"Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment, Inc.

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"Hi, Arnie, I'm glad you're home," Sam said cheerfully when Azel opened the door. Sam's hands were jammed in his jacket pockets and he was breathing fast, as though he'd been walking briskly.

"Sam." Azel, logically, looked puzzled. "Always a pleasure, but it's a little late for entertaining."

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes about Rita."

Azel's face went a little cold. "Rita made the decision to move back with her mother, not I. I can't bring her back. She has a mind of her own, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh yeah, no question." Sam coughed quickly. "It was her reason for leaving that I wanted to talk about. See, before she left, she was telling me some stuff about you, and I was really curious to find out more."

Azel stared at him for a few seconds. Then he said, "Manipulativeness doesn't suit you, Sam."

Sam coughed again. "Could I get a glass of water? I walked over here pretty fast."

"Did Rita call you?"

Sam coughed. Azel's head tilted, and he flashed a smile so sudden that it was disconcerting. "Well, obviously you can't answer questions if you can't breathe," he said, and let Sam in, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Just water?" There was a trace of hostility in the tone, but the smile remained. "Or can I get you something from my private stock?"

"No, water's good, thanks."

Arnie went into the kitchen. "I really appreciate this," Sam called after him. "I hate having a dry throat. Hydration's really important, you know." He coughed again as Arnie came back into the living room, where Sam was wandering over to look at figurine copies of Roman statues on the fireplace mantel. "Sorry to bother you at home, Professor Azel," he yelled, then looked around to see Azel just behind him. "Oh! Thanks." He took the glass, took a big swallow, then said, "I wanted to talk about Rita, but also about MA15."

"Am I supposed to know what that is? Have a seat, Sam. You look tense."

"I am tense," Sam said, sitting on the nicely upholstered arm of a sofa, which made Azel's smile dim a bit. "MA15's been sending me threatening letters, sent me a smoke bomb once."

Arnie sat down in a chair, looking up at Sam as though the height disparity in their positions amused him. "What is MA15? I thought you came here to tell me about something Rita said."

"Arnie." Sam looked down at him directly. "I have a hard time believing that anyone who's been on campus the last couple of years knows nothing about a serial rapist who brands the faces of his victims."

"Oh, yes. I knew there was such a person. But I don't keep up with crime news."

"Well, he began attacking women two years ago, New Year's Eve. And you know what Rita told me? Your wife left you just about six weeks before that."

There was a moment of silence.

Then Arnie stood. "Get out of my house. Now."

"You know, I was afraid – "

"Not another word." Arnie went directly to Sam, and was now the one looking down. "I don't understand, Sam, if you're upset about your grade or just – angry with me about Rita's leaving, but this is just – a psychotic reaction." He started toward the door.

"I wanted to go to the police," Sam said quickly, and Arnie turned. "See, I was afraid you'd react like that. In a way I thought, if I was so worried about your reaction, I should just go straight to the police anyway with all this stuff. I mean – if you want me to – "

They looked at each other.

Then Arnie crossed his arms, impaling Sam with his intense gaze. "What – stuff?"

"Well, the fact that you theoretically have a girlfriend that your daughter only met once. But you're so involved with this gal that you're away from the house a lot of Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I think it'd be interesting to know her. What's her name again?"

"That's none of your business."

"No, I guess not. But it'd be interesting to see how many of MA15's attacks occurred on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I know the last two happened on a Saturday and a Wednesday. That's the kind of thing the police are real good at, coordinating people's alibis with the time crimes took place, so you're probably just going to tell me to go ahead and talk to them."

"Not just yet." Arnie's eyes narrowed slightly. "This is interesting."

"See, I thought so too," Sam said with boyish enthusiasm. "Your desk down in the basement, that's interesting. You didn't know Rita had the spare key, did you? She thought you were keeping diamonds or maybe gold in there, you know, in case the banks all failed or something. Last – let's see, yeah, it was Wednesday, you were out – she told me she was planning to get into that desk and see what was there. The next time I hear from her, it's Sunday and she's leaving town. I mean, flying out of town – she didn't tell me, she didn't tell anybody. And when I asked her why, you know what she said?"

"Obviously I don't."

"She told me to stop prying into other people's stuff. She said I was going to find something I didn't like."

Arnie raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"What did she find in that desk, Arnie? A branding iron? What was the glittery thing she saw you putting in there?" Sam made a dismissive gesture. "Not much point my asking you, the police could just ask her. I mean, she probably wouldn't tell them, but then that might just make them curious enough to keep hassling her about it. And you know Rita, she hates hassle."

