A/N: Heaps of thanks to supernatfem76, geminigrl11, Thorny Hedge, Kaewi, Spense, freedomfly, monkeymuse, lelann37, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP for leavin' me reviews for chapter 2. I really appreciate it guys. This one's for you!


Pastor Jim stands solemnly nearby, glancing at Dean when he catches the younger man's impatient fidgeting. That's his Dean, all bottled rage and emotion just waiting for an outlet to be unleashed. He might as well be standing in an elevator with a caged animal - a restless and dangerous caged animal that really has no business going headfirst into an interrogation. Especially with something so valuable at stake.

Years of training have primed Dean for situations like this – the research, the detective work, the hunt, the fight – but no amount of investigation or fieldwork could have possibly prepared him for the realism of his family being involved, let alone his brother. So when Dean shifts, it's into a mode Jim recognizes straight away. It's no surprise really; it's the same mode John Winchester himself has been working in for the past 22 years.

Dean's shifted into Hunter mode, angry and on edge and pure focus. It's the place where he's most comfortable, the place where he can operate at his best. It's his job, his calling.

But where hunting is Dean's calling, Sam is Dean's life. Therein lay the difference. This is about his brother. If he'd been known to advance recklessly before, it'll be nothing compared to what he'll be willing to do now.

John would have chastised the boy for letting his emotions interfere with his judgment, would have ordered him to stand down, but Jim has never agreed with the way John handles his boys.

True, Dean's attached to the situation; it's personal. The effect, the aggression, the emotional highs and lows – in a way, it's the same with hunting. Jim, of all people, understands how difficult it is for him to switch it off or to just come down.

But if he doesn't calm down and at least attempt to think clearly, the two of them will be getting nowhere fast, even if Dean keeps his cool long enough to not shoot Maggi just for spite.

"Relax, Dean. This is the best lead we've had." It's Jim's way of telling him to cool it, and he knows Dean understands its purpose without even looking at his old friend. Jim watches as the younger hunter raises his hand to his forehead in a frustrated gesture and bites back what he is sure would have been a lewd remark.

"It's our only lead," Dean shoots back instead. His tone is sharper than intended, but Jim is too much of a pacifist to address the issue. By that time a distorted version of a beep signals their arrival on the 4th floor and the elevator groans wearily as it opens its doors.

Dean, of course, stalks out without preamble, immediately scanning the derelict hall for apartment 415. It doesn't take him long to find.

Maggi Delatour had narrowly escaped incarceration herself after Vallis was put away, and rumor had it she'd gone straight after the scare. Her history was a matter of public record, as was her permanent address and place of employment. A perfect way to keep a low profile, Dean thinks. Right out in the open.

Dean checks his 9 mil, which is tucked under his shirt in his jeans, before reaching out to knock. The gentle hand on his arm stops him. He glances at the Pastor, who nods once, indicating Dean step aside. "Let me."

Dean hesitates, opens his mouth to protest, but a cocked eyebrow from the older man snaps it shut again. As much as it begrudges him to do so, he relents under the Pastor's pointed gaze. There is no telling how Maggi will react when she sees him. If she recognizes him even before she's opened the door, she could hole up or call the police, both of which are time-consuming options Dean would prefer to pass on.

Relenting, Dean steps aside and out of view, noticing for the first time that Jim has his Bible in his hand. Had he had it with him in the car? Dean's been so focused on getting to Maggi and questioning her about Sam that he hadn't even noticed.

Jim knocks and then stands back, clasping his hands in front of him.

Footsteps can be heard on the other side of the door, followed by the clinking of locks drawn back.

Maggi appears in the door, her body language expectant, "Hey, I been waitin' for you…" She stops, blinking at her caller.

Maggi's short, shorter than even Dean remembers, but she's still built like a man-eater. Dean might've admired the view if seeing her hadn't made his vision go red.

Jim's immune to her charms. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he says pleasantly. "Tell me, have you ever given thought to the Kingdom of Heaven?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Kingdom of Heaven?"

Maggi frowns. She isn't the least bit intimidated by the salt and pepper-haired man with the white collar. It's most likely because Jim looks about as none-threatening as Mr. Rogers with a Bible at the moment. "You one 'a them Witness guys?" she asks impatiently, "'Cause I'm tellin' you right now, you can take your witness somewhere else. I ain't interested."

Jim smiles politely. "Come now, young lady. At least hear me out."

"I don't have time for this," she says intolerantly and moves to shut the door.

It doesn't close. There's a foot in the way, and suddenly she's looking into a familiar face.

"Winchester." She spits the word like acid.

"Hey Mags," Dean says, using his height to loom over her.

She doesn't shrink back. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood," he says blithely, then – just to be cheeky – throws her a look of hurt. "You gonna invite us in?"

