SPN

(Louisiana … Monday, September 27, 2004)

Sam was free. At least, there was a slight possibility that he might be free—a part of him couldn't believe it, especially when Dean went off the rails at the police. True, they were always skeptical of the authorities, but they never treated them like the enemies. Not unless they were the enemies.

He didn't make a sound as two of the officers—Sheriff Graham Treadwell and his subordinate, Roger Owens—liberated him from his encumbrances, all the while reciting the same old feeble encouragement. "It's okay… We've got you… You're safe now… It will all be over soon…" Somehow, based on Dean's reaction, Sam doubted it—and the contempt over on Jacob's face was hardly reassuring. If he could only get to the Impala…

But that wasn't in the cards. With dozens of cops, feds and special forces swarming the place, he better not draw attention to the Winchester arsenal. Besides, Treadwell had a firm grasp on his good arm, and the other was only now starting to tingle—promising a long session of pins-and-needles. Just what he needed.

What was taking his dad so long? He had to believe the hunter escaped—anything else would be too devastating—but if he had, then where was he? Sam turned his head in every direction, glancing from Jacob to the house to the cops to the driveway where he last saw Dean shoved in a car. His senses were overloading, and despite the persisting danger, he felt himself slipping into shock. Damn; talk about pathetic. He needed to snap out of it.

"Treadwell!" One of the feds—judging by his immaculate suit—approached them impatiently. "We need you over here! Give the boy to Agent Findley. He'll escort him to safety."

The sheriff's hand tightened on Sam's arm, only for a moment, but long enough to justify Dean's suspicions. Sam tensed, resisting the urge to retaliate as another fed—Agent Findley—came to his rescue. It was never a good idea to strike a cop.

Still, as Treadwell gave up custody over Sam, he whispered, "I'll see you soon," which was rather disconcerting. Where was the hell was his dad?

"Let's go, Sam." Findley wasted no time shepherding him into the congested driveway. He was built like a tank, but his gentle demeanor was so different from the Stynes' that Sam almost trusted him—wanted to trust him. After all, didn't Monroe accuse John of calling the FBI? So even if the police themselves were shady, surely the feds were aboveboard. Right…?

Jacob's eyes were on him as Findley eased him into the front seat of an unmarked sedan—the front seat implied he was a passenger, not a prisoner. He was actually getting away! But one thing remained clear. As long as Jacob survived, Sam would have to watch his back—indefinitely—for fear of retribution. This wasn't over, and the thought made him shiver.

Settling into the driver's seat, Findley glanced at him in concern. "I'm gonna take you to a hospital, all right? We'll be right behind your brother."

Thank God.

Sam acknowledged him with a grateful look, but otherwise didn't speak a word. His left arm was starting to sting with those damn pins-and-needles—it was abnormally painful—and he could barely think straight. What did those bastards give him? He spent the entire ride trying to endure the agony. At least he wasn't still locked up in that miserable attic.

After what felt like hours—it couldn't have been that long, could it?—they entered a city and followed the signs to the nearest medical center. Findley had been trying to evaluate his condition, asking questions like, "Are you in pain? Where do you hurt? Can you move your arm? Are you even with me right now?" But Sam was lost in his own little world of exhaustion, fear and overwhelming discomfort.

They drove into a packed parking lot and came to a stop near the police cruiser where Dean had been detained. Presently, the cop was standing outside the vehicle waiting with a frown while his cargo in the back seat continued to wreak havoc. Only an idiot would try handling Dean when he was that pissed off, and evidently the cop knew better. Sam, however, didn't think twice—he needed his brother.

Stumbling out of the sedan, he pushed past the cop—who withdrew a few feet at Findley's command—and anxiously pried open the back door. Dean burst out like a tidal wave, readily shedding his handcuffs, and swept Sam up in a crushing embrace. At first, even though he saw it coming, the intensity startled Sam, and he almost recoiled, but then he recognized Dean's smell, and the familiarity soothed him. Finally able to drop his guard, he crumbled into his brother's arms.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean whispered, for his ears alone. "We're not out of the woods yet… I need you to follow my lead."

