Disclaimer (better late than never, right?): These characters are not mine. The plot is. Also, money? What's that? The end.

Please note this is an AU fic which may or may not resemble the amazing season finale. Thanks to my brand-new beta relativity1953! This chapter is dedicated to the incredibly sweetcarocali, H.T.Marie, and BEKi of Dorvan, who were my muses while I was blocked.

Chapter 9

"Imagine the odds!" Jenny gushed. "What on earth are you doing all the way out here?" Her voice dropped. "Working?"

"Something like that," Sam smiled, dropping the subject with practiced ease. To her credit, she went along with him. "Oh," Sam remembered, glancing at his father. John was watching them with an expression so inscrutable he couldn't help but what wonder what he'd done now. "Jenny, this is - "

She was open, trusting, chipper... and hiding something. John could feel it. His son laughed along with her, clearly charmed into distraction. He sighed. He'd taught his boys better than that.

"John Winchester," she cut in, remembering. He shook her hand, out of habit drudging up a smile Dean had virtually inherited; little bit of you know I'm gorgeous and little bit of so are you, play your cards right and maybe we'll get to know each other. Some of her own medicine and damn near irresistible, even for an honorable woman like Jenny, who both men noticed was sporting a new ring on her finger.

Sam stared at them both, open-mouthed. He could count on one hand the number of times his father introduced himself with his real name. Obsession for revenge often conflicted with standard human laws, if nothing else.

"Ms. Willits told me she'd given you both some of our old pictures," John said, anticipating Sam's questions. There was no reason to lie.

He nodded.

"Mrs. Richardson, actually," Jenny amended easily, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension radiating from the two men. She couldn't help posing her ring in front of her, a soft smile on her face. Sam returned it almost reflexively. She'd been a strong, unshakeable mother before, but she'd clearly found her peace.

He couldn't help but envy her for that.

"Congratulations," he told her, meaning it. "So... what brings you to Columbia?"

He caught his father shaking his head, exasperated. Subtle he wasn't.


"Dean, baby, you can't win this. You do know that, right?"

He ignored her, body tense and ready. "Come on!" he snapped at her boytoy.

And then he was flying across the room, slamming mercilessly against the wall farthest from where he'd been standing seconds earlier. His head collided against the plaster with a dull thud, and he saw sparks of light through bleary eyes. Stunned, he slid back down and couldn't help a groan.

But he still forced himself into motion when he sensed their approach, even as he wondered what the hell he was doing. He couldn't leave the house, and unarmed, he didn't stand a chance at pretty much anything. Essentially, all he accomplished was pissing them off.

He could live with that.

Tom sprang for him, his motions once again almost too fast for Dean to see at all. His lips moved almost soundlessly, whispering a generic protection chant he'd learned before Sammy started walking. A lifetime ago, he'd recited it every night before crawling into the baby's crib to sleep; the Winchester version of a prayer. Predictably it didn't do much, but it was enough to slow Tom down while Dean dove and full-body tackled Meg, bound hands and all. Another wall beckoned, he braced himself, knowing their combined weight would probably be enough to go straight through it, which was gonna fucking hurt.

Impact never happened. One minute Dean was careening toward it, the next; unseen hands planted themselves on his shoulders and yanked him back, pressing him against the ceiling, wholly unable to move at all. In a show of power, Tom let him dangle there for a heartbeat, the message clear, before gesturing and hurling Dean up the stairs, throwing him clear through the door of Sam's nursery.

He was unconscious before he landed, skidding to a halt on the uncarpeted floor.


"... didn't want to leave at first, but Kevin was based out of here and had just franchised this place, so the time felt right," Jenny babbled cheerfully. "But yeah, it's still empty. Silly as it sounds, I feel like I earned that house. I'm not just ready to give it up, you know?"

"I do," Sam acknowledged, with far too much emotion in his voice. To Dean and Dad, Lawrence would always be home. But to him, it was where any chance for normalcy had been forever lost.

And even as he smiled and responded in all the right places, Sam knew, beyond a doubt, that the woman in front of him was hiding something.

"You'd just moved in," John went along, giving Sam a pointed glare that said pay attention. "So it was probably easy to move."

Jenny laughed, tucking her order pad into her dark gray apron. "Manner of speaking. Kevin was off touring for more franchises, so the kids did the easy stuff and Missouri and I handled everything else."

The noise surrounding them increased, the lunch crowd attacking with a vengeance. Jenny shook herself out of her reverie. "Do you guys want to start with - "

"Missouri?" John cut in. Sam could hear his father's intensity, his instant focus. But to anyone happening to listen in, the man could be asking about the special for all his nonchalance.

For just a tiny flicker of time, Jenny's eyes widened. Shit.

"You know her?" she filled time stupidly. Sam dropped his head, lips pressed together, the twinned memories of his dream filling his mind.

