Look, we're back with a brand new update! So sorry about the lack, guys, but Tree and I have been working with the VS and it's pushed this to the backburner for a while. I'm not going to promise you when the next update it, all I can do is ask that you be patient with us and know we'll get one up as soon as we can!

Thanks so much for letting us know what you think of the story so far and we look forward to hearing from you again! Any mistakes on this chapter is our own, so we apologize!

Now, let's go see how those boys are doing...

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Chapter Six

Again & again& again & again & again…

Bobby Singer rubbed a hand over his tired face as he closed up Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, a book on demons by Johann Weyer. He'd been searching the ancient tome for the last hour or so, hoping he could find something on the Pishacha to help Sam and Dean, but so far he'd come up with nil. He didn't understand why there was next to nothing to be found on the ancient Hindu demon. Sure there were some basic facts about it, but it was everything he'd already told Sam—it was a flesh-eater, it drove its victims insane, haunted cremation grounds, and could possess people. He needed something more though, namely how to kill the son of a bitch, or at least weaken it enough where they could get it back in the curse box.

Pushing up from his desk, the hunter/mechanic walked over to one of the boxes from John's storage locker. He'd already exhausted all of his research materials, so it couldn't hurt to see what the deceased hunter had in his inventory. The truth of the matter was if John wasn't dead already, Bobby could throttle the man for keeping all of this locked up. It was items they could have used but then again that went both ways as seeing Bobby knew all of this stuff existed in the first place. If anyone should have known of its existence, it should have been Sam and Dean—they were the ones who needed all this. It seemed as if the entire world was up against those boys nowadays.

Bobby had to admit he was worried about the Winchester boys. They had always been something of a family to him, but within the last few months the older man couldn't help but notice how much they really meant to him, what he was willing to do for them. Sam and Dean were his boys, plain and simple—they always were. They may have had John's genes, but Bobby would be damned if he didn't consider them his flesh and blood as well. Though he would never say it out loud, he needed them as much as they needed him, probably more so on his part. He would fight tooth and nail for them; sacrifice everything if it meant keeping them safe.

It's why he needed to find something to help Sam get Dean out of his current predicament. Sam had enough on his shoulders as it was and Bobby didn't know if Sam could handle his brother being taken from him earlier than he was supposed to. Scratch that—Bobby knew Sam couldn't handle it. Hell, the kid was having a hard enough time with Dean's deal, living with the knowledge his brother gave up his soul for him. Bobby could see the way it ate at Sam, the guilt and the pain. If there was anything to know about Sam Winchester it was the boy somehow managed to convince himself he was guilty of every single bad thing that happened to their family. It wasn't going to happen this time though; Bobby wouldn't let Sam shoulder the guilt for letting Dean go off to New York on his own and not being there when Dean got hurt. He had to find something for them if for no other reason to relieve Sam of some of that guilt.

Opening up the first box, Bobby reached in and pulled out a few of the books nestled inside. It wouldn't take long to browse through them to see if anything about the Pishacha existed—it was knowing where to look and Bobby knew exactly that. After all, he didn't get to where he was today without knowing a thing or two about research. Hell, on any day of the week he was sure he could give Sam a run for his money in the research department. After all, he pretty much taught the kid everything there was to know about researching.

The hunter couldn't help but sigh at the memory of the first time Sam came to him to learn about all the lore and research out there about the supernatural. He'd been so eager, like a student on his first day of school. It was then Bobby began to see the yearn for education Sam longed for, the normality he so desperately wanted.

"Uncle Bobby! Guess what?"

Bobby looked up as the shaggy haired boy of eight bounded into his study, eagerness radiating off of him in waves. He put down the gun he'd been cleaning to give his full undivided attention to Sam. "Your daddy finally decided to take some scissors to that mop you call hair?"

Sam laughed and shook his head. "No, Uncle Bobby…I already told Dad there was no way he was getting near my head. He knows it's a losing battle."

"Your daddy always did know when give up one of those." He stood up and ruffled Sam's hair, earning a mock glare from the young boy. "Alright, what is it, squirt?"

"Dad said I can start doing some research for him! Isn't that cool?" Sam beamed at Bobby. "And guess what else? He said you could teach me!"

