A/N: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the characters. For entertainment purposes only. Please read and review, I love to hear your comments! They're very inspirational! And I can take criticism, as long as it's constructive and not malicious. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

"Well, did you find them?"

Walt's curt voice was the first thing Roy heard as he wandered into the motel room, sometime around three that morning. The hunter glared at his partner, tossing the keys to his piece of shit pick-up and a grease ridden take-out bag on the nearby nightstand. "Fuck, Walt, can't you give me a damned minute?"

Walt returned the stare as Roy casually tossed his cot on a chair and pulled a thick burger from the paper bag, holding it out to his partner. Walt held his icy gaze and Roy shrugged, as if to say suit yourself, before plopping the sandwich on the nightstand and pulling out his own. He unwrapped it, relished in the first, rather enormous bite, and swallowed it with piss warm beer. Walt watched the entire performance, impatient. Goddamned glutton, thinking only of his stomach…

Finally, Roy finished his late supper and crumpled the greasy wrapper and fry container in the now empty bag. He knew damn well that he was taking his sweet ass time answering Walt, but the way the other hunter had been acting around him lately, Roy felt he had good reason to leave the guy hanging. Hell, from the looks of the way little Sammy looked like an extra from The Walking Dead, he had a pretty good feeling that the Winchesters wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. Roy looked up, and Walt's face was the epitome of rage and hatred. Fuck, he was an asshole.

"There at the Bluebird Motel. Room 17. And like I said earlier, Sam looks like he has one foot in the goddamned grave, if you ask me." Roy watched as Walt finally sat up from the bed, reached for his now cold burger, and began to chew methodically. Slightly disturbed by his partner's reaction, Roy continued. "Knowing his brother, I bet the Winchesters have a feeling something's going on. You know who their daddy was, after all. So even though I have a feeling Dean won't be eager to leave ASAP, I'd bet my ass they won't be staying there long."

"Wait, was Winchester on to you?" Walt dropped his half eaten burger on the already badly stained rug, anger flashing in his cold, grey eyes. Roy flinched as Walt lowered his voice to barely a whisper: "How the fuck did the Winchesters catch on to what was going on? Did they spot you tailing them?"

"Well, their daddy was John Winchester…" Roy struggled to come up with a somewhat believable excuse. He had known Dean had caught him tailing them earlier that night. Granted, he had probably no knowledge who the driver was, but the fact that he had noticed something in the first place was enough to send off Dean Winchester's "danger radar".

"They saw you, didn't they? Fuck Roy…" Walt trailed off, head in his hands. Roy watched in silence, awaiting the inevitable shit storm. Instead, the outraged hunter sat up and rummaged through his duffle until he found his 12 gauge. He quickly loaded the weapon, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door, Roy tagging along like a wounded animal. Moments from that morning two years earlier flashed before his eyes.

Roy has the gun on Dean, his finger hovering near the trigger. The elder Winchester stares coldly back at him, a look of hatred in his green eyes. Beside Dean, Sam lays on his bed, his chest riddled from the bullets that had just moments ago been fired from Walt's weapon. Roy knows he has to kill Dean, hell, his brother is lying there, dead as the proverbial doornail, and if the older brother still draws breath, both he and Walt are gonna permanently be on his shit list. Not something he particularly would want. But on the other hand, Dean had done nothing wrong. It was Sam who had jump started the apocalypse, who had started this whole mess when he hooked up with that demon bitch…

Roy shuddered as he grabbed his keys and followed Walt out the door. Whoever said history repeats itself wasn't kidding.

xxx

Dean couldn't shake that feeling that something terribly wrong was about to happen. Tossing uncomfortably on his bed, the young man struggled to calm down, to try to get some sleep. But he just had that gut feeling, and one thing Dean Winchester could always count on was his instinct.

Initially, Dean had fallen asleep quickly, despite his worry for his brother and that sinking feeling that he was being watched. Peaceful slumber, however, had been short lived, and after only a few hours of restless tossing and turning, Dean had awakened to find Sam sleeping fitfully on the bed beside him. Finally, Dean thought, listening to his brother as he tossed restlessly and moaned from beneath the covers. The kid may have been asleep, but it was obvious that it was not a restful one.