John's smile was pure gotcha. "She was a friend of mine when my son was still in diapers," he drawled, earning a look of horror from Sammy. "You know, I'm sorry to cut and run, but we have to go."

Sam stood up before he did.


"Do you think we stalled them enough?"

The Winchesters were long gone. Jenny hadn't lasted another hour into her shift, her mistake replaying mercilessly in her head. She stood frozen in the doorway, staring in dumbstruck uncertainty at the woman waiting on her couch.

Missouri sighed deeply, arms open wide. "Come here, child."

Jenny accepted the hug, aware that somewhere in it she started to cry. "I didn't know what to say," she wept. "Oh God, I hope we did the right thing! They saved my life, and my kids' lives, and I just feel like - I just feel like I'm repaying Dean by stabbing him in the back. Why couldn't we - oh God, why didn't we just tell them?"

She stepped away from the older woman, anguish twisting her features. "I know what John is going through because when Dean pulled me out of my room that night and I knew my kids were in trouble... I just... if something happened to my son..."

Missouri took her by the shoulders, grim and resolute. "Exactly." Jenny bit down on her lip, averting her eyes. "Honey, if someone came up to you, even someone you know, and told you that one of your babies was going to be tortured to death and you absolutely couldn't do anything if you wanted to save them, you wouldn't be able to hear it," she murmured gently, a shiver running down her spine as she pictured John's wild, uncontrolled rage. Little girl, you have no idea who you're dealing with.

Jenny couldn't fathom the thought. Behind her, Sari yelled out gleefully, the innocent sound of the little girl's joy soothing her terror.

"That little family is very precious to me, too," Missouri reminded her quietly, "and when I think about what that boy is going to endure - what they all are going to go through, it just rips me up inside. But honey, that's the only way we're going to see all of them again. You did what you had to do, and you saved Dean Winchester's life in the process. You hear me? Those boys got you out that night, and you just rescued those boys for their father. You did the right thing here, Jenny."

She nodded. She wasn't convinced and wouldn't be until all three stood in front of her. But she nodded.


"I know I promised you a fast death, but that was before you kicked me in the face," Meg tsked at him when he eventually blinked himself awake. "This is much more fitting. Consider yourself privileged, baby. Most people never know when their end comes, but you? You have six hours left. At least. Any plans?"

Just get on with it already, Dean thought, irritated. Tom reappeared in the doorway. Refusing to turn his head, or show any reaction whatsoever, Dean still caught sight of the tools in his hands. His stomach lurched involuntarily.

She knelt down to where he lay shackled spread-eagled on the floor, running a hand through his hair. "Scared, baby?" she whispered, voice falling into the same seductive range he vaguely recalled from Chicago. "That's okay. Sammy isn't here, you don't have to be brave for anyone now. It's just us."

Dean closed his eyes, not dignifying her with a response. Tom lit a fire somewhere nearby and carelessly tossed something - or some things - into it. Bathed in sweat, he couldn't help but grimace. At this rate, they'd burn through the floorboards and never have a chance to sacrifice him before the fall killed him.

Perversely, the thought pleased him.

"I've killed so many people," she whispered, drawing imaginary lines over his brightest veins and arteries. "But I've never really talked to one before while I did." She cocked her head, smiling perkily. "Never cared. Maybe it's time for change. What do you think, Dean? If all this hadn't happened and Sam was just Joe College, would he have been into me?"

His eyes snapped open, and the fire burning within rivaled the growing one behind them. "Fuck. You." Dean rasped. "Are you going to kill me, sweetheart? Or just bore me to death? Just so you know, I vote for Plan A."

She shrugged, nearly shaking with glee and satisfaction. The time for cutesy talk was over. Bloodlust roared in her ears. "Goodbye, Dean."

In response, he spat at her. She smirked, eyes locked on his...

... until Tom stepped forward, movements utterly precise, and stabbed a flaming knife shallowly into the sigil on Dean's chest, slowly repeating Meg's slices, taking care his thrusts drew desired amounts of blood before the heat cauterized the victim's wounds closed. After a moment, she picked up another one from where it rested in the fire and joined him. Again the daggers stabbed, and again the cuts eventually sealed themselves. They'd bleed him dry eventually, but they'd earned a little fun before then.

Six hours and counting.

The room stank of burning flesh, and his scorched blood sizzled like acid against his skin. The screams torn from Dean's throat were only the beginning.


FYI: Starting next chapter, Counterplay's rating will go up to M for violence and considerable torture. (Missouri is never wrong). Rest assured, whatever happens is for plot. (And not Wincest, slash, PWP or other such things). I'm pretty sure your alerts won't be affected, but if you have them set to only send for T-on-down rated stories and are still interested in mine, you may wish to consider editing those settings. :)

Also, I try not to ever beg for feedback or anything like that, but since this was my first solo chapter, I'd love to know your thoughts. Thanks! (And also, thanks to anon reviewers kale and Nerissa! As always, signed reviews have replies!)