A/N: Good grief! Well, the folks have spoken. 100 reviews! Bows deeply and reverently. Thank you! Chapter title taken from the song God, That's Good! By Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd)

Disclaimer: This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

Chapter 12 – The gourmets among us

They pulled and they grabbed at him.

"Nuh…noo…"

It was worse than before.

"Lea' me alone…get your fuckin' hands off me---"

Lost his damn knife this time.

They ran their fingers through his hair, stroked his trembling body like he was a long lost lover, found again.

"Won't be long now, sweet boy," "Tallulah" whispered.

"Dean? Son, it's okay, it's all right --"

Someone held him down from behind, pinned his arms to his sides, but Dean thrashed around anyway, for all the good it did. He couldn't see anything but pale, lean skin, light grey eyes and blonde hair.

"Son, you gotta wake up—"

"Dean? Dean!"

Dad and Sam, they couldn't be here, shouldn't be here, not now. It wasn't safe, not anymore.

"…g-guhhh… g-get away fr-from m-me…g-get away---"

"Dean, I want you to wake up right now," John barked sharply as he tightened his grip. "Dean, wake up!"

It was an order, and Dean obeyed. His eyes blinked open as he slid from one reality to the next, no grogginess, just crystal clarity, and he could still hear the bitches laughing inside his head. Being awake was just as bad as being asleep.

Dad held onto him from behind, cradled him in his arms like he was still human, like Dean was still his eldest son, and if Dad only knew, if he and Sam both only knew, they'd break out the silver blades and put an end to him right then and there.

Dean would've given anything not to see that worried look on Sam's face. Sam's bitchface would come later, as sure as the sun rising in the morning. Sam wouldn't let it go, wouldn't drop it, and sooner or later everything between him and Dad was going to blow up. Another argument was a sure bet, a lead pipe clinch.

"It's okay, Dean. It's all right---"

Dean sat upright, slumped over in Dad's arms, the side of his head against John's shoulder. His heart pounded against his ribcage like it wanted fucking out in the worst way. Dean shivered and shook. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't steady his muscles.

He wasn't four years old, and John couldn't lie to him anymore. Dad whispered that it was okay, Dean was all right, only he wasn't, and it wasn't okay. Wouldn't be okay, never again.

Dean knew better. Meat was all around him, and his stomach growled in response.

God, he was so hungry.

Hours later Dean sat at Pastor Jim's kitchen table, and he tried not to wobble back and forth in his chair. The sunlight hurt his eyes. He felt too sharp, too tight in all the wrong places. His head ached, and his throat was dry and sore. He wore a light grey t shirt and jeans and he tried not to shiver. It was a warm summer morning, temps in the seventies already, but he was cold. He wanted to slip on his heavy leather coat, but that would have been a sure sign to Dad that something was wrong.

John's eyes narrowed as he studied how pale his eldest was, how unsteady Dean was on his feet. John didn't miss any of that, but he couldn't see "Minnie".

Dean saw her, though. Felt her. She pressed into him from behind, laughing, hissing into the shell of his ear. He tried not to flinch as she ran her cold fingers over the top of his shoulders. She licked at his neck with her long forked tongue, made kissing noises at John.

Dean stared at the bowl in front of him. Breakfast was that watery looking god-awful chicken soup water again. He could smell it. Warm water was all it was, like Dad or Pastor Jim had dunked a chicken in there, quick in and out.

Dad stood there with this spoon in his hand. "Dean," he said slowly, "you have to eat."

There it was again. That low note of concern, that tone that Dean always hated whenever it was directed towards him. It was okay when Dad spoke that way about Sam. Or some scared shitless civilian. Or anybody else. But not him. Never Dean.

Dean shook his head, slowly, carefully. His mouth felt funny and he had to think about each word as he said it. "'m not hungry."

"Minnie" growled, low and deep in his ear. That was something she did not want to hear.

John sighed. He pushed the spoon over the worn tabletop at Dean. Scrape of metal against wood, and the sound was so loud it hurt Dean's ears. He stared down at the spoon, and that was when he got the idea.

He wanted to speak the words, but he couldn't. "Minnie" laughed as she put her hand over his throat. No pressure, she just laid her hand there, like so, and shut him up completely.