"You're bleeding…" Sam inadvertently pictured his dad back in the laboratory, covered in blood. It might have been Doc Benton's, but the memory still made him queasy. Was John even alive anymore?

"Don't worry about me," Dean said, leaning back just far enough to give him a once-over. His green eyes were angry and alert. "You look like crap, kiddo. What did they do to you?"

"Nothing…" Sam was regaining control of his left arm, and he took care to hide his wrist, but of course Dean noticed. He made a grab for it, and Sam shied away so skittishly that he bumped into Findley—the agent steadied him in surprise even as alarm washed over Dean. By now, paramedics were on their way out to collect them, and Sam immediately resigned himself to their care—he couldn't cope with the shame of that hideous tattoo, and he couldn't bear to let Dean see it.

They were rushed inside the hospital with Findley answering most of the questions—Sam remained too reserved, and Dean too preoccupied. Fortunately, they were kept together throughout the treatment process—Dean was obviously volatile, and Findley had the good sense not to separate them.

Ultimately, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Dean's shoulder injury was little more than a flesh wound, easily patched up, and aside from some ugly bruising, he had nothing else to worry about. No broken bones. No concussion. He was practically good to go.

Sam wasn't quite as lucky. The abrasions covering his wrists, ankles and feet were all minor—the nurse took one look at his tattoo and rapidly concealed it with a wide bandage—but he was also bruised, nauseous, dehydrated, and apparently drugged, plus he had a small gash on his neck. So, the damage was about what he expected. Bad, but not terrible, which naturally heightened his embarrassment. He was a hunter. He was trained to kill monsters. He was equipped to withstand all kinds of abuse. He shouldn't be this affected.

Eventually, they were given hospital gowns and placed in a recovery room where the doctors urged them to rest. Fat chance of that. Findley and the other cop meant well, but their constant presence suggested that Sam and Dean were in protective custody—whether they liked it or not—and having spent their childhood trying to avoid protective custody, they didn't find it the least bit encouraging. Especially with the supernatural involved. They'd be far better off on their own, in the Impala with their arsenal, getting the hell out of town.

While Sam curled up in a chair by the window, Dean paced restlessly—like a caged animal. A nurse brought them food and water, but neither of them ate. Sam could barely drink, much to everyone's displeasure, and it took Dean, Findley and the nurse's combined efforts to coax him to try. Honestly, he was acting like a child, he couldn't explain it, and their dad would be so disappointed, as usual.

Dad… Sam shuddered, and despite their audience, he grabbed Dean's arm. "What are we doing here? Dad needs our help. We have to find him!"

Dean grimaced, but before he could answer, a new voice filled the room. "You and me both, kid." They were joined by a burnt-out African-American in a disheveled shirt with a loose tie around his neck. Dean instinctively sidled in front of Sam, but gave no indication of hostility, which meant the newcomer probably wouldn't attack them. Nevertheless, Sam kept his guard up.

"Henriksen!" Findley sounded nervous. "You sure you should be on your feet?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Don't even get me started." He turned to the nurse and the other cop, flashing an FBI badge. "Special Agent Victor Henriksen. Would you mind excusing us? I need a word with my two witnesses."

Witnesses? Sam caught his breath—that meant he wanted them to testify, which meant he wanted to uproot their lives and shelter them somewhere 'safe' until the trial, which meant no more Stanford, no more Jessica, no more future… Not to mention no more hunting. That wasn't going to fly…

"For what it's worth, Dean," Henriksen said, closing the door behind the nurse and cop after they disappeared into the hall. "I'm glad you got your brother out in one piece. How's he doing?"

"He's fine," Dean snapped a little too defensively. The feds glanced at each other, and Findley shook his head, prompting Dean to modify, "He'll live. What have you heard about our dad?" He tried to keep the worry from his voice, but anyone could hear it slipping through the cracks. John had been at the estate during Dean's fight with Jacob. If he didn't come to their rescue, it could only mean he was held up by Monroe, Rhett and Roscoe, and given how much difficulty Dean had with just one of the bastards, how would John fare against three, even with Doc Benton's assistance?