"He did, did he?" Bobby glanced up just as John walked into the study. Picking up one of his books, he handed it to Sam. "How about you take a look at that, Sam? I need to speak to your dad."

"Okay!" Sam swiped the book from Bobby's hands and made himself comfortable on the old, ratty couch. He was completely engrossed in the book before Bobby could even steer John out of the room.

"John, what the hell are you thinking?" Bobby demanded as soon as they walked onto the front porch.

"Bobby, I've got to give him something to do. He's practically climbing the walls ever since he found out what we do."

"How in the world did he find out?"

John rubbed the back of his neck as he gave a half shrug. "I never meant for him to find out right now, Bobby, but he got a hold of my journal while I was out on a hunt. What was I supposed to do?"

"Lie—keep him in the dark for as long as you can! He's just a boy!"

"He's older than Dean was when he found out about this life."

"That may be true, John, but Sam deserved the chance of a normal childhood."

"Are you saying Dean doesn't?"

"Don't you start putting words into my mouth, John Winchester—I never said that." Bobby looked out to the Impala where he could see Dean sitting in the passenger seat, bopping his head in time to what he was sure was John's classic rock collection. "Dean's childhood ended the night Mary died and you know that. He was thrust into this life the same time you were, but Sam had the chance to maintain that innocence for some time."

"Do you think I wanted him to find out about this, Bobby? You think I wouldn't give anything to make sure both boys couldn't stay kids for just a while longer?" John shook his head. "You know, every time I came home from a hunt, especially a bad one, I'd just go into the boys' room and watch them sleep, especially Sammy. He just had this aura of innocence around him and it kept me grounded, it reminded me that everything would be okay, that I was making the right choice by protecting my boys from the evil out there."

"John, you are doing the right thing for them. It's more than any father could ever do for his sons."

John looked out at Dean, a small smile on his face. "I wouldn't be asking this of you if I didn't think it was important, Bobby. Now that Sammy knows the truth, I want him to be armed with the knowledge he needs, I don't want him to be defenseless out there." He turned his head to look at Bobby once again. "Please, Bobby—I need someone I can trust. I need someone who can help Sam."

Bobby let out a deep sigh before nodding. "I'll help him out John, but I'm still not going to be happy about it."

John smiled as he clapped the other hunter on the shoulder. "I never did expect you to be happy, Bobby."

They exchanged a few more words before John finally retreated back to the Impala. Bobby watched them drive away before walking back into the house and into the study where Sam was still reading.

"So, how about I teach you a thing or two about wendigos?

Bobby cleared his throat as he shook himself from the memory, grateful he was by himself as he let himself escape to the past. Peering into the box, a snapshot caught his eyes and he couldn't help but smile at it. It was a picture of the Winchester boys, standing in front of the Impala—Dean appeared to be around ten, meaning Sam couldn't have been more than six. Dean had his arm draped over Sam's shoulders, clutching tightly onto the boy while Sam beamed widely at the lens. It was one of the few times the boys could be considered doing something "normal" and it made a tiny ache go through Bobby's heart. What he wouldn't give to let them experience that little slice of normality again.

Bobby sighed as he focused on the task at hand. Going through the books told Bobby two things: one, there was nothing in the tomes to help, and two, John really never mastered the art of organization. Scraps of paper were between pages, all of them with either John's barely intelligible handwriting or crude drawing of demons and other supernatural beings. Bobby supposed he should be the last person complaining about organization, considering his own home was lined floor to ceiling with books, but Bobby considered his method to be organized chaos. He knew where everything was and it was just how he liked it. Should anyone try to come in and clean it up, he had a shotgun and acres upon acres of earth to hide the body.

Figuring he really had nothing left to lose, Bobby began going through the scraps of paper, trying to make sense of what John had written down. Most of it was notes about different monsters and hunts that seemed to be written in a hurry. There were even comments from things he'd heard from hunters while he was out on the road. Bobby took great care in putting the notes back where he'd found them, surmising Sam could add them to their father's journal when he got the time. It would be useful information they could use as they continued John's legacy.