Arnie broke into a whispery, unnerving laugh. "You know, I think I am going to tell you to go to the police. They'll ask you if you've ever heard of probable cause before they kick you out, and you won't have gained anything, from them or from me."

"Well – From you?"

"I'm assuming you're here to try to frighten me into giving you something."

"Well, but – if the police would just kick me out, why would you give me anything?"

"A university faculty is very much like a small town. Even baseless rumors make the rounds fast, and can ruin a career. Anyone might – innocent or not – might find it worthwhile to stop a rumor in its tracks, providing the price was reasonable."

"What does MA15 mean?"

"I don't know, you'd have to ask him. What do you want?"

"Well, first off, an answer to that question." Sam stood. "You've been terrorizing me for a month while you were pretending to be my friend, I figure you owe me at least a straight answer to one question."

Arnie laughed again, quietly and contemptuously. "Terrorizing. You don't even know terror. I've never seen it in you."

"How would you know? From seeing it in other people?"

"What do you want?" Azel snarled.

"I told you. I want to know what MA15 means. You won't tell me. Guess stopping a baseless rumor isn't as important as you said. Kind of dumb, for such a theoretically bright guy."

Azel looked away from Sam for a moment, looked back, still smiling. "Insults are a pathetic way to get anything, Sam. I'd have thought you'd have learned that in grade school. Now tell – "

"Oh, I'm pathetic?" Sam's look of amused scorn matched Arnie's. "I'm the one with actual girlfriends, and you're the one who has to beat the crap out of them? I'm the one who stops a crime, while you can't do anything but send whining letters and smoke bombs that fizzle?"

"You were terrified. You said it yours – "

"I said you were terrorizing me, or trying. You think a guy like me is scared of a paper dummy with a vegetable peeler stuck – "

"I think you should be." Azel's voice was quiet, his eyes glittering, and he was standing directly in front of Sam. "You know how easy it would have been for me to kill you a month ago, when I recognized you in class? And how much I wanted to? I never killed any of my girls, I take care of my property. But you? I could have shot you, beaten you to death –"

Sam snorted, looking down at Azel. "Sure you could've. Yeah, tell me about all those big muscular sophomore girls you did. That sounds exciting as hell."

"You'd be – " Azel stopped, tilted his head. "Is that what this is about? Do you want to hear about it?"

"I – " Sam's voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat. "No, I mean, nobody normal would want to hear that crap."

Azel shook his head. "What have I been telling you for the past month, Sam? You're not – 'normal.' You're a young man with exceptional gifts, exceptional potential. What you desire may be out of the norm. But you need to understand your desires to become what you're meant to become."

"Even if it seems, you know, wrong?"

"You must stop framing every idea in terms of 'right' and 'wrong,' Sam. What do you need?"

"Well – I need to, you know, hear about your girls. Um, what it's like. What do you, y'know, say to them?"

Azel blinked a couple of times, touched a finger to his chin quickly. "Do you just want to hear about it? Is that really what you want?"

"Are you saying – "

"Would you like to join me in my avocation? You'd need some patience, you know. For every night of actual enjoyment there are more than a dozen nights of finding a girl, understanding her schedule, choosing a site, finding a car. You have an organized mind, Sam. I have the feeling you'd be good at this. I could teach you everything."

"That sounds great," Sam said. "But right now, I just want to hear about it. The details. Like, that girl three weeks ago – Did you hit her? Or did she just go with you when you pointed the gun at her?"

Azel took a step back from Sam, looking steadily at him, the muscles around his eyes puckering slightly. Sam watched Azel's face in return.

Then Azel smiled. "Have a seat, Sam. I have a notebook where I jot things down." He turned to a side table with a drawer in it and opened the drawer. "It helps keep the memories fresh in – "

Sam leaped forward and slammed the drawer shut on Azel's hand. Azel yelled and crashed his left fist onto the bridge of Sam's nose. Sam staggered for just a moment, but it was enough time for Azel to finish pulling a gun out of the drawer with his right hand.

Sam grabbed Azel's arm with both hands, forcing the gun away from him, and Azel had to brace himself on the side table with his free hand to keep from being toppled.

"You're recording this," Azel gasped. "That's why – not asking for anything. Give me the recorder. We can work this out."

"I can't," Sam began as Azel's free hand shot upward from the table to Sam's eye.

Sam grunted and jerked away sharply, but kept his double grip on Azel's gun arm, and the two spun crazily around the living room. Sam rammed Azel's hand directly into the wall by the door; Azel yelled in pain and the gun went off; both recoiled from the explosion so close to them, and Azel dropped the gun.

