AN-Here's another chapter. I'll probably have all the ones I have written up by the end of next week, and then the waiting begins. Thanks for the reviews, and for the favorites and alerts. Once again, if you have any feedback, even negative, I'm interested in hearing it. Til next chapter. Ciao.


Dean threw himself over the kid, swearing liberally at every thunk from his baby. He took the pieces of debris that landed on his back much more stoically. Luckily enough for him the car took the brunt of the damage, leaving Dean with just a few scrapes.

When it stopped raining fire and doom Dean lifted his head, shaking ash out of his dirty blond spikes. His eyes surveyed the night, looking for another potential disaster. He felt his shoulders relax when he saw none.

"All right big guy," he began prying the kid up from the ground, "we need to get you to a hospital and call the cops." As much as Dean hated the police he didn't really have much of a choice. They would be called one way or another if he brought the kid to the hospital. Dean knew he was far better off in the role of hero than possible suspect. He really wasn't in the mood to be dodging Rosco for the next month.

"No 'spital. No pollies."

Dean smirked. That worked for him but he couldn't exactly leave the dude here. "You gotta place?"

"No," the boy gasped as Dean began working him into the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Guess you get to come home with me." Dean winked. It was definitely one of his better winks, too. Too bad the kid was too out of it to notice.

Then again, the kid was also too out of it to notice Dean taking a back road at over ninety miles an hour, swearing every time he fishtailed. In no time he was at the motel hauling the kid into his room and dropping him on the bed.

"Fuck!" Dean looked over the boy, reconsidering the idea of the hospital.

The guy was a mess. His skin was red, showing signs of light burns from the heat. His right side was covered in blood still oozing slowly from a gash in his forehead. His wrists had scabbed over where Dean had sliced skin as well as tape and deep bruises were forming from the boy's struggle to escape the vehicle. One of his hands was shredded to Hell, splinters and plaster embedded in his knuckles. Dean peeled off the kid's shirt. He winced in sympathy at the dark marks on the guy's chest. Further exploration revealed more nasty bruises on the kid's side and back, though a quick probe revealed no broken ribs. Even if Dean hadn't had an expert's eye it would have been obvious that someone had worked the kid over before trying to turn him into flambé.

Dean cleansed and wrapped gauze around the head wound. The boy under his hands didn't react. His patient was worryingly cooperative until Dean began working on the hand, fishing out the jagged splinters. The generous application of the antiseptic Dean finally elicited a moan. He really hoped the kid was a lefty.

Dean had moved on to bandaging the wounds he had inflicted when he heard the sirens blare by the motel. He turned to watch as the lights of fire engines flickered through the window. Someone had called the fire department sooner than expected. Then again it didn't really matter if the trucks arrived at the house in five minutes or in five hours. Either way Dean had lost a shot at the poltergeist until the scene was cleared, and with the remains of an exploding vehicle in a burnt out barn that was unlikely to be any time soon.

Dean winced, hoping Dad never found out about this. Always finish a hunt. It was the Winchester creed. Never mind that he had single-handedly fished a kid from a burning car. Oh no, that poltergeist was still out there, son. Job's not done, son. Way to fail, son.

Dean sighed and rocked back in his chair, shaking his head to banish his father's voice. John wasn't here and he didn't know that Dean was. Besides, with the cops swarming the farm house it was unlikely that any kids would be in there causing a ruckus. He'd just come back to this after the dust had settled and finish the job then.

Satisfied with his plan Dean kicked his feet up onto the table, keeping his vigil over the figure on his bed.

x—x-x—x

Officer Peterson knocked on the door, falling on years of training to school his face.

Normally he liked his job. It wasn't romantic, the way it was on television, but he was satisfied with the work he did. Normally a good deed was enough to get him through the day. Tonight it was going to take a shot of whiskey.

The door cracked open and Peterson wasn't surprised to see the gleam of a shotgun as Bobby Singer answered the door in nothing more than his pajamas. "Jake."

"Bobby."

The mechanic opened the door, resting the shotgun over his shoulder. "Why the Hell are you banging on my door at three in the morning?"

"Sorry about the time, Bobby, but I need to talk to Sam." Peterson wanted to curse as he saw shotgun come back down.

"He ain't in. Jake, what's this about?"

"Do you know where his is?"

"Dammit, Jake! If you don't tell me what the Hell is going on I swear to god I'm gonna shoot you again, 'cept this time it won't be an accident."

Peterson dropped his shoulders and for a moment absolutely despised his job. He'd known Bobby since they were kids and the last thing he wanted to do was dump more bad news on the guy. He'd been there when Bobby's wife had died and there were times that he was sure that Sam was a gift from God himself. If it hadn't been for that kid Bobby never would have pulled himself out of his hole.