Kill me…Dean pleaded silently with his eyes. Please, Dad, kill me….

"Minnie" made a clucking sound. "No, sweetness." She passed her other hand over Dean's eyes, wiped away the look.

John didn't notice a thing.

I can't ask Dad, Dean thought to himself. I can't. Wouldn't be right to put this on him.

He'd have to find a way to keep his strength up. So he could do the job himself. Plenty of things he could use. A knife. A spoon with the edge sharpened. Forget cutting his wrists. That was for friggin' amateurs. A deep cut in the inside of his elbow, so long and so deep God himself couldn't stop the bleeding.

He'd have to eat. He'd have to. Even if it wasn't what he really wanted.

Dean lifted his head again, watched the pulse at the side of John's neck. Imagined the taste of John's skin, faint spicy aftershave, leather and gunpowder. He'd lick and nip at John's skin with his teeth, before he took a bite.

Especially if it wasn't what hereally wanted.

Dean could handle this himself. That was only right. Only fair.

He had to eat. Just a little. Dad would take him back to the hospital, and what would happen then? They'd hook him up to an IV, or forcefeed him.

Worse still, what was to stop Dad from calling up one of his old Marine buddies, that Baloche dude, the one they got the antibiotics and prescription pain killers from? Forget the damn hospital, they could tie him down to the bed right here in Pastor Jim's house, insert the IV, no fuss, no problem.

Dean's hands shook as he picked up the spoon, dipped it into the bowl. He put the spoon to his lips and almost gagged, but he swallowed the broth and dipped the spoon in again.

He ate two bowls of that chicken broth, two whole friggin' bowls of that nasty crap. Dean didn't want to admit it, but it did make him feel better. His muscles stopped jittering and jerking so much. He felt more comfortable in his own skin. Afterwards Dad gave him a bottle of water, room temperature, told Dean that he was probably dehydrated and he had to make that disappear, too.

So Dean did.

Dad smiled a little.

"Minnie" did too.

Sam sat there by the pond, watched the dragonflies zip through the air. He picked up a pebble and threw it onto the pond. He didn't even bother to try to skip it across the surface of the water. His fingers shook too much for that.

Dean was alive, but he wasn't well. Probably wouldn't ever be the same ever again. He'd never seen his big brother like that before, hated seeing Dean weak and helpless.

Because of Dad.

All Dad cared about was the hunt. Dean was the brawn. Sam was the brains. That was all. And now that Dean had somehow managed to survive the Handmaidens and the hospital, now John was acting all paternal, all fake and fatherly, when he knew it was his fault, knew Dean was the way he was because John screwed up.

Sam sat there, and he waited. The rage and sadness built up inside him. His face was wet, and he knew it wasn't from sweat. He would wait, until his grief and anger almost choked him, until he couldn't sit still anymore.

That ache in his lower back finally warned Pastor Jim that he'd been sitting in front of the computer for way too long. He pushed the chair away from the computer desk and winced as his spine cracked rather loudly as he stood up. Ah, well. Time for a break.

He'd been on line most of the morning, contacting other hunters, some of whom happened to be clergy. He had only one promising lead: Elias Bishop up in Freeburg, Maine, who'd heard of a possible survivor of Handmaiden poison. Pastor Jim didn't mention Dean Winchester, of course; he was just making an inquiry. Elias was steady, dependable; when he said he'd email the information back as soon as he found it Pastor Jim had no doubt that he would.

The house was quiet. A little too quiet, with Winchesters around.

Pastor Jim went to the kitchen for a glass of water. There were clean dishes in the rack; a coffee mug, two plates, and several forks and spoons and a soup bowl. Jim smiled a little. John and Dean. Apparently John had finally convinced his stubborn eldest son to eat something.

Dean's bedroom was right down the hall from the kitchen, and the sound of snoring told Pastor Jim that someone was in there. Someone was.

Dean Winchester lay sprawled out on his bed, with a Hot Rod magazine tented on his chest and two water bottles, one empty, one half full, on the nightstand nearby. Dean looked at peace, a far cry from the disoriented, confused young man who'd woken up screaming hours before.

This was good. Jim hoped it would get better.

Pastor Jim stepped out onto his front porch moments later. Over in the driveway John was underneath the Impala's hood, changing sparkplugs, from the look of it.

