voice small and panicked.

She sat on the bed and looked down at him pityingly, running her small hand over his face before leaving his side as though she'd never existed..

There was work to be done.


The house was a small clapboard on the wrong side of the industrial units just outside town.

Pulling up across the street, Dean noted that all the lights were off barring a faint glow from the back of the house.

Taking his gun from the glove box, he checked it quickly, before leaving the car and jogging across the street.

Quickly, he picked the lock and slipped inside, waiting for a moment before moving stealthily through to the back of the house.

The glow he'd seen from outside, came from the kitchen, and poking his head around the corner he saw the man from the picture sat in on of the kitchen chairs, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side, his eye's wide and vacant, feet drumming lightly on the floor.

"Come in Dean."

He swung around, raising the gun towards the voice.

The girl stood off to the side, smiling slightly. "You can't kill me with bullets. Not that it matters here. This one is nearly finished."

"Finished what." Dean growled, keeping the gun raised anyway.

"Watching."

"What?"

She turned her gaze on and he almost stepped back. White light bloomed behind her eyes for a moment, then she blinked and it was gone.

"Mark Carver, 36, single, worked at a rendering plant until it closed down two years ago. Last year he got friendly with three other fellow… I believe you've seen them…" She smiled almost coyly at Dean, then continued. "Well these fellows were just diamonds among men, they did a lot of volunteer work with kids, good citizens, all round nice guys…."

Dean watched her walk around the chair, running a hand across Marks face, making him quiver and whimper.

"Do you know what they did to this girl? All four of them?"

"I don't want to know, he's a sick bastard, but the law…"

"The law.." Her voice rose abruptly and the glasses in the cupboard behind her rattled. Taking a breath she shook her head at Dean. "….the law has never been very good at getting to the root of the problem." She smoothed down her top and indicated to herself. "This child wasn't the first they preyed on, but she was the one without anyone to tell. Left alone for days at a time by a neglectful mother, that centre was the only place she could go, and they defiled it. In some ways it's more sickening than what they actually did to her. You're out of your depth little one. Go and leave justice to me."

"Sure, like I'd trust you. You're a demon possessing a little girl."

She turned to him and frowned. "Was a demon. Makes no real difference. I always protected my children, only now, they're all my children. I'm the original tiger Mom."

She laughed lightly and went back to Mark.

"When they call, I answer. Many don't call. Many deny even to themselves that they have been wronged by someone they trust, and that's the real tragedy here, don't you think Dean? That a child, so pure, and trusting that adults will keep them safe, can be wronged like this."

She turned to Dean and pushed her hood back. "She called me, I answered, and when this is over, she'll have forgotten that any of it ever happened. She'll forget she ever met them. Now you tell me…. Could your justice system do that?"

Walking towards Dean, her expression changed to one of pity. "You know better than most what such memories can do."

She touched his face and he fell.


Goddamnit it! Where was he?

Dean had waited outside the school for nearly half an hour.

Dad had called and if he didn't haul Sammys ass back to the motel soon there'd be hell to pay.

He'd watched the rest of the kids leave the building, waited while the stragglers came through the double doors in dribs and drabs, then sighing elaborately, he jogged up the steps and into the building.

Somewhere in the back of the building, a cleaning cart squeaked through the halls, the smell of paint and wipe able marker, overcooked lunches, the shampoo and sweat smell you get when a lot of young kids are in the same building.

He wrinkled his nose and walked down the hall, looking for Sam.

Room 4B, that was his class, he was sure of it. Had written it down and everything.

How many 4B's had he been in?

Too many to count.

Schools always seemed to name their rooms the same.

He poked his head round the door and looked inside.

"Yo…. Sammy?"

Only silence greeted him.

The he saw it.

Sams backpack, lent up against the teachers desk.

He couldn't be far then.

Leaving the room, Dean walked more confidently down the hall, glancing into classrooms as he went until he reached the library.

Not here either.

With a disgusted sigh Dean turned to leave, then heard a thump from behind a cupboard door.

Maybe it was instinct, the kind a parent usually has for their child, but something made him stop, made him open the door.

Little wide eyed Sammy, squirming to get away from a guy.

He held Sam's wrist in one hand, stopping him from running, although Dean thought by the frightened rabbit expression on his face, Sam was incapable of moving, let alone fleeing. The guys other hand fumbling with his belt while a horrified Sammy watched.

Dean wasn't tall, he wasn't broad. But a summer hunting with his Dad had made him tough, and he didn't hesitate to draw his fist back and put all his weight behind his punch.

As he fell forwards, something in Sam snapped and he shot out of the cupboard and into Deans arms.

"Who's this?"

"Mr Green." Sam answered, stifling a sob.

Mr Green turned to face Dean, his eye's hard, his face desperately trying to snap back to respectable teacher, despite the flush in his cheeks.

"I should kill you." Deans voice shook and he took a step forwards.

"No!" Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "Let's just go."

Dean wrenched his arm away and pushed Mr Green back into the cupboard, pummelling him with his fists until the man was curled up in a ball on the floor, his hands held over his head.

"Dean pleeeaaase!"

He kicked him on the way out, then grabbed Sam by the arm and pulled him out of the library, marched him through the halls and outside.

Only then did he stop, turning to face Sam, running his hands through his hair then wincing as he realised he'd bloodied his knuckles.

"Did he… did he do anything to you Sam? Did he touch you?"

Sam shook his head.

"Don't like to me now…. If he so much as laid one finger on …"

"He Didn't….. I mean, he was going to, but you…. You…"

And then the tears came all at once and Dean took him in his arms and crushed him fiercely to his chest.

"It's ok…. It's ok kiddo…"

"It's not!" Sam wept angrily. "It's all my fault! I kept staying behind with him and I made him want to….. I thought he was my friend!"

Dean took his brother by the shoulders and crouched down. "Now you listen to me. You did nothing wrong… Nothing!"

Sam nodded. "Don't tell Dad." He whispered.

And Dean knew he couldn't.

Because John might actually kill the guy.

But then even worse.

He might not.

"You forgot your bag. Want me to go get it?"

Sam shook his head. "Only has a book in it anyway."


"I have to finish."

Dean blinked himself awake at the sound of her voice.

"Perhaps you would like to leave first. It's not pleasant."

He nodded, pulled himself up and went to leave.

"The girl….. ?"

"Safe in her bed by sun up."

He left.

The screams following him back to the car.


Sam opened his eyes.

Slowly he sat up, running his hands over his face, trying to chase the sleep away.

It was over.

Either way, it was over.

Something loosened in his chest a little and he knew.

When Dean walked through the door he wouldn't ask and Dean wouldn't tell.

They'd pack the Impala and head out of town.

Leaving the whole stinking mess behind them.