Maggi glances at Jim, then back at Dean. "No."

Still got sass. Dean shrugs and pushes easily past her. He's in her apartment now and as Jim steps in and shuts the door behind them, Dean addresses Maggi. "I need some information. About Vallis."

"Vallis," she snorts. "I can't believe you, Winchester. V's in jail. Or don't you remember? Now get outta my house before I call the police."

"Oh, I remember all right," Dean replies and sits unworriedly on her sofa. "Funny that it'd slip your mind he's out now."

Her hesitation is minute, but he still catches it. "He's out, huh? Well I wouldn' know. I ain't seen 'V since he got put away."

She's a good actress, Dean thinks. Probably the reason why she got let off. But Dean's had years of experience being the actor himself and he knows a liar when he sees one.

"Oh haven't you?" he says conversationally. "'Cause I hear you went to see him a lot. And I think you might know where he's at now."

He's ruffling her feathers and he knows it. To her credit Maggi keeps her cool, but if looks could kill, Dean would already have added his name to Jefferson Parish's homicide victims list. She glares at him, folding her arms crossly. "What does it matter to you, anyway, Winchester? You got what you wanted."

Behind her, Pastor Jim chuckles. "Wonderful disposition."

"Look, I don't know how you found me after all these years but it won't do you any good…"

Dean is off the sofa and advancing toward her before she has time to finish. "You listen to me," he growls and watches with satisfaction as she shrinks away from him. It shouldn't please him to frighten her like this, to tower ominously over her and force information out of her. Sam wouldn't have liked it. Sam would have restrained him, tried to talk some sense into him with his god damned soulful eyes. But Sam's not here and Dean's on the edge of losing himself to find him. "You were hiding him then and you're hiding him now."

"Dean."

When Jim speaks his voice is calm, rational. His eyes are steady too, meeting Dean's without judgment or guile, and the part of Dean that's given to hysteria thinks that having Jim along isn't at all to help him find Sam – it's to keep him from killing somebody.

Dean's always liked Pastor Jim, even when he and Sam were kids. He likes Jim's direct style, and his coolly calculated attitude. Even now he finds himself drawing strength from it, now when the anger and rage and weight of the day seem to press down on him with such force that it leaves him breathless.

"Dean, the phone."

With a start, Dean realizes that Maggi's cell is ringing.

The question in Jim's tone finally registers. He's looking to Dean for instructions. It's your call, son.

Dean nods and draws his gun. "Hold her," he says tightly.

With practiced efficiency, Jim takes Maggi's arms, securing them behind her back in one swift motion. She's too small for her struggles to really do any good, but she's bucking and thrashing like she's determined to go down fighting. "Lemme go you…!"

Dean flashes his gun at her and when she sees it, she slows. He doesn't like pressing it to her neck, which causes her to stop fighting completely, but she needs to know he means business. "Say hello," he orders, plucking the phone from her pocket and opening the flip.

Maggi glares at him when he holds it to her ear, but a playful little nudge with the barrel of the weapon and she caves. "Hello."

By the time Dean's got the phone to his own ear and Jim's adjusted his hold on Maggi so his left hand is free to clamp firmly over her mouth, a voice on the other line starts speaking. "It's Shriv, Mags. Listen, I only got a minute. Somebody roughed up Foz and we think they might be headin' for you next. 'V wants me to pick you up. Meet me at the Bunkhouse in half an hour?"

Dean snaps the phone shut just as Jim releases Maggi. "Gimme that phone!" she barks, reaching for it.

"Oh sorry," Dean says lightly. "But Shriv said to tell you hi."

"Why you…!"

Dean turns his attention to the Pastor. "Let's tie her up."

"You got a plan?" Jim asks.

Dean grins and, for a moment, he's the kid that snuck a playboy centerfold into Jim's Bible before Midnight Mass. "'Course I got a plan," he snarks. "Now let's go find my brother."


"Spit it out, Sam!" his father barks. There's a measured calmness to his tone, one Sam's heard at least a million times. It tells him that his father's already in a mood, and that talking to him is going to be next to impossible. But his bags are already packed and it's literally now or never.

"I'm going to college, Dad," Sam states, his voice flat. "I'm leaving for Stanford in the morning."

He's waiting for the explosion, expecting it, because his father's face has gone blank, wiped clean of any emotion. Not that he ever showed much emotion to begin with, but it's the first of many stages in losing his temper, and if there's anyone who can make John Winchester lose his temper, it's his youngest son.

"Sam," Dean says, his voice placating but firm. Don't do this. Not now.

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't want to hurt his brother. He doesn't even want to hurt his father, but the fight escalates until John's red in the face and Dean storms out to get some air.