He immediately struck Sam in the face again, and, enraged, Sam crashed a fist into Azel's solar plexus. Azel doubled. Sam struck him again, and Azel went down.

Sam turned to lurch toward the gun on the floor near the door. Azel grabbed his leg and Sam's own momentum sent him to the floor.

Azel started to stand. Sam rolled over and grabbed Azel's ankle. Azel lunged and dropped to his knees, his full weight smashing into Sam's ribcage.

Sam gave a sharp yell, then fell silent except for gasping sounds. He drove a fist into Azel's gut and Azel fell but rolled, and Sam coughed up a little blood.

Azel scrambled to the fireplace, grabbed a poker and slammed it into Sam's ribs. Sam made the loudest sound he could, raising his arms, a pleading expression on his face.

Arnie paused, smiling down at him. "Now that's terror."

He dropped down beside Sam, yanked Sam's shirt out of his waistband and ran his hands over Sam's chest. Sam struck him in the face, and Azel hit Sam in the eye with his fist. Sam's head slammed back against the floor, his eyes glassy.

"Ungrateful little bastard," Azel hissed, lifting Sam's torso and running his hands over Sam's back. He dropped Sam again.

"No wire. Just a recorder, then? I'll find that downstairs. What was the idea, Sam? Blackmail? Or just being a hero with the police again? I should've known. Weaklings can't be taught strength."

Sam yelled, a startlingly loud sound, and gasped, "He's going to kill – "

Azel slammed Sam's jaw shut with one hand and covered it with the other. "Don't. Fight. Me."

He stood and grabbed Sam's ankles, dragging him to the kitchen entry.

"Called," Sam gasped. "I called – "

"Who? Rita?" Azel laughed. He stepped into the kitchen, opening a door and clicking on a light that revealed a descending stairway. "As long as I support her," he turned to open a drawer and pulled out a roll of duct tape, "she won't raise any questions. Scissors." That last, obviously to himself, was in the same tone in which he was threatening Sam. He looked inside the drawer briefly, shrugged and grabbed a large knife from the knife block. "About you or anything else."

Pulling tape from the spool, he turned and froze.

Dean was standing in the living room near Sam's head, with Azel's gun leveled at the professor's chest.

"How did you get in?" Azel yelled.

Dean looked at him as if he couldn't believe Arnie had chosen that of all things to say. "Door was open. Step away from him now and put the knife on the floor."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm his brother. I'm completely unexceptional. Get away from him or get shot."

Azel took a step away from Sam, who rolled a little and coughed up more blood.

Dean looked down at his brother, but kept the gun in both hands. "Sammy? Hang in there. I'm gonna call 911."

"No need," Sam gasped. "Called 'em when I came in. Opened the door an inch when he was in the kitchen." He made a little sound. "Hard to breathe."

"You mean 911's already hearing this?" Dean asked, and just then there was a faint sound of a siren in the area.

Azel swore and raised the knife.

There was a bang and Azel jerked, dropping the knife as he crashed to the floor.

Only now did Dean move the gun to one hand, kneeling beside Sam. "Sammy? Was that true about 911?"

With effort, Sam tried to pull his phone out of his jacket pocket.

"Lie still," Dean said. "Don't try to talk." He pulled the phone out himself and lifted it to his ear.

"Where's he?" Sam said.

"Shot him. Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Good," Sam said, and Dean smiled at the response he heard on the phone.

"There's a guy with a gunshot wound," he said into the phone. "And my brother, I think he got hit with a fireplace poker that's lying in the other room."

"Jumped on my chest," Sam said.

"Great. The jerk jumped on his chest. He says he's having trouble breathing."

"You tried – to frame me." Azel's voice was scratchy and gasping also; he was pressing a hand to his chest under his right collarbone. "Frame me and blackmail me."

"Yeah, you go with that," Dean said. "Sammy? Hang in there, buddy. They're almost here."

"How'd you know? I was here?"

"What don't I know about you? I called Henriksen, he said you hadn't called. I knew you were going to try to get evidence some fool way. Looked up Azel and floored it all the way over here."

"Floored it?" Sam smiled a little. "Andy's car?"

"Oh. No. Wanted to show you, but I guess I'll have to tell you. The Impala's done, all but the interior. Bobby gave me the carburetor I needed yesterday. She drives like a dream."

"Dean, that's – " Sam made a move, broke off with a groan of pain.

"Lawrence police. Put down your weapon and raise your hands," an extremely professional voice said behind Dean, and he did so, looking around to ask the officers, "Is an ambulance coming?"

