A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews! You all are such great motivators; you're the ones who help me continue to write, even when I have a massive case of writer's block! Thank you again! DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. My purpose is only to bring enjoyment to fellow SPN fans! Also, Russellville is really a town or city in Arkansas, but I completely made up the address. If there really happens to be such an address, I assure you it is purely coincidental.

Chapter 6

April 2010

Dean switched off the tap with a little too much vehemence and the comforting stream of hot water fizzled, until only a drip trickled from the shower head. The stream had been scalding hot, to the point of being more than a little uncomfortable, but he had endured the sting gladly. Not only had the hot shower been soothing, his body aching from having been shot point blank in the chest, but it had helped to clear his mind. Within the past twenty-four hours, he and Sam had been through enough pain, physically as well as emotionally, to last a lifetime. What was a little hot water?

Dean closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the tile that lined the bathtub; before him, images of the past few hours flashed before his eyes, like snippets of film. Seeing his mother, at first gentle and loving, and then a demonic minion of Zachariah, bent on inflicting pain; reuniting with Ash and Pamela at the Roadhouse, enjoying a beer and for a moment, forgetting about the Apocalypse while joking with his mullet sporting friend; running from Zachariah through the twisted maze that was Heaven; realizing that Sam's fondest memories had nothing to do with him or his father…

That had hurt the most. Dean recalled the first memory shortly after Walt and Roy had ended their lives: Fourth of July, 1996, with the boys setting off stolen fireworks and relishing in the beauty, the freedom, of the scene before them. It had been one of the happiest times in his miserable life: no drill sergeant father barking orders; no suppers from a can, Dean anxiously waiting for his dad to come home while trying to hide the Winchester family history from Sammy; no endless training sessions as their father tried to teach his boys to take down the supernatural beings which had plagued his family since he was four. Just the two of them, enjoying a rare moment of pure happiness, temporarily putting behind the shit which had targeted his family that horrible November night…

And what had Sammy's memories been? Playing catch in the back field? Sitting comfortably with Dean as they watched cheap horror movies and laughed at how fake the vampires were? Enjoying one of those rare moments with their father in between hunts? No. They had been Thanksgiving dinners with complete strangers; that night he had abandoned his family for Flagstaff, leaving Dean to believe his little brother was dead; that night when Sam had left for Stanford. And Dean had been hurt. No denying, to realize that none of his kid brother's memories involved the older brother he had claimed to idolize, that had hurt more than the actual bullets. Sure, as Sam had claimed, the younger boy had "never had the crusts cut off his PB&J", had never enjoyed those blessed, but few, years with a loving mother, but to think that Flagstaff had been a happier moment for him than that Fourth of July…it had been too much to bear. And Dean had tossed his amulet, the one Sam had given him, had been meant for his father, in the trash. He had not turned around, but he could feel the look of hurt in Sam's hazel eyes. He could almost hear him say, "Please Dean. Please don't do this." But he had. And now, three days later, he regretted everything.

But amulet or not, those sick bastards had killed his brother. Granted, Joshua had brought them back, but to watch Sammy die, his chest riddled with lead, it had been too much. Dean shuddered, remembering that horrible moment as he witnessed his brother's execution. He could smell the gunpowder, hear the grunted moans as Sam felt each bullet rip through his body, could even hear the soft plop as his brother's body collapsed on the bed beside him. And then, there had been Roy. The one whose gun was aimed at him, trigger finger ready, but clearly hesitant. He remembered that look of annoyance on Walt's face, as if icing the Winchesters was as much of a bother as swatting a pesky fly. And he remembered the last words he had told the sonsofbitches before trigger happy Walt had finally lost his patience and killed him, too: Go ahead…do it. But I'm gonna warn ya, when I come back, I'm gonna be pissed.

Dean felt a surge of anger rush through his veins. No one ever messed with his brother and lived to tell about it. Suddenly feeling chilled despite the scalding hot shower, the hunter reached for a towel and headed to change. On his bed, Sam was typing furiously on his laptop, oblivious to his brother's presence. Reaching for his duffle, Dean quickly pulled out a fresh change of clothes and quickly stuffed his legs into his jeans. "Come on, Sammy, we're heading out."

"Why? We just got here?" Barely looking up from the screen, his own face haggard from the ordeal they had just endured. Dean ignored it and zipped his duffle with a flourish. "It's payback." Another memory of that night flashed through Dean's brain, like a song stuck on repeat: "we need to get this show on the road."

xxx

Present Day

Let's get this show on the road.

Memories of that April night flooded Dean's brain, and he pressed his foot a little harder on the gas. He remembered that promise he had made to Walt and Roy that night, a promise that he had been forced to abandon. Granted, the brothers were rather busy averting the apocalypse, but Dean had made a promise, not just to his attempted killers, but to his brother: that he would come back, and when he did, he would be pissed. Unfortunately, the whole business of being branded as the vessels of Michael and Lucifer had been a sidebar in his plans for vengeance; and after Sam had jumped in the pit in Lawrence, thoughts of vengeance had been replaced by grief. Now, he was about to lose his brother again. And this time, there was no way he was going to let those bastards off easy.