That had been a few hours ago. Now Dean was sitting up in his bed, eyes piercing the darkness. It was a habit he had acquired as a boy, listening for the sounds of something, anything, that was not familiar: the unfamiliar gate of someone other than their father at the door; the rustling of supernatural creatures outside the window, the telltale static and electrical hums of a vengeful spirit. Now, when Dean heard the soft sound of someone trying desperately to mask their footsteps, he was at full alert, reaching for his gun. Heart pounding, Dean switched off the safety and positioned himself where he would be behind the door when it opened. Immediately he realized that his hunter's instinct had been right all along, that someone, or something had been tailing them since leaving that crappy diner hours earlier. Dean waited, with baited breath, as the footsteps approached, closer until they, as expected, halted before the door to the brothers' room. Then, the familiar rattle as someone jimmied the doorknob, picking at the lock.

Dumbass, Dean thought to himself. Trying to get through the front door, amateur. Sure enough, the clicking eased and there was a creak as the intruder slowly turned it and pushed the door open. Come on, you sonofabitch. I'm waiting for you.

The door opened wider and a shadowy figure entered the room, armed with a shotgun or rifle, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. Quietly, Dean made his way from his hiding place and aimed his weapon at the back of the stranger's head. "Surprise," he smirked, cocking his weapon. Slowly, the intruder lowered his weapon; it took Dean a second to realize that it wasn't really natural for someone with a gun to lower it that quickly, and without any prompting. He knew that he was in trouble when he saw the other guy from the corner of his eye; Dean knew that he had to react, to use one of his fancy evasive maneuvers and knock the shit out of the doucebag behind him, but it was too late. Before he had any time to react, Dean felt the sharp pain as a hard object was bludgeoned against his skull.

And then everything went black.

xxx

When Dean came to about twenty minutes later, he found himself with a splitting headache and his limbs secured to a wooden chair. Squinting in the now brightly lit room, the older Winchester automatically tried to reach to massage his pounding temple, forgetting temporarily about his restraints and cursing when he remembered. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to vomit, but mercifully the need to throw up his supper passed within a few moments. He heard Sam struggling beside him, and immediately felt a surge of relief rush over him; at least Sammy was OK.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice.

"About damn time. Thought I was gonna have to kill ya while you were out cold. Now where's the fun in that?"

And Dean's heart sank as he recognized the voice of the man before him, a twelve gauge aimed directly at his heart.

xxx

September 15, 2004

San Fransisco, California

Dean downed his sixth whiskey while flirting with the hot redhead behind the bar, flashing his trademark cocky grin. It never failed to attract the ladies, that Winchester charm which his father had passed on to him but seemed to pass completely by his lanky, nerdy kid brother. It didn't take much; a little wink, a charming one liner, that smile which seemed to drive the ladies wild. And tonight was no exception. Karla was the third young lady to willingly provide Dean her phone number, with a little wink of her own and a promise that her shift would be over in an hour if you didn't mind waiting a bit, sweetie. Dean had simply nodded, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Hunting was the family business, but "all work and no play make Dean a dull boy."

That night, however, Dean would have been forced to stand up three gorgeous young ladies; for at that moment, John Winchester walked in, two complete strangers tagging along behind. And judging by the glares from all three, the trio were not on friendly terms. Dean watched as the three walked to a booth in the farthest corner of the bar and ordered drinks, and eventually slid off the bar stool, in hopes of finding a spot close enough to keep his cover, but still catch snippets of conversation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" John hissed to one of the men, hardly touching his beer. "Your carelessness could have gotten all three of us killed! Who taught you how to clean a damn gun in the first place?"

One of the strangers leaned in on his elbows, eyes filled with hatred. "You call me careless? Who was it who got Will Harvelle killed, huh? So who's the careless one now?"

For a moment, John lowered his head in shame. It was true, his poor judgment had resulted in the death of his good friend: had left Ellen without a husband and young Jo without a father. For a moment, he said nothing, and the other hunter smiled smugly. But after a while, another voice spoke up.

"Yeah, Walt, Winchester did fuck up when he got Walt killed, but we did too just now." The man was silenced by an icy glare, and the other man downed a quarter of his beer in awkward silence. After a few moments, John finally spoke up.

"You're right. I did kill Will. I'll regret that for the rest of my goddamned life. But I have never gone on a hunt with a jammed gun. It's a wonder we're still standing for Christ's sake."

"Look man, I just told you we fucked up," the other guy hissed, and the guy named Walt nodded. "We got the vamp nest in the end, didn't we?"

"And you could have easily gotten my son killed in the process."

Dean felt his heart nearly skip a beat at the mention of his brother's name. He leaned in as far as he could, struggling to hear the rest of the conversation amidst the noise from the crowd.