"Thank God you're here," Azel said weakly. "My student has some kind of obsession. I was saying anything I could think of to keep him from attacking me."

One of the officers looked at him with a flat straight gaze. "Are you Professor Azel?" was all he said.

But something in his tone brought a trace of a smile to Dean's face.

.

This is what happened in the early morning hours of May 2nd:

Dean stepped from the hospital hallway into his brother's dim room, where John was sitting, elbows on knees, watching Sam's sedated sleep. "Hey, Dad."

John, apparently a little startled, looked over at him. "Dean. Good to see you, son." He spoke as quietly as Dean had.

Dean pulled over the visitor's chair from the other side of the hospital room, where an old woman was sleeping undisturbed. "Thanks for calling Ava, Dad," he said. "She was really good."

John smiled faintly. "I crossed paths with her a few times when she was representing a suspect. I knew she'd be – vigorous on your behalf. I wanted to be down there myself, actually."

"Yeah, but there wouldn't have been any point. I'm not a minor, they wouldn't have let you sit in on the questioning. So you'd have been sitting in a waiting room somewhere while Sam was here without either of us. What I needed was a good lawyer to make sure I didn't say anything stupid about shooting Azel, and you got me that."

"She posted bail for you?"

"No bail. I'm just not supposed to leave town."

John looked over at him. "Well, that's a good sign."

They both looked back at Sam, whose chest had a tube stuck in it that was connected to a hissing machine on the other side of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"Don't see why. This is my fault. I should have made him come home when I first found out about this."

"Uh – I was at that conversation, Dad, remember? You reasoned with him, you yelled at him, you threatened to cut him off financially. I don't know what else you could've done short of pulling a gun on him. He was not going to leave. And actually, the system we set up was working fine. He was the one who decided to go charging over to Azel's house."

"I'm still not – I don't understand." John drew a breath, but stayed hunched over, looking older than usual. "He called 911 when this professor attacked him?"

"Before that. That was his whole harebrained scheme. He was sure that Azel was MA15 and he just – I think he felt like he'd been played, which of course he was. Anyway, he decided to play Azel, get him to make an incriminating statement, solid evidence. I'm not sure, but from a couple things Sam said before the ambulance got there and a couple things the police said, when he first got there he started coughing and got Azel to go for some water, and somewhere in there he opened the door a crack and dialed 911. He coughed to cover the sound of the call and said something like, 'I'm glad you're home, Professor Azel,' to let them know where he was, and then he right away started talking about MA15. I guess he hoped that between the coughing and the talk about MA15 it'd be enough to keep the 911 dispatcher listening."

"And if it hadn't been – "

"If it hadn't been, I'd have been there, Dad."

"But he didn't know that."

"No. He's an idiot." Dean couldn't help but smile a little. "But he's an idiot who caught MA15."

John shook his head. "A good lawyer might be able to get everything Azel said dismissed."

"Maybe. But everyone'll still know."

John shook his head again.

"That tube – " Dean said – "that's for his lung?"

"Yes. It was partly collapsed when one of his broken ribs punctured it. The doctor says it's really not as bad as it looks, he should be out in a week or so. The broken ribs will give him more pain than anything else."

"Do we – do you know anything about Azel's condition?"

"No."

"I keep thinking there should've been some other way to handle it, but Sam was in such bad shape and then Azel acted like he was going to throw this knife right down into him – "

"You don't need to explain, son."

For a moment, the sound of the machine and a couple of people talking at the nurse's desk down the hall were the only sounds in the room.

"You should get some sleep," Dean said. "You were at work when I called, right? Hell of a long day."

"I want to be here when he wakes up," John said.

Dean nodded and passed a hand over his face.

.

This is what happened on the afternoon of May 2nd:

"Of course I'm finishing the semester," Sam said. His voice was quiet and his breath short, but he was firm. "I'll get people to bring me notes this week and. I'll be out of here by next Monday."

John started to speak, then stopped himself and gave a wry smile to his son. Having showered, shaved, eaten, and slept for three hours at Dean's house, John was looking less haggard, though still weary. "All right. That means you'll have the choice of taking your finals in pain or hazy on pain medication. Maybe you'll remember that in the future if you're tempted to pull a fool stunt like this one again."

"I knew it was him, Dad. I knew it. But there wasn't any evidence – "

He finally heeded the hand his father held up. "I've heard it before. Now this is the end of this argument: The police do the investigating. Do you understand?"

Sam sighed, then winced, briefly closing his blackened eye and twitching his bruised mouth. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you." John looked around. "Where's that remote?"

"Don't care. Just once I want to talk to my dad. Instead of watching TV."