Dean stole a quick glance at his watch; he had been driving non-stop for eight hours now. The Arkansas state line was only a few miles ahead. As the Impala tore through the Missouri landscape, Dean thought of his brother, clinging for life, or worse. The thought made him shudder despite the late summer heat. He couldn't be gone. If Walt and Roy had wanted Sam dead, they would not have taken the trouble to abduct him, and no doubt send Dean on this wild goose chase that had to have been a part of those assholes' twisted plan. No, Sam was alive. He had to be. He couldn't lose his brother again.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Impala finally crossed the state line, and Dean quickly sped along I65, trying desperately to remember where Russellville was, and praying that it wasn't too late. God, Cas, where are you when I need you, buddy? But there was no chance that the angel would appear, and for once, Dean wished whole heartedly that his celestial companion would zap himself beside him, oblivious to the awkwardness of his random and usually inappropriate visits. "Dammit, Cas." Dean gritted his teeth, and floored the Impala, testing the limits his baby would go and praying that the state police wouldn't be around nearby, waiting to nail him for speeding. He had been slack with finding Walt and Roy before, and Dean would be damned if he made the same mistake twice.

Xxx

Dean had finally drove into Russellville later that evening, just as the sun was about to sink beyond the horizon. Now that he was finally there, he slowed down to a respectable pace, and pulled into the parking lot of a local motel. Garth had said that this was Walt and Roy's current address: that did not mean that either of them still lived here. Cursing himself for his impulsiveness, Dean checked in, and finally collapsed onto the motel room bed, his exhaustion and worry for his brother's wellbeing at last taking their toll. He needed to find Sam, but he couldn't do it exhausted. He closed his eyes, fully intending to only rest them for a moment, only to fall into a long overdue, but far from restful, sleep, haunted with nightmares of his brother being brutally murdered before his very eyes. Dean would have his gun drawn, ready for the kill, only to have his weapon viciously removed from his hands; and as he was forced to watch, Walt would empty his shotgun into Sam's chest, as Roy laughed in twisted glee at the sight….

Dean awakened with a start, face drenched with sweat. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was 3AM, and that Dean had been asleep for about seven hours. "Fuck!" he yelled, leaping from his bed and reaching for his cell phone. He had to find out where the hunters lived, if they still even lived in the area; because Dean knew that once he found Walt and Roy, he would find his brother too. And the longer time passed, the less likely it would be that Dean would find his brother alive. Trying to push the horrific thought aside, the elder Winchester scrolled through his contact list, found Garth's number.

"Yo."

"Garth, it's Dean. I'm in Russellville now. Please tell me those bastards still live here."

Dean could practically see the silly grin from the other end of the line. "Actually, my friend, I can give you more than that. I have an address: 1985 Whitfield Road. Old farmhouse west of the city limits. I'll bet ya ten bucks that's where Sam is."

Dean felt the first glimmer of hope in hours at Garth's words. So Sam was nearby, no doubt only a half hour or so away. Thanking Garth, Dean disconnected and headed out to the Impala, rummaging through the trunk. He was going to find his brother; because he had made a promise. And if there was anyone who would never back out on a promise, it was Dean Winchester.

Xxx

It was just after four in the morning when Dean cut the engine of his baby and quietly climbed out. He'd have to go by foot the rest of the way, or risk alerting Walt and Roy of his presence. Trying to calm his frayed nerves, Dean opened the trunk, carefully selecting a 9mm, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, extra rounds of ammo, a dagger, and a flashlight. Quiet so as not to cause a disturbance, Dean slowly shut the trunk and made his way along the narrow, tree lined drive, carefully aiming the beam of his flashlight around every crevice possible. Who knew who lurked in the shadows, or what booby traps had been laid out in anticipation for his arrival? He tried to push away the memory of Gordon Walker's numerous traps he had planned for Sam years earlier, and took comfort in the fact that his brother had been one step ahead. What else could one expect from a Winchester? Grinning despite his fear, Dean swept the beam of his flashlight in every corner, eyes peeled for danger.

He arrived at the decrepit farmhouse without incident. It looked like a typical southern farmhouse, complete with wrap-around porch, wooden storm door, even a tire swing in a nearby oak tree. Dean switched off his flashlight, blanketing himself in comforting darkness, and carefully made his way around the house, in desperate search for a point of entry, or a sign that Sam was being held here. Nothing. Undeterred, Dean continued his sweep of the property, mindful of his surroundings, cold sweat stinging in his eyes despite the early morning chill. He would have missed the tiny basement window if not for the rock.

He had tripped on the large stone, landing with a sickening thud. For a moment, Dean lay still, eyes closed, praying that the inhabitants had not heard him fall and head out to investigate. After several minutes of tense silence, he finally dared to open his eyes and carefully right himself. He paused, waited for the inevitable.

Nothing.

Willing himself to believe that he had survived the incident without alerting Walt and Roy, Dean leaned against the cement of the basement, his hand brushing against a window pane, cracked only slightly. Not daring to switch on his flashlight, Dean leaned against the glass, trying desperately for his eyesight to adjust to the dark. Fortunately, luck was with the young Winchester: the window could easily be pried open; even better, once Dean had carefully opened it, he realized that the distance to the ground was not that far.

So far, so good.

Hesitating slightly, Dean swung his legs inside the window and carefully dropped to the ground below; the thud of his boots on cement, as quiet as it was, made Dean's heart momentarily stop beating: had someone heard him? But after a few minutes, with no sound of footsteps on the basement stairs, Dean allowed himself to breathe, and once again switched on his flashlight, its beam piercing the darkness. After a quick sweep of the area, his eyes ventured to the heavy iron door in the far right corner. Sort of like a panic room. A perfect place to hold someone captive. Heart pounding, Dean crept to the door, ran his hands across the metal, hoping to find a way inside; and sure enough, the lock loosened with a snap, and the door quietly slid open.

This is too easy, Dean thought, and immediately his hunter instincts kicked in. It was almost as if someone wanted Dean to find it.

Before he could even make his way inside, Dean felt a dull pain as a heavy object was bludgeoned against his skull.