spy guy: Not the best chapter, and I'm having formatting errors. :l Oh well. SHORT AND SWEET.


May, 1998

Ava was a short girl with a round face, and auburn hair. She entered the room holding a ring of keys, and headed straight toward Brady's pen, unlocking the door, and letting herself inside. She was fearless in a way that Sam wasn't, walking with confidence and defiance. She enjoyed toying with Brady's hair, and asking him questions about his family, what it was like before his capture, what kind of person he was going to be. She asked him if he'd been to a dance, or if he'd ever had a girlfriend. The young man answered each question patiently, his replies sounding tired and practiced, as if he had answered the same things countless times before.

"I was going to be a history teacher." He said. "I'm good at memorizing facts."

"That sounds boring." Ava replied, pulling at the boy's curls as she sat beside him. "Wouldn't you rather be here with me?"

"Yes."

Brady had it easy in the pen, but only because he had earned Ava's favor. For a human, with no prior knowledge of the supernatural, survival was all he had, and only if he survived, could he escape.

Satisfied by her human's answer, Ava got to her feet, and lightly kissed him on the cheek, a benign smile on her face. Then, she left, locking the pen behind her, skipping back into the hallway. The door shut with a loud crash.

Then...the room was silent.

Moments later, Dean heard the soft rustle of clothing, and turned in time to see Brady curl in on himself, his hands reaching up to cradle his head. At first, he made no other noise, but then, Dean caught the sounds of soft whimpers that quickly escalated into barely controlled sobs. No one else in the room reacted at all. They all continued to stare blindly ahead with their far-away eyes, while Brady fell apart right before them.

"Hey." Dean said, moving to the chicken mesh door of his pen. "Hey!"

The young man looked up, his brown eyes reddened with tears. It was horrible seeing him like that...he had seemed to together before.

"Were you listening the whole time?" Brady demanded. "Were you listening to how she...she always asks me those questions, and I hate it! I just want to forget, but she doesn't let me!"

"Hey..." Dean said, running his fingers through the chain links. "Get a hold of yourself."

"I would rather be doing anything, than rotting in this-this hell!"

"Shut up, or they'll hear you."

"I don't care anymore." Brady hissed. "I've been in here for months, Dean. I can still think, and I still talk, and it hurts so damn much! Why can't I be like them?" He indicated the other meat suits in the room with a sweeping motion of his hand. "The demon's tried them all on, and they don't have to deal with this-"

"Don't you say it!" Dean growled. "You don't know what it feels like."

The room fell to silence.

"God...Dean...I'm sorr-"

"You can see everything, y'know?" Dean continued. "They let you look, and no matter what you do, they're going to kill, and torture, and destroy everything right before your eyes using your body. Before you can even dream of ending up like those guys, you have to go through all of that. And it hurts. Worse than lying to a half blood. Worse than remembering. And if you make it through, you have to live with the knowledge that your body killed people, and that you were the last person they ever saw...You...you don't want that, Brady."

Dean could feel tears in his eyes, and the horrible clawing feeling in his chest. The scent of blood suddenly seemed to be everywhere, but he couldn't let it get to him...he couldn't.

"Am I doing the wrong thing?" Brady asked, his voice soft and cautious. "I just...I just don't know what else to do."

"You survive." Dean replied. "You keep surviving until an opportunity comes. Then, you run. There's nothing else you can do."

Dean fell asleep that night, from sheer exhaustion. He had tried to stay awake, holding his eyes open, humming softly to himself, but eventually, he just couldn't manage it anymore, and he found himself trapped in the world of his dreams again.


The sky was blood red, a full moon hanging heavy and bloated in the sky. Dean walked slowly over the ash-covered ground, his bare feet sifting through it. A creature loped beside him, leaving large clawed footprints as it went, trails of oozing saliva dripping from its gaping maw. Then, something moved over the horizon, and they were off, racing through the dunes. Dean found that he could match the beast's pace, falling beside it as they ran ever closer to their prey. The air was thick and warm, and Dean could feel his lungs struggling to breathe it in, but he never stopped. Whatever they were chasing was an important target. They had to reach it.

They had to-

Then there was ripping and tearing. Flesh giving out beneath his teeth, his fingers buried in slimy, warm gore. His muscles strained as he rent and tore apart the body beneath him, throwing its limbs as far away as he could. There was screaming in his ears, high and shrill, but he didn't stop...

He didn't stop.

He didn't-

"Dean!"

Dean heaved as he came to, acid rushing into his throat from his empty stomach. The boy spat it weakly onto the stone floor, wiping bile away from his lips with a trembling arm. His heart was pumping rapidly in his chest, too fast, like he had been running...but he hadn't...had he? He was still in his pen...