"Your dad's not much of a talker."

"Why not? I mean, we don't have to get real deep. Or emotional or anything. Why can't we just talk? About stuff?"

"Well, you know, I can't talk much about work. Some things we need to keep quiet, and some things I just don't feel like going over again. That leaves – what? Culture, current events? I just – don't keep up much." John let out a deep breath, not quite a sigh, his gaze distant. "Your mother, she kept up on all that kind of things. She'd have been – She was the parent you needed."

"I needed you, Dad. I still do. You live up to all these great principles, standards, and then – " Sam stopped, catching his breath.

"And then I was never around."

"I just wanted, you know. I wanted you to know that I was – "

John looked puzzled. "That you were what?"

"Well, you know, living up to the standards. A worthwhile son."

"Worthwhile!" John's voice was so loud it apparently startled even him. He dropped it down. "Worthwhile? You were worthwhile the day you were born. And then you grew up so smart, such a good hard worker, and I'm – "

"You're what?"

John couldn't look at him. "I'm the one who took your mother from you. Not really someone to live up to."

"Dad, that's just – OK, OK," as John shook his head. "I know, I understand, you've always blamed yourself and – " Sam paused for breath and winced again – "and I can't change that. You're gonna feel guilty. But can't you, can't you believe that I don't blame you? Dean doesn't. I mean, we've talked about this, Dean and me. And we both - "

"OK, just rest, son."

Sam gave him a classically Sam stubborn look. "We both agree, neither of us. Ever blamed you. Even if we ever had, we've seen how much you suffered. The thing – " He took another breath, still looking stubborn – "the thing is, I think you kind of avoid us. Because you do think we blame you. So we get punished, for you feeling guilty." He took another breath. "Not fair."

"No. It's not." John thought for a moment. "You're right. I just don't have much in the way of cold reason, where – where that's concerned."

"So you think, think you could – be with us a little more? I mean, when there's not an emergency?"

"You don't think it's a little late?"

Sam gave his father a major bitchface.

"I'll try, Sam. I've never been, I never was a great conversationalist."

"Just be good – to hear what you think about things. Like I say, see you when it's not an emergency."

"Hey, I was going to drive up tonight and take you to dinner for your birthday. You were the one who created the emergency."

"That's for sure," Dean said, coming into the room. "Man, you both look like crap. Will you go get some sleep, Dad?"

John nodded. "Might not be a bad idea."

Dean turned to Sam. "Like you thought, you can follow the lecture class remotely. The two where you know someone from Schuyler, I tracked 'em down and they'll bring your notes. The fourth one, I talked to the teacher, she'll find someone to get you notes. I didn't go to the history department. Didn't really know what to say."

"Simple," Sam said with a grin. "Hi, I'm the guy who shot your teacher. When he was trying to kill my brother. My brother wants to know what to do about class."

"Wildly amusing, Sam," Dean said with a straight face.

"Sam?" A female voice, high and light from stress, came from the door.

Before any of the men could say anything, Jess had somehow brushed past the visitors in the tiny room and was on her knees by Sam's bed, her face on his shoulder and her hand on his arm.

"Stupid – " her voice was muffled – "dumb – stupid – "

"It's OK," Sam said softly, stroking her hair. "I'm OK."

"But keep saying it," John said. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

Jess stood, looking at John, trying to smooth her hair with one hand while Sam held the other. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize he was in such bad – I mean, he looks – "

"This is Jess, Dad," Sam said. "Jess, this is my dad, John Winchester. You met Dean, of course."

"Nice to – know about you," John said, shooting a look at Sam. "Are you in one of Sam's classes?"

"We just kinda got to know each other on campus," Sam said.

Jess looked at him, apparently surprised. "Is that what you tell people?"

"I figure, you know – "

"You're right," she said. "I don't like to talk about that, but your dad should know. MA15 tried to rape me, Mr. Winchester. Sam stopped him."

"Oh! That was you?" John said. "Hell of a way to get acquainted."

She smiled at him briefly and looked back down at Sam, as Dean stood and pushed his chair over next to her. "I was working on a finals project all last night, haven't seen any news. I ran across a friend of mine at lunch and she said, 'Is that your Sam, the one who almost got killed by the teacher? A bunch of people are saying he's MA15.'"

"I wanted to wait to call you until I wasn't so – " Sam vaguely indicated his face.

"And you thought no one on campus would be talking about it in the meantime?"

"Dean, take this chair," John said, standing. "I'm going to take your advice and get some sleep. Jess, it was nice – "

"Hey. Cas," Dean said.