Picking up another book, Bobby turned to the first scrap of paper and felt a smile actually creep up on his face—that, of course, would be something he would deny until his dying day. No way in the world did Bobby Singer ever smile. Grimace maybe, sometimes even chuckle, but he didn't smile. Completely unfolding the sheet of paper, Bobby finally found something that could help them—it was an old Hindu mantra and from the notes in the margins, apparently the one John used when he trapped the Pishacha a few years ago.

Almost knocking the box over in his haste, Bobby raced towards his phone and dialed Sam's number.

"Bobby?" Sam answered before the phone could complete its first ring.

"Sam, I found something I think—and hope—will help Dean."

"What? Really? What is it?"

"You somewhere you can write this down? It's a Hindu mantra and it has to be said precise or it won't work."

"Okay, hold on and let me pull off the road." In less than a minute, Sam was back on the phone. "Alright, let me have it."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The back of Dean's head smashed against the driver's side window as he reared away from the demon coming at him from over the back seat. For a moment, the edges of his vision dimmed, but self-preservation cleared his eyesight as he scrambled to stay clear of the sharp-looking fangs headed toward his face. In the confines of the front of the Impala, trapped between the steering wheel and the seat, not to mention his movements being seriously hampered by the broken bone in his leg, Dean's options for fending off the attack were grossly limited.

As the Pishacha's angry hiss drew nearer the panicked hunter threw out his arm defensively, tossing the remaining holy water outward and coating the demon and a good portion of the headliner. The Pishacha snarled, stopping its forward momentum and hovering just at the top of the seat, its red eyes glaring threateningly as it writhed against the burning liquid. Clawed hands slashed blindly at the air, seeking to connect with Dean's flesh as he fought to pull himself farther away from the attack.

In desperation, Dean lashed out with the Bowie in his left hand, somewhat surprised when he felt the blade bite into something substantial. The demon shrieked, thrashing about with its wounded appendage while its flesh still smoked from the remnants of the holy water. Dean didn't relent; instead he pushed his body upward, flipping the knife over in his hand so that the tip was aimed at the Pishacha's chest. With a shout augmented by fear-charged adrenaline, Dean's arm surged upward plunging the blade deep into the demon's chest. He hadn't expected to cause any real damage, the move had been little more than a reflex reaction to the hunter, but when the creature screamed in reaction to the wound, Dean knew he'd hit pay dirt of a sorts.

Pulling the knife free, a thick ebony sludge splattered outward, coating Dean's hand while inky droplets plopped down on his jeans. The demon blood was strangely cold, not warm like human serum, and Dean cringed as it ran in between his fingers, trailing down his arm. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation, he redoubled his effort, dropping the now empty flask and tossing the Bowie over to his dominant right hand.

As the Pishacha raged in fury, Dean drove the knife home once again, sinking the metal nearly to the hilt into the demon's upper shoulder area. The creature tore away with an ear-piercing scream that filled the Impala, pulling back so violently from Dean's attack that it yanked the blade from his grasp.

"No!" Dean shouted, scrambling to maintain his hold on the weapon as the demon retreated back into the rear seat.

"Dammit," he rasped angrily as his fingers lost their grip, the knife lodged in the Pishacha as it withdrew.

The hunter considered launching over the seat after his only real weapon, even going so far as to lift his body in that direction, but as the movement jarred his lower leg, he bit into his lower lip to stifle the scream that threatened at the back of his throat. Crimping his eyes tightly shut, he forced himself to breathe through the pain while his hands clenched at the fabric of his jacket.

A low moan from the back seat forced his eyes open and Dean peered cautiously into the rear of the Chevy. The Pishacha hovered in the farthest corner of the back, Dean's large blade still impaled in its fast fading form. Red eyes glowered back at the hunter and a thin snarl formed on the demon's lips.

"Screw you, you sonofabitch. I hope that hurts like hell," Dean snapped, gaining some bravado as he watched the demon suspiciously.

Sagging against the door, he let out a groan, regretting it as the dizziness washed over him again. He could hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, knowing full well that his head's most recent contact with the driver's side window hadn't done his concussion a helluva lot of good.

"Okay, gotta stay awake. Four hours right? Or was it five? Doesn't matter. Just gotta stay awake till Sammy gets here," he mumbled as his hand absently went to rub at his temple.