But he had been asleep!

Dean looked around, panic suddenly seizing his mind. What if the demon had ridden him? Would he even know? Would he?

"Dean!" A familiar voice cried out. The hunter's eyes snapped to meet the bright hazel eyes of Sam...the Sam he had failed to protect. The Sam he had hurt.

"What...what are you doing here?" Dean asked, his voice shaking.

"I came to see you." The boy whispered. "Keep your voice down. Papa doesn't know I'm here."

"I'm so sorry, Sammy." Dean pressed on, his fingers reaching out to grasp the links of his prison. "I should have-"

"Shh!" Sam urged, bringing a his index finger to his lips. The hunter instantly fell to silence.

"I know what happened at Pastor Jim's wasn't your fault." Sam whispered. "Ansem's always been able to make people do what he wants. As for this...There's not much I can do, Dean."

The halfling fell to silence for a moment, before meeting Dean's eyes, tears shining on their surfaces.

"If I make Papa angry again, he'll take my soul, Dean. I can't let that happen. It's all I have making me human."

Dean wanted to ask a million questions, but his mouth wouldn't respond. All he could do was stare up at the halfling he had spent the past year with, and hope that Sam would explain on his own...that he would understand how much Dean needed to know about what was happening to him.

"I have to go back to my training with the others." The boy continued. "I'm...I'm going to have to be a halfling again...but I don't want to."

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I want to stay with you and Jim, and be human. I want to go to kill every monster I can find...slaughter every demon or halfling that threatens humanity. Here, I'm going to have to...have to...to eat people."

"Sammy, Sammy, it's okay. I'm going to get you out of here. Somehow."

Dean wanted to be able to say those words, over and over again, until Sam stopped crying. But, he couldn't. Something was holding him back, and making speech impossible.

"Sammy...I need to talk to you."

"I have to go, Dean." Sam said, wiping the tears from his face. "In case Papa starts looking for me.'

The hunter nodded, pushing his fingers through the chainlinks so he could barely touch the halfling's face.

"I'm going to save you. I promise."

And then, Sam was gone...and the room was once again shrouded in darkness.


Azazel didn't go to see it often. Sometimes, he forgot that it was there, kept in near silence by sigils carved into the soft flesh of its throat. It had a voice that could shatter glass, and rip demons apart...but without that?...it was almost powerless; an ancient, magnificent creature, folded up and shoved into the body of a young man.

The demon carefully unlocked the door, entering the creature's cell quietly. It was lying in the corner, black wings folded against its host's slight body, head tucked beneath one arm. It was almost cute how it slept like a little bird, and not the holy warrior it truly was. Time on earth had made it soft. Made it scared. Cut off from the others, it was nothing more than an abnormal beast.

"Castiel?" Azazel called. With a jolt, the angel stirred, bright blue eyes standing out against the bruised skin of its borrowed face.

"Yes?" The creature strained, forced to speak using its host's human vocal chords.

"Are you ready to tell me what Zachariah is planning?" The demon demanded, letting his eyes flare an unnatural yellow. He could see the fear reflected in his prisoner's face, and smiled smugly as Castiel failed again and again to look him in the eyes. The angel before him was little more than a fledgling, raised in heaven and unused to facing down true evil. A poor choice to send out on a mission of such importance.

"I told you." Castiel replied, looking away. "He is searching for the sword of the archangel Michael-"

"There is no such thing!" Azazel shouted, lashing out with his power. Castiel screamed, wings convulsing as it was forced into the concrete wall with bone-breaking force.

"I have spoken with my master. He said that the sword was destroyed centuries before your creation.."

"I was told...to find...find the sword." Castiel strained. "Zachariah... told me that I would...know it when I saw it."

With a frustrated growl, Azazel let the angel fall to the ground in a heap of feathers and limbs.

"How long have we been at this?" The demon asked, pressing Castiel's face into the floor with a burst of power.

The angel didn't reply...not with words. It keened loudly, the closest it could get to screaming in its true voice.

Azazel glared at the creature before him, feeling disgust well up within his chest. Angels held far less power than demons. They were defenseless, many relying on human weapons to complete their missions. Their wings and their voices were the only advantages they had against the enemy...but those were two very simple things to take care of. So fragile...so vulnerable...

The demon contemplated Castiel's wings for a moment, his eyes roving over the inky black feathers. They were beautiful, but odd in color, large, protruding from the young man's bare back, surrounded by scarred flesh.

"Your wings are very important to you, aren't they?"

"Very." Castiel whimpered, face still buried in the stone floor.

Azazel smirked.

"Oh how easily I could take them away..."