Sam knows his father is furious, knows that he hasn't exactly made it easy for his small family in his 18 years, but it's taking every ounce of composure and strength he's got to stand his ground.

What's bad is he knows Dean would never defy their dad like this. What's worse is that the confrontation is happening just the way he pictured it would. He could never live up to his father's expectations, not in the effortless way Dean could. It doesn't matter that Sam has straight A's, that he's at the top of his class. School, sports, Graduation, advancement - none of that is of any importance to his father. What's important is that Sam knows how to bless the iron, clean the shotgun, shoot at moving targets from an impossible distance and recite Latin with perfect annunciation.

It's a hard truth to swallow: His father doesn't want sons, he wants soldiers, and Sam's never wanted a commanding officer, he wants a dad.

Everything he has and everything he is revolves around his father and his brother, around this life - their life. It's not his life, never has been, and he isn't really sure why. Going to college, actually making something of himself, being normal…safe – it's all he's ever wanted. It's something he knows from the very core of his being that he'll excel at and enjoy. It's a life that should have made any parent proud.

Yet everything Sam has ever done in his life isn't good enough. He isn't good enough.

"Fine." His father's voice is low now, calm. He's done raging and shouting. The argument is over; Sam isn't worth his time anymore. "You go, but if you walk out that door, don't bother coming back…"

Don't bother coming back…

Sam comes to – the cold wakes him – long enough to realize that he's not where he's supposed to be. His father is gone, as is his brother, and he's definitely not in a motel room. He's bound, legs splayed awkwardly in front of him, back pressed against something that can only be concrete for the cold and brittle that bites into his skin.

He isn't dead, and as reassuring a thought as that is, it's disturbing enough to find that he sure feels like it.

Is he alone? He knows he should open his eyes, try and reassess his condition, but it hurts to breathe and his head is screaming and really, is it possible to hurt in so many places without being dead?

What in the hell had hit him?

Oh, yeah. A fire extinguisher. Two men, in the parking lot, and I'm going to college, dad. I'm leaving for Stanford in the morning…

It occurs to him the next time he wakes – this time to tapping on the side of his face – that he probably has a concussion.

Sam tries to drift, to allow the pounding in his head to melt into something a little more dark and comfortable, but it's no good; the tapping is too insistent. It isn't a rough tap, like Dean sometimes tortures him with to wake him up. No, it's light, gentle even, and so very out of place given his circumstances.

Blearily, he opens his eyes. It takes an enormous amount of concentration just to focus, and it hurts a lot more than it's supposed to, on the two little faces next to him.

Two?

No. Just one little face. A little girl?

Is he dreaming?

She's sitting on a crate next to him, studying his profile, her tiny fingers lightly stroking his temple and trailing down his cheek with curious gentleness.

She's adorable, with large, round eyes set in a doll-like face. Dark blond hair, the color of Dean's, falls lightly in small, unkempt curls just above her shoulders. Forgetting himself, Sam immediately scans her slight frame, looking for the telltale signs of abuse or injury. If he's a prisoner here, perhaps she is too.

That is, if she's even real. Sam knows from personal experience that concussions tend to play merry hell on a person's psyche. Nursing Dean through an imaginary werecat attack in the comfort of their motel room after a particularly nasty run-in with an even nastier ghost testified to that.

Real or hallucination, however, he has to make sure.

A cursory inspection tells him she's unharmed, just dirty. And thin, too; painfully thin.

Her little fingers stop their trek down his cheek when she notices he's awake.

Sam gives a small smile, an offering to show that he means no harm. He doesn't want to frighten her, and he most definitely doesn't want her to run away, so he keeps perfectly still, allowing her see for herself that he isn't a danger. The child sniffles, but stays pressed against his side, one tiny hand planted on his shoulder, the other dropping to clench the bottom of her grubby, too-large T-shirt.

She cocks her head to the side, her eyes shining, and returns his smile with a shy grin of her own.

"Hey there," he says quietly, trying to keep his voice as friendly and non-threatening as possible. "What's your name?"

"Cowa," she answers, her tone high in pitch and delicate.

Sam has to catch his breath. He didn't think he'd actually get an answer on the first try.

"Cowa?" he repeats.

She frowns. "No. Cowa."

"Cora?"

"Uh huh."

Cute. "Hi Cora, I'm Sam."

"Sam?"

"That's right. Sam."

"I'm Cowa and I'm fwee," she says seriously, holding up four fingers.

Sam's smile is genuine now. "Three? Wow, that's a big number." She beams at his words, her giggle pure sunshine.

An unexpected wave of dizziness makes his head swim and Sam shuts his eyes in an attempt to pull himself together. He can't pass out now. Not before he knows who she is and why she's here.

Only a few seconds pass before he opens his eyes again. She's still watching him.

"Can I ask you a question, Cora?" he asks, and tries not to sound too expectant.