Dean looked out the window, staring blankly as an icy rain began to fall once more. Could they ever catch a break? He wondered where Sam was, worried if his brother was driving through this weather too. If there was any consolation, at least Sammy wasn't stuck here in the wrecked car with him, trapped with the Pishacha, hanging off a cliff, or worse.

"So, Svetlana, how're you doin' back there?" he asked of the demon, casting another look back at the red-eyed spirit. "Can't say I didn't warn you. I made you a deal, you stay in the back seat and I'd stay in the front. We'd leave each other alone. But no, you had to go and try to be a badass. Guess I showed you?"

"Svaatanya… palaayana," the demon murmured back at him, much quieter this time than before.

"Yeah, whatever. If that means 'kiss my ass', well then right back at ya," Dean quipped. "You aren't so big and bad now with my knife sticking out of ya, are you?"

The Pishacha moved slightly and Dean recoiled, fearing another attack. With an earsplitting screech, the demon reached up and pulled the blade free of its semi-corporeal flesh. With the blade held in its clawed hand, Dean watched with apprehension, knowing if the demon chose to use the weapon against him there was little he could do to prevent it.

Seconds ticked by like the staccato beat of the rain on the roof of the Impala as Dean waited for the attack. Instead, the Pishacha growled and faded away in a wisp of white fog. The Bowie fell to the floorboards, clattering against the opened curse box and the other collected paraphernalia from the storage shed.

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, surprised yet relieved that the demon had withheld its assault.

"That's right, you better run away," he shouted defiantly at the empty back seat.

Deep down though, Dean knew it was just a matter of time. He seriously doubted that his knife had done any real damage to the creature, he knew enough about demons to know that short of pure iron or blessed blades, nothing was going to have any real stopping power against the thing. Considering the Colt wasn't in operation any more, when, not if, the Pishacha returned, he had limited options.

"Stay awake and wait for Sammy," Dean reminded himself. "Sam will get here. Sam will save your ass."

Sam swore he'd save your ass this time…

"Ah Sam, I think I really screwed up here," Dean groaned feeling fresh wetness trickle down the side of his leg. "You picked a bad time to have to bail my ass out."

You're my brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you…

"Sammy, just need to talk to Sammy. Talk to Sammy, stay awake…" Dean's new mantra began to recycle through his bleary brain.

He reached for the cell phone lying at his side. Despite concussion blurred vision, he managed to hit the call button, absently thankful that the last number dialed had been Sam's cellular.

Pishacha coming back… leg not good, head even worse … gotta stay awake, cant stay awake… talk to Sam… Sammy's gonna save me…

Dean listened to the phone ring, and ring, and ring again. Panic rose up like bile when he thought the call was going to his brother's voicemail.

Voicemail…

Just like Dad, he's not answering anymore. He's gone again, left me behind. Sam's not coming either.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice broke through the haze of doubt and despair but not nearly enough to snap Dean back to being completely alert and oriented.

"Dean?"

His voice little more than a whisper, Dean finally responded.

"Save me, Sammy…"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Yeah, Bobby, I got it," Sam said as he switched the phone to his other hand. Hr glanced out the window of the old truck as cars rushed by, even though the roads were becoming more treacherous as the snow continued to fall at a steady pace.

"You're sure, Sam? Because you have to say it exactly right. Your daddy doesn't specify, but he has a note in here saying if the mantra isn't said exactly as it's written, you're pretty much screwed."

"Yeah, I got it." Sam frowned as his phone beeped in his ear. He pulled it away and glanced at the screen. "Listen, Bobby—that's Dean calling in."

"Be precise, Sam, and make sure that idjit of a brother has it right, too. You're still not close enough to get to him in time if he screws up."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said impatiently, hoping Dean wouldn't hang up.

"Call me when you get to him."

"Okay—thanks, Bobby." Sam clicked over, cutting Bobby off before the older man could say anything else. "Dean?" Please be on the line…Don't give up on me, big brother.

There was silence on the other end before Sam finally heard Dean's whispered plea. "Save me, Sammy…"

"Dean!" Was that begging? Dean rarely begged in his life and when he did it was never because of anything good. "Dean, you with me?"