Bobby Singer pulled up in one of his trucks, a battered medium blue pick-up truck with an engine growl that rivaled the Impala's rumble, at the same time Sam Winchester walked around from the back of the rectory.

Crazy didn't even begin to cover what happened next.

Don't need Dad to fix me something to eat, Dean thought to himself. He twisted the dial on the radio, found the right station, then cranked it all the way up.

Got the devil in you
Got the devil in me

No prob, dude. I can fix it myself.

Play a dangerous tune
Come on and dance with thee

AC/DC. Rock Your Heart Out. Sweet.

Dean danced across the kitchen floor in his bare feet. He couldn't understand what everyone had been so damn worried about.

He felt fine.

The thick meat patties frying in the skillet filled the sunlit kitchen with the wonderful smell of seasoned meat. It smelled so damn good, and he was soo hungry.

He closed his eyes as he tilted his head back and scented the air. Enough of that thin ass chicken soup water. That freakin' useless clear soda.

He was really sorry he put everyone to so much trouble. It was okay. He was fine.

Got the devil in you

Through the screen door Dean glimpsed Pastor Jim's body laying out on the back porch, with that wooden axe sticking out of the middle of his chest like a lever.

Got the devil in me

Old dude really did put up a hell of a fight.

Play a dangerous tune

But that was okay. Dean was fine.

Dean put his back to the back door and played air guitar, and as he did he caught sight of John Winchester lying dead in the hallway, his neck tilted at an unnatural, broken angle.

Come on and dance with thee

Dad was the one Dean had been worried about all along, and the old dude didn't put up much of a fight.

Huh. Dean felt disappointed somehow.

You got to throw your fists up

Now Sam was the surprise.

Shout your mouth out

Sam hadn't been that easy to take down. Dad seemed shocked, startled when Dean walked up on him. He was easy. Sam fought just as hard as Pastor Jim did, if not harder.

Beat the walls down

Sam lay curled up on his side on top of Pastor Jim's wooden dining table. He looked like he was asleep.

Got to freak out

He lay there naked, covered up to his chin by Pastor Jim's now bloody white tablecloth. Dean didn't look too closely at the blood on the floor and the tablecloth. Or the bloody knives in the sink.

Fresh meat. Just a taste. That was all he wanted. All he really needed. Who'd ever notice? Who'd ever…

No. Oh, God, no ---

"You don't have the appetite for this, sweet thing,""Minnie" purred. "Not yet, anyway."

The meat in the skillet was from Sam.

"No," Dean moaned out loud.

"It's just a dream, pretty. Just a dream. You can do anything you want to in your dreams." "Minnie" rubbed up against Dean's legs like an oversized cat. She slunk around Dean on all fours as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, transfixed by the blood and the bodies, and the smell of the meat cooking in the fryer on the stove.

Dean's stomach growled.

"Go on, Dean. It's just dreams."

Dean's stomach growled even louder. "Minnie" raised up on two legs. "What would it hurt? Who's going to know? I won't tell. You know I won't. It's only a dream, lovely boy." She ran her fingers down the side of Dean's face. "No one can blame you for what you do in your dreams."

Only a dream….couldn't hurt, right? His stomach growled again, and Dean thought of the meat on the stove. Didn't think about where it came from, thought about one of those thick patties in a bun, with mustard, pickles and lettuce. His stomach felt like his throat had been cut.

It was just a dream, after all. He could have a taste. Just a taste. What was the harm in that?

Dean ate.

It happened quick. Sam didn't break stride. He walked up to John and the next thing Bobby and Pastor Jim heard the crack of Sam's knuckles against his father's jaw.

Bobby turned around frowning. "What the hell?"

John fell back against the side of the Impala. Sam moved in on him again, and John gathered himself, pushed up with his legs, lowered his head and came in low as he grabbed Sam around the waist. They hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

John was on top.

Pastor Jim started forward, and Bobby reached out and grabbed his arm. "Padre," Bobby said quietly. "Don't. Let 'em sort this out. This has been a long time coming."

A/N: I want to thank again everyone who read and reviewed, lurked, and put this story on their Author/Story Alerts. I'm having a ball writing this story and you guys are one of the main reasons why! The next chapter will be posted Saturday.