Henriksen sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Honestly, I don't know what to tell you. According to Reidy, someone went on a killing spree. Most of our suspects are dead, including Monroe himself, and your dad's nowhere to be found. Makes me wonder who our vigilante is, and how he managed to take on such a powerful, heinous family all on his own?"

Sam felt a weight rise from his shoulders. Monroe was dead! And knowing John, he wasn't missing, he was just keeping a low profile to avoid the cops, and the feds, who apparently didn't appreciate people taking the law into their own hands…

"You should be thanking him," Dean said coolly.

"I'd like to," Henriksen assured him. "Reidy also described the Stynes' basement as a torture chamber, and we can safely add serial killing to their list of crimes. But you're the one who informed us of your dad's involvement, Dean, and I can't close this case without his statement—at the very least. I don't much care for loose ends."

"Well, I can't help you with that," Dean retorted. "I was brought here against my will before we could meet up. I don't have the slightest idea where he is or what he's doing."

Henriksen smiled, though he certainly wasn't amused. "I can arrange to get your cell phone from the police department. You can call him up. Ask him to turn himself in."

"Oh yeah, that's right, the police department…" Dean abruptly changed the subject. "Let me ask you something about the police department, Agent Henriksen. You happen to remember getting K.O.'d by a twenty-year-old girl? What does she weigh? Ninety pounds?" Henriksen and Findley both seized up at the reminder. "Cause I didn't see her lay a finger on you. In fact, it almost looked like she threw you against that mirror with the power of her mind. I wonder if the cameras caught that?"

"Dean…" Henriksen's voice was low and dangerous.

"No!" Dean was out of patience. "I'm not gonna cooperate! The Stynes are evil, murdering freaks who deserve to die, and your stupid team stopped me before I could finish the job! Mark my words, Jacob won't stay in jail even if we testify, even if you put him in a maximum security prison! He's too powerful for that, and then he'll be after us all over again, and I swear to God, if he hurts my brother one more time, there will be hell to pay!"

Sam flushed, shrinking in on himself, while Henriksen scowled.

"You're making this more difficult than it has to be, Dean. We're on the same side, here."

"Go to hell!"

They fumed at each other, and Findley took it upon himself to intervene. "Sir, they've been through a lot today. It wouldn't hurt to let them sleep on it. Give them time to recoup."

As stubborn as Dean was, Sam doubted he would change his mind, but he nevertheless welcomed the reprieve and nodded gratefully. It was enough to convince Henriksen to back off—albeit temporarily. "All right, fine," he said after a beat, glaring at Findley. "Just be sure to keep an eye on them. They're material witnesses in a federal investigation, and I don't want them absconding on us. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

With that, Henriksen stormed out of the room, taking care not to slam the door behind him. For a moment, no one moved. Findley seemed sympathetic, but what were the odds he'd turn a blind eye if Sam and Dean tried to leave? They weren't prisoners, per se, but they were definitely flight risks, and at this point, there wasn't any going back.

Jacob… Elizabeth… Their remaining relatives… They weren't just going to let Sam off the hook. For that matter, neither would "Hell's finest general," the demon Azazel. His words still echoed in Sam's ears. "No wonder you're my favorite… Take care now, Sammy. I've got a lot riding on you…" What the hell did that mean?

It meant that Sam was cursed, and even if they killed every last Styne, in a year or two, they would still have to worry about Azazel's "trusty minions" coming "to fetch him." He wasn't safe to be around. Jessica, his friends at Stanford—they would all be better off without him. There wasn't any going back, and the thought filled him with dread.

"I just wanted out… I was so close…"

Dean and Findley both glanced at him in concern.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," his brother said. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

He really was different. He tried denying it, but deep down, he always knew. What made him think he could escape the life? Groaning, Sam stared out the window and sullenly watched the sun descend beyond the city's skyline.