"That vamp was targeting the Stanford campus. There was no guarantee that he was singling out your boy, Winchester."

"If you half-wits had been paying attention, you would have heard that vamp's plans for Sam," John snapped, his voice rising to the point where a few patrons glanced nervously at the three men talking about weird supernatural shit. And at that moment, John spotted his boy, sitting at a nearby table, clearly eavesdropping on his conversation. Without another word, John left the table, an irritated expression on his face. Dean, meanwhile, quickly lowered his, preparing for the impending verbal assault from his dad, the two men with him temporarily forgotten.

xxx

Present Day

"Roy? Is that you? Man, you guys never give up, do ya?" Dean flashed another of his smug grins as his eyes focused on the man before him, still brandishing his weapon. Roy shifted uncomfortably, willing himself to stay focused. Beside him, Walt's own weapon was pointed at Sam; for a moment he felt a strong case of déjà vu. This was an almost exactly what had happened that morning two years earlier, when Walt had shot both brothers in their beds. Even the smart-ass grin plastered on Dean's face was almost exactly as it had been all those years earlier. Roy shrugged and pressed the weapon against Dean's chest, the barrel pointed directly at his heart.

"Well, let's just say we have a little unfinished business, shall we?" Roy stole a glance at his hunting buddy, whose aim on Sam was just as deadly accurate. The younger Winchester, however, hardly took any notice to the fact, and was hissing madly, no doubt caught in another hallucination. Unfortunately, with his hands bound securely to the arms of the chair, Sam was unable to find solace in the scar on his palm. Dean watched him anxiously, his expression of bravado gone. His kid brother was in agony, and there was no way to stop it. Unless…

"Look, man." Dean stared into Roy's eyes, this time unable to mask the fear as he had done the last time the brothers were in the two hunter's clutches. "The guy's a wreck. He's having these damned hallucinations or whatever about Hell, and they're getting worse. He's got this scar on his palm, and if he presses his fingers into it, he's fine. But he can't do that if he's tied up. Please, Roy, I'm begging you man, let my brother go."

Dean looked into Roy's eyes, noticed the hesitation in them and immediately felt a glimmer of hope. He remembered that the last time the pair had ambushed them, it had been Walt who had actually pulled the trigger. Either Roy was as junkless as Cas had been, or there was some hint of compassion hiding in that thick skull. What Dean did know was that this was just the leverage he needed to get the pair out of this mess.

"Come on, Roy, the man can't be much of a threat anymore. He's been Lucifer's bitch for months now. Don't you think he's paid enough? Leave him out of this!"

For a moment, Roy hesitated. Walt, as per usual, narrowed his eyes at him, the look clearly stating if you fuck this up again, it ain't gonna be only the Winchesters dying tonight. There was no way that Roy's head was going to be on the chopping block. Not tonight, at least.

"The kid kick starts the apocalypse and you think he's gonna get off easy? Fuck no. That's your whole problem, Winchester. Little Sammy can do no wrong. Fuck a demon? No problem. Demon blood junkie? All in a day's work. Initiating the goddamned apocalypse…."

Roy was suddenly interrupted by a head butt. Little did he know that part of Dean's plan had been to distract him while he had carefully loosened himself from his bonds. Now, caught off guard, Dean was able to tackle his foe as easily as, well, taking candy from a baby. Immediately Walt lowered his own weapon, aiming it at the pair fighting on the floor. If it hit Roy, well, no big deal, he was a major fuck up to begin with. But to kill Winchester would be a nice, added bonus. Eyes cold, Walt fired the shotgun; Dean winced as he felt a bullet tear through his shoulder. But still he fought on, until finally he felt another burst of white hot pain as another bullet pierced his abdomen. Sam, apparently free from his latest visit from Lucifer, let out a wounded cry.

"Dean!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Walt quickly drew the gun back on Sam, who was struggling madly to free himself from his bonds.

"Screw you." Sam hissed, spitting in Walt's face. For the first time in days, he felt lucid, his brain free from the shit which had been haunting him hours on end. "If you hurt my brother, I swear to God…"

"You'll what?" Walt laughed malevolently, shoving the barrel of the gun against Sam's bare chest, the cool of the metal making him flinch. "You'll kill me? You pathetic little fool." And without hesitation, Walt slammed the barrel of the gun against Sam's skull and he slipped into the first restful fit of unconsciousness he had had in days.