Peterson sighed and scuffed his feet. If someone was going to give Bobby bad news it might as well be a friend. "We got call from Black Forest. Barn fire on this piece of abandoned property. The police had been dealing with lots of weird shit from that place during the past month, so they went out with fire crews to make sure it wasn't arson. Bobby…" Peterson trailed off. He wanted to leave it there. Dear God he wanted to leave it there, but he owed the man before him. "They found the remains of a car in the barn. Something in it caused an explosion. The police were searching the house." Peterson paused to wring his hands. "They found debris from the car. A license plate. It was registered to Sam."

"Was there a body?" The man's voice was low and even.

"Not yet, but they're still digging the car out of the barn. But there were signs of a struggle in the house and out in the yard. It doesn't look good." Peterson didn't want to voice the Black Forest forces' theories.

"Well then, you toddle off on home and you call me when you boys have something more concrete."

"Bobby," Peterson called out, desperate to get the words out.

Instead he found a double barrel pointed in his face. "Jake, if you know what's good for you you will turn around and drive away. I get what you're saying. I ain't deaf and I sure as Hell ain't dumb, but I ain't listening to another thing anyone has to say until they prove to me Sam is gone."

Peterson nodded and turned around, ignoring the shaking of his hands.

Bobby merely shook his head as he watched Jake drive off. As soon as the headlights were out of sight he was on the phone, listening to Sam's voice mail. He didn't bother leaving a message, just skipped down to the next number. With in the hour every single one of Bobby's contacts was returning every favor they ever owed the man.

x—x-x—x

Sam's mind was registering facts before his eyes opened.

He was horizontal and on something soft, probably a bed. Judging by temperature variation he had been covered with a blanket so it was likely that he was in no immediate danger. Not that he could have done much if he was. His head ached and he would have placed money that if he tried to sit up the world would swim away. Judging from the weakness in his limbs it was likely that the disorientation was from blood loss as much as from a concussion.

As he opened his eyes to a gloomy dawn he could feel the way his skin moved, a dull throb like a sunburn. It was a strong reminder of what fate he had almost met.

"Morning, Sunshine!" A way too cheery voice drilled deep into Sam's brain like a nail into a melon. It was only through force of will that he didn't moan in agony.

A face swam into Sam's vision with giant green eyes and the devils smirk bearing down on him. "You know," the cheery guy continued, "normally I make them buy me a drink before I let them into my bed."

Sam blinked. The words danced around Sam, mocking him with hidden meaning. "S'cuse me?" He voice emerged hoarse as his throat lit up, indicating a need for liquid right then and there.

Green eyes smacked his lips in disappointment before disappearing from view. Sam slowly began to ease his way up, ignoring the pain in his wrists as he gradually moved into a position that resembled sitting.

"Whoa, easy there tiger!" Green Eyes was on the bed, helping Sam sit up. When he was satisfied that Sam wasn't going to tip over again he pressed a cup against Sam's lips, pouring the liquid into Sam's mouth before the kid knew what was happening. Sam's body reacted before his brain, sucking back the liquid before any of the potential dangers of accepting a drink from a stranger registered in his mind. The water, drugged or not, was sweet and acted as a balm on Sam's tortured throat. "There we go." Green Eyes tilted the cup higher, allowing Sam to get at all of the liquid from the cup. The guy moved again, coming back just as quick with another glass of heaven. This time as Sam drank he noticed something bitter slide across his tongue and down the back of his throat. He sputtered, trying to push the cup away, to demand an explanation, when the world decided to take a leave of absence.

The second time Sam awoke Green Eyes was in immediate view, with his feet up on the bed while he leaned back in a chair, reading a newspaper. The paper immediately disappeared when the guy noticed Sam's gaze.

He flashed Sam a brilliant smile. "Afternoon, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to join the land of the living?"

"Who are you?" Sam asked, pleased to discover that his voice worked.

The guy continued to smile brightly. "I'm Batman, but you can call me Bruce." Sam gave the guy a blank stare and the dude seemed to sag. "Man," he complained, "the concussed are no fun." He pursed his lips, as though in deep thought, before introducing himself. "Name's Dean Winchester. I'm the guy who hauled your as out of that fire last night."

Sam let out a ragged breath, squashing the memory of the fire to the farthest recess of his mind to be dealt with later. "Thanks," he smiled shyly at the man in front of him, failing to notice that Dean's breath hitched. "I'm Sam."

Sam. Dean rolled the name over in his head, attaching it to the image of young man in front of him with dewy eyes. The kid was cute, even as banged up as he was, and he was well muscled. But was there more? Not that the answer to would become apparent any time soon. The boy's eyes were glazed with pain, though not as bad as they had been earlier and this time they were sharp, taking in the room. Still Dean could tell that Sam still wasn't quite with it.