SPN

Evening came and went by the time Henriksen returned with two 'agents' from Homeland Security. None of them looked happy with each other, and the introductions were strained. While Jim 'Ford'—a scrawny man with a sharp nose, thick hair and a dark goatee—tried to be civil, his partner, Caleb 'Willis'—a bald, much more muscular man—kept making it difficult with his harsh, commanding attitude.

"All right, boys," he said, tossing two sets of fresh clothes—including shoes—on the nearest bed. "Get dressed. You're in our custody now."

Sam should have been delighted. Pastor Jim was one of their old emergency contacts, and Caleb supplied them with weapons and ammunition. They were friends—good friends—here to help. How they managed to produce badges legitimate enough to fool Henriksen, he had no idea, and he knew better than to question it, but he wasn't particularly interested. Instead, he remained in his chair, turned to the window—it was too dark outside to see anything but his own reflection.

"I don't understand," Findley was protesting, more out of confusion than interdepartmental rivalry. "This is our case."

"I know," Henriksen grumbled. "But they check out. Nothing we can do."

"You're…" Dean was dumbfounded, and Sam could easily imagine Caleb winking at him. "You've got to be kidding!"

"'Fraid not, pal," the old hunter replied. "Unless you like sitting around waiting to get snared by the bad guys." After a moment's consideration, Dean made a grab for his new jeans.

"We're going to take them to a safe house," Jim told the feds. "Just until we've established who all is connected to the Stynes' criminal activities. We have to assume they had accomplices, and I don't want anyone targeting our witnesses. Don't worry. We'll be in touch."

"Oh, you're right about that," Henriksen said testily. "Cause if you're not, I promise, I will track you down."

Caleb chuckled before focusing on Sam. "Let's go, kid! Look alive!" There was a hint of compassion in his otherwise surly voice—just enough to compel Sam to his feet. He changed grudgingly out of the hospital gown and into jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and a military field jacket—much like his brother's. Despite everything, it felt surprisingly good to be in warm, clean clothes, and for the first time since this whole thing began, a weak smile crossed his face.

Once his shoes were on, Sam allowed Dean and Jim to guide him from the room while Caleb stood guard. Henriksen and Findley were both visibly frustrated, and it would only be a matter of time before they learned the truth—then they'd be pissed, especially Henriksen. What would their first thoughts be? That Jim and Caleb were kidnappers? Or that Sam and Dean somehow arranged an escape? Either way, they were bound to organize a search, which meant the hunters had to get as far from Shreveport as they could, as quickly as possible.

"Have you heard from dad?" Dean asked once they reached the lobby.

"No," Caleb said apologetically. "Just Singer. He's the one who brought us up to speed on all this, and had a computer-hacking friend of his authenticate our I.D.s. I'd love to know where he finds these people."

"He told us to let you know Jessica's safe," Jim assured Sam, much to his relief. "We'll take you to her straight away."

"No!" Sam shook his head as they ventured out into the parking lot. "We have to find our dad!" Jessica was out of harm's way—Bobby would ensure that. But John… He might need their help. Even if the Stynes were all accounted for, what about Doc Benton?

"Sorry, kid," Caleb replied as they circled around a truck and found themselves face-to-face with the Impala—Dean almost laughed at the sight. "But we know your daddy's protocol, and we're getting you out of here. No ifs, ands, or buts."

"How'd you pull this off?" Dean asked, helping Sam into the backseat while Caleb got behind the wheel—not many people could get away with such audacity—the car was Dean's baby, after all—but at the moment, he was just happy to see her outside the impound. Consequently, he climbed in after his brother while Jim took the front passenger's seat.

"Like we said," Caleb reiterated. "That Roadhouse genius really came through for us, and when the feds think you're from Homeland Security, you can get away with confiscating anything."

"Now try to get some shut-eye," Jim urged as they pulled away from the medical center. "You both obviously need it, and we've got a long drive ahead of us."

That said, they disappeared into the night.

SPN

Next Chapter: Will Sam and Dean reunite with their father? Please review!