Dean sits in the passenger seat of the Impala, nervously chewing a pen cap, a habit he's had since he started school, as he studies the Chonchon's victims.

It's just as his father says, significant amount of blood loss, some of them healthy one day and dead the next. All of them with some sort of life trauma.

He shifts the papers around, looking at the names.

Frank Lomita, parents killed in car crash. He was the only survivor.

Beatrice Vitro, forced to stay in an abuse relationship for over five years.

Terri Nole, kidnapped for a few months before returned to her family.

Those only a few of the many scattered across the states, always something in their past that might have given them extreme grief.

Dean pauses as he's flipping through the papers.

Sure, the victims are scattered, but when Dean compares the dates and locations of the vics, there is a pattern. The Chonchon isn't just jumping around eating pained souls, it's migrating East. And the last death was in Lincoln, Nebraska. The one before in Colorado.

Dean always gets yelled at for writing on the maps, but he needs to check, and connect the trail. Before the Chonchon was only killing in the Far East, moving around the coastal states. But in the last two weeks, it started moving and killing more.

The lines zigzag across the map, but they end in Lincoln. Northeast of Lawrence, and worse, directly North of Concordia.

Sam.

"Dad!"

John swerves and is launched from his own thoughts as his son starts yelling in the seat beside him.

"The- the thing, The Chonchon, its moving East! To Kansas, and…Sam-!"

Maybe, Dean thinks, maybe watching your mother burn on the ceiling, even when you're only a baby, could be cause enough for the Chonchon to target Sam.

Dean shivers as he thinks of Sam's nightmares. Every night he crawls into his brother's bed, holding him close and telling Sam it'll be alright.

Even if it's not enough for the Chonchon, Dean still wants to guarantee his brother's safety.

John grasps what Dean is saying, and understands why his son is frightened. But he doubts the Chonchon will target Sam.

Sam doesn't have any horrific trauma-

"Mary, where are you?"

"Dad, dad no, it's me, Sam don't-"

"Oh my God."

Dean clamps onto the dash as his father executes a U-turn, and slams onto the gas.

They're headed East.

Sam's screams, he decides, are delightful little things. Like a mewling kitten, sound coming out broken and scratchy.

It's beautiful, but neighbors are nosy bastards.

He clamps a hand over Sam's throat, squeezes until no sound is coming out except for the dry wheezing of air.

"I love your voice Sammy," He purrs. "But we don't want people getting curious now do we?" He says with mock sympathy.

Sam's eyes go wide, and the child thrashes under the heavy body of the human male he's possessing.

He presses down even harder on Sam's throat, grabbing one of the boy's wrists.

"Calm down now Sam, or this will hurt a lot more than it needs to," He says cheerily, releasing Sam's throat and locking both of the kids wrists together, pressing them into the bed.

"Don't move," He breathes into Sam's neck, licking the tender flesh.

It's been a long time since he's had a toy this sweet, this young and gloriously tasty. It's been awhile since he's had anything good period, and he's going to enjoy this thoroughly.

He pulls a cloth from his pocket, an old ritualistic thing, and ties Sam's wrists together, tightly pulling the knot.

"So pretty," He moans, running his teeth against the boy's neck.

He killed the owner of the vessel earlier, devouring his soul in preparation for this.

It would be so good, it already was and he hadn't even started yet.

Interruptions would be most unwelcome.

Sam's throat burns with the phantom ache of rough hands that were choking him moments earlier. It brings back memories, not all of them old.

His eyes sting with unshed tears, and he can feel his wrists grinding together in their binding. He was learning how to escape being tied up just last month, but nothing he remembers can be applied to this.

Especially when the thing you need to escape from is sitting on you.

This isn't Lance anymore.

He doesn't know if it's a demon or not, but it's all he can call this thing.

It mouths at his neck, sharp teeth dragging on his exposed skin, moving down towards his shoulder. He feels the intent there, the danger that is so close, and all it needs to do is press a little harder.

Clawed hands rip his shirt off, tossing is aside.

Sam knows what is going to happen. He knows, but it doesn't seem real.

The thing bites down suddenly, drawing blood from his shoulder. It moans loudly, lapping and licking at Sam's wounded shoulder without a care. Warm red trickles onto the sheets, staining them red.

It thrusts down into Sam, and he can feel the hard line of its erection on his stomach. Sam shivers, tears running down his face. Everything feels so wrong.

"Please stop," He whispers, useless objection forcing its way out of his throat.

The thing laughs into his skin, ignores his protests and bites down harder.

"Please!" He screams this time, arching up and thrashing his bound arms.

The thing sits up, puts a hand on Sam's chest, lightly dragging the claws up and down Sam's body.

"I thought I told you to stop," It growls, and Sam freezes. His breath catches in his still sore throat, air coming out garbled.

It grins, and hooks a claw in the waistband of Sam's jeans, tugging downwards.

Sam turns his head from the piercing yellow eyes and sobs into his arm.