"Sammy?" Dean's voice held a hint of confusion and that worried Sam. It meant his brother wasn't in good shape. "Sammy, where are you?"

"I'm on my way, Dean." Sam shoved the truck into gear and carefully pulled out onto the road. "I need you to listen to me, Dean. Bobby found something to help you with the Pishacha."

Dean chuckled. "Does it involve me and a certain hot blonde named Amber?"

"No, it—"

"You remember that time in Austin when we went to that bar and met Amber and…I forget her name. What was her name, Sammy?"

"I don't know, Dean." Sam sighed in frustration as he tried to steer his brother back on track. "Bobby gave me something to help you."

"Bobby?" Dean's voice took on the confused tone again. "When did you talk to Bobby? We haven't talked with him for a few days."

"Dude, you were just at Bobby's yesterday." Okay, this is not good at all. "Dean, did something else happen?"

"I may have had another run-in with Svetlana…"

"Define run-in."

"It attacked me but I managed to hold it off with the holy water and the Bowie, but not before I knocked my head on the window." He heard Dean let out a tired sigh.

"Are you okay?" What are you talking about, Sam? Of course, he's not okay!

"Yeah, for the most part anyway. Only now I may have a slight problem."

"What's that?"

"Oh, her name was Tiffany! Amber's friend was Tiffany…Man, she was a hot little redhead."

"Dean!" Sam barked.

"Geez, Sammy…do you have to yell? My head's pounding enough as it is."

"Dean, what problem do you have?"

"Oh…um, I'm kind of out of holy water and I lost my knife."

"Sonofabitch!" Sam hit the steering wheel with his hand, almost losing control of the truck as it jerked sideways. "Alright, Dean—I need you to listen to me. I'm still about four hours out, but I have a mantra that Bobby says will keep the Pishacha at bay."

"A mantra? What the hell good is a mantra gonna do me, Sammy?"

"Dad had it written on a piece of paper—it's what he used when he trapped the Pishacha the first time. You have something to write this down on, Dean? Bobby says it has to be said correctly or you can pretty much kiss your ass good-bye."

"Of course it does." He heard Dean hiss in pain as he rummaged around.

"Dean, you okay?"

"Yeah, I just pulled my leg…I'm good. Alright, let me have it."

Sam glanced quickly at the sheet of paper in his hands, while keeping his eyes on the road at the same time. "Aum…Bhuh Bhuva Svah…"

"What the hell?"

"Dean, just write it down and quit bitching about it. Are you ready for the next part?"

"Oh, you mean there's more?"

"Dean!"

"Quit your belly-aching already, Samantha, and give it to me."

If the Pishacha doesn't do him in, I just might… "Tat Savitur Varenyam…"

"This just keeps getting better and better."

"Bhargo Devasya Dheemahi…Dhiyo Yo nah Prachodayat…"

"Prego-what?"

"Prachodayat…P-R-A-C-H-O-D-A-Y-A-T."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, that's it. Now, repeat it back to me."

"What?"

"Repeat it back to me." Sam listened as his brother read it back to him, having to correct him on nearly every single word. "Dean, you have to remember to say it right."

"Yeah, I know, Sammy. Quit telling me that."

"Maybe if I say it enough times, you'll get it through that hard head of yours."

Dean's response was drowned out by a loud bang that pierced the quiet like a gun being fired. Sam felt the truck jerk to the right and he dropped the phone in order to grab the wheel with both hands to stop the vehicle's trajectory.

"Sammy!"

Sam barely heard his brother's frantic yell as the pickup began to spin uncontrollably on the slick road and he fought to keep it on the road. He realized a split second before it broadsided the trees that it was a losing battle. The only thing he could do was be thankful he was wearing a seatbelt and try to protect himself as best as he could as glass exploded inwards from the passenger side, showering him as his head made contact with the steering wheel.

"Sammy! Sammy, dammit…answer me!"

Sam tried to maintain his hold on the conscious world, knowing he needed to for Dean. He couldn't pass out now, not when Dean was still in trouble. He felt his eyes getting heavier as blood began to trickle down his head.

"SAM!"

"Sorry…Dean…" Sam muttered before he finally lost the fight with unconsciousness.