"Uh huh."

"What are you doing here?"

"Boo-boo," she states, matter-of-factly.

Sam can't help but grimace. He isn't anywhere near an expert on children, but 'boo-boo' is just as universal as 'bad guy' in kid-language. Boo-boo means hurt, and hurt means injury.

"Where is it, Cora?" he asks. Despite the fact that he's seen no signs of physical abuse on her, Sam's blood boils with fury at the mere thought. "Where's the…the boo-boo?"

"Here," she answers, her eyes huge, and reaches up.

Little fingers run lightly over the blood-encrusted gash on his temple and Sam deflates almost instantly, her child's innocence causing his eyes to sting. He understands now why she'd been studying his face so intently before he'd woke. She'd seen the wound on his temple, and probably the blood that trickled in a line down the side of his face.

Yeah. Boo-boo.

"Boo-boo hurt?" she asks, her little face so close to his he can feel her breath on his cheek.

Sam inhales deep, at the cost of a certain amount of nausea, and tries to give her his most reassuring smile. "Yeah," he says gently, "It hurts a little bit."

"I fix it," she declares, serious again. He wants to smile, to tell her that it's okay, but she's already moving, leaning into him, standing on tiptoes to gain higher purchase. She's so little and Sam guesses what she wants so he bends down slightly, expecting a whisper in his ear or something of the like. Instead, little lips touch his forehead, directly over the gash.

It still doesn't explain who she is or why she's there, but Sam's too touched for words, rendered speechless as she wobbles slightly before catching her balance on the crate and fixes him with the brightest smile he's ever seen. "All better?" she asks.

Now her eyes are expectant and it takes a moment for Sam to find his voice, and when he does he doesn't care that it cracks with emotion. "All better. Thank you."

"Cora!"

The sharp tenor causes the little girl to jump, threatening her precarious balance on her perch next to Sam. "Jusin." She turns toward the voice as if she's been caught doing something wrong. Which, apparently, she has.

"I sorry, Jusin." Cora scrambles off her crate as the young man from before – Justin? - storms into the room. Sam can't help but notice the way he scoops her up in his arms; it's as if Sam's the dangerous one, not vice-versa.

"What are you doing in here, Squirt? You know you're not supposed to be in here." He's firm with her, but there's no mistaking the undertones of concern in his voice.

"Boo-boo," she says, pointing at Sam. "He has boo-boo. I fix it."

The kid meets Sam's eyes for only a moment before looking away, clearly uncomfortable. He looks defeated as he sets the little girl back on the floor, as if he's the prisoner, not Sam.

"Go back upstairs," he tells her gently. Sam doesn't miss the fondness in the kid's voice. Or the fear. He recognizes it; he's heard it a million times in his own brother. The kid's afraid for her. The little girl is important to him.

Definitely family - there's too much resemblance not to be. Daughter? No way, too young. The kid can't be any older than 17. Besides, she called him 'Jusin', not 'Daddy'.

Sister? Niece?

He's banking on sister.

"I wanna say," she whines, and Sam now understands why Dean teases him about his "puppy-dog" eyes.

"No," the kid says stiffly. He gestures in another direction. "Now go back upstairs."

"But…"

"No." He cuts her off harshly, but Sam watches as he relents, bending until his knees touch the floor and bringing himself down to the little girl's level. He touches her chin and speaks softly, as if he doesn't want Sam to hear. "You want to stay with Justin, right?"

At her tiny nod he continues, "Then you have to listen to me. Go back upstairs where it's safe. I'll come get you when it's time to go home."

"Kay, Jusin. Kay." Cora is rubbing her eyes and yawning by the time she turns and scampers away. Sam watches her, waits until she's gone before addressing the kid. "You know it's dangerous for her here."

The kid turns, glaring at him and, if possible, looks even more defeated. "Shut up," he spits.

Sam's hit a nerve. He decides to run with it. "She your sister?"

"What's it to you?"

He wants to say he has a big brother too, that he knows the look, understands the connection, the fierce love and protection, but he's just spent the last who-knows-how-long trying to convince them that he doesn't have a brother.

"This isn't a place for a little girl," he says instead.

The kid's face darkens. "You don't think I know that?" he snaps. Angrily he picks up the crate and returns it to where it must have rested before little determined hands pulled it away. It had to have been empty for such a little girl to move it in the first place.

The kid has stopped, but his back is to Sam. Sam's expecting him to leave, to storm out, but he turns, fixing sad eyes on him. "Look, I know what it must look like but…if you are who you say you are, it's not personal. Boss just wants this Winchester guy."

"That's what you keep saying. How can I convince you that I don't know who you're talking about?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," the kid mumbles, but Sam's sure he sees a flicker of doubt in those troubled eyes.