In the kid's defense someone had tried to kill him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Sam glanced around Dean's room, trying to ascertain what the Hell was actually going on. He was in a motel room, single queen-sized, so whoever this guy was he was alone and expecting to stay that way. A few empty beer bottles sat in various places, on the table, on the TV, by the sink, but their presence seemed to be an indication of the passage of time and not of a drinking problem. They were left wherever they had been finished, indicating that cleaning them up was a distraction. The fact that they were still there indicated a need for privacy, so no housekeeping had been in the room for a while.

It was probably for the best. The half hidden bowie knife would have terrified the help, as would the articles detailing the gruesome murder of teenager back in '91. The stories on the injuries that had occurred in the house where she was believed to have been murdered would have done nothing to put their minds at ease.

It wasn't doing much for Sam's piece of mind, either. The guy was a hunter.

"You know about hunters?" Sam realized belatedly that he had spoken aloud when Dean rocked back in his chair, looking surprised and amused. Sam could feel the blood in his veins turn to ice as panic set in. Dean's face flicked from amusement to a serious frown, solidifying Sam's fear. He tried to bolt to the door but his body betrayed him. He was too weak to do more than scramble backwards a few inches and press his body desperately into the headboard. When a hand grasped his shoulder he began thrash violently, ignoring the agony the movements caused.

Dean had been surprised when Sam knew about hunters but the feeling had grown to shock at the kid's reaction. The guy seemed to be having a full out panic attack. Dean reached out a hand to try and steady the kid. At the simple touch Sam had flipped.

"Hey," Dean pulled his hand back. He raised them both in his most non-threatening manner, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" Dean continued to croon similar sentiments until Sam stilled. His eyes remained clouded with suspicion. Dean persisted in trying to calm him down. "Would I have patched you up if I was planning on putting a few holes in you, huh?" Sam gave his head a slight shake and Dean took it as a sign that he could get a little closer. "That's right. I don't kill people, Sammy. Okay?"

Sam watched Dean warily, listening for the trap in the words. He knew he wouldn't catch it if it was there, the world was too shaky for that, but the act of scanning made him feel less vulnerable. And Dean was making sense. More importantly, even if Dean was lying there was nothing Sam could do about it. The guy could beat him to death where he lay and Sam wouldn't be able to do more than make noise. Right now the only thing that could help Sam would be information.

"You're here for the poltergeist?"

Dean relaxed at the question, letting his hands fall in front of him as he braced his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, but I was too busy saving your ass to gank it. What?" He watched suspiciously as Sam gave a small grin.

"Why do you think I was out there in the first place?"

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed playfully. "You snaked my gig! Didja get it?"

Sam bristled like a cat. "Of course I did."

"Of course," Dean echoed with a grin. "A job like that should be easy for a kid like you."

Sam bristled again and threw a glare Dean's way. "I'm not a kid."

"Sure you're not, Sammy," Dean drawled. "I bet you can tie your own shoes and everything, but that doesn't make you old enough to buy liquor, does it?" Sam scowled and Dean knew he'd hit the mark.

"It's Sam."

"Whatever you say, Sammy."

"You're a real jerk, you know that?"

Dean shrugged, guilty as charged. "Saved your life though, which totally makes you my bitch." Sam rolled his eyes and began struggling with the blanket Dean had only draped over the kid. Dean watched with a smirk as the guy managed to untangle himself only to look down and moan. He gave his best boyish grin. "Going somewhere?" He held up Sam's shirt, soiled with blood and ashes.

"Give it here."

Dean gave the shirt a considering look. "No."

"What are you, a perv? Give me back my shirt."

"So you can what? Dude, you can barely stand, and frankly your shirt is rank. In fact," Dean gave the rag a toss, watching with satisfaction as it landed in the trash. He flashed Sam a dazzling smile.

It didn't seem to faze the guy. "What the Hell is your problem? In case you haven't noticed all my stuff caught fire. That was my only shirt! You owe me one of yours."

"There's no you'd fit into my shirt, Gigantor," Dean scoffed. "But I do like that you are trying to get into my clothes."

Sam silently seethed on the bed, his eyes darkened by frustration. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Dean shrugged. "Buy a new one."

"Where the Hell do you think my wallet was?"

"Then I'll buy you a new one." Dean offered another smile, this one with a hint of suggestion. He clenched his fists as Sam ignored that one too.

"Yeah, that's a great idea. There are a couple of guys out to kill me and you want to take me clothes shopping? Because that isn't creepy at all. Know what? Thank you for all your help but I'm outta here!" Sam threw his legs over the bed, moving to stand. He managed an entire step before his battered body gave out on him.

Dean swooped in, catching the guy before he hit the floor. Kid had spunk, that was for sure. It took minimal maneuvering to get a dazed Sam back onto the bed and under the blanket. The moment the blanket was settled Sam slipped into oblivion with a moan. Dean gave the guy a poke, making sure he was really out of it. Satisfied that the jab to the kid's bruised ribs hadn't woken him Dean grabbed his keys, ready to hunt down a shirt.