A/N: I am sorry for any errors. I was in a rush to post this. Thank you to those that have been reading and reviewing. The reviews help me help you like it, so thank you lots! And yes, I have decided to do a sequal. Until then, enjoy this chapter.

Lilith finally pulled her lips away from his but kept herself in Dean's space as she whispered sweetly, "Silly, Dean." Giggle! "I'm here to kill you."

Dean heard a sharp gasp behind him and felt a tug at the back of his shirt.

"Dean," whispered Sam. It was the kind of whisper that could only be mustered through tears. Dean was stuck, petrified. He had no idea what he was going to do. He was trapped with his little brother in the Key of Solomon with Lilith. He needed to protect his brother. Dean cursed himself for trapping them both in the circle.

"And you, Sammy." Lilith looked past Dean's shoulder and eyed the hunched over man who was burying his mop head into his brother's shoulder blades. A snarl formed on her meat suit's mouth. Samuel was a disgusting sight. Too much innocence. She could smell the juvenile essence harboring inside Azazel's chosen. And though she could feel the body's yearning for demon blood, his childish mind would reject it. A pretty meat suit with words and lips like honey was not going to work on this Sam.

Dean noticed Lilith's preoccupancy with Sam, so running on instinct and unclear thinking; Dean yanked himself out of Lilith's grip, turned around and shoved Sam out of the Key of Solomon boundaries. Sam stumbled backwards out the circle of protection, and Dean ignored the look of hurt and shock on his brother's face.

"Run, Sammy! And you know where! Now!" The shrill of Dean's 'now' made Sam jump and sprint off out of sight. Like expected, Lilith's two beefcakes followed hot on his heels.

"Well, Dean." Lilith clucked her tongue. "I guess it's just you and me."

"Yeah, I guess." Dean eyed passed Lilith and watched Bobby's unconscious form, willing him to wake up and save him.

"Oh, don't worry about your precious Uncle Bobby, Dean. He won't wake up for a while. He got hit on the noggin pretty hard." Lilith taunted. Her eyes then turned a glowing white once more, and her hand rested on the strap of his sling. She tsked. "I was hoping you would be all fresh and pretty for me. Unflawed skin is so much more delightful to penetrate."

"You can blame your boys for that." Dean growled, his stance of a soldier constant. He knew this day was coming. Lilith would come for him and Sam. He very well knew that these were the last moments of his life, but he was going out with dignity. He would not let this bitch know how scared he was.

Lilith ripped the sling away from Dean's arm and eyed the plain white cast with interest. Dean swallowed and ground molars together when she put both hands on his arm. She was going to re-brake his arm! He saw the clench of her fingers, instinct sprouted from him once more.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,om-"

Dean knew spouting an exorcism with unconstrained demon was not his brightest move, but when he saw his own demise in the glowing white eyes across from him, self-preservation kicked in. It was squashed, though, when Lilith snarled and grabbed ahold of his chanting tongue with quick fingers.

Dean's eyes widened to their limits when he felt cold, dirty fingers pinch the tip of his tongue. Her other hand wrapped tightly around his neck. He attempted to squirm out of Lilith's grasp until she spoke.

"Stop moving, Dean, or I will rip it out." To emphasize her point, she stretched his tongue outside of his mouth to an almost painful extent. "Believe me, Dean. A ripped out tongue is not a good way to go."

And Dean knew that already. He lost count of how many times Alistair ripped out his tongue down in Hell.

Dean stopped his movements and glared at Lilith.

"Now that wasn't very nice, Dean. Trying to exorcise me. I feel very underappreciated and unloved. I think I might have to teach you a lesson before I kill you."

With her fingers and nails still constraining Dean's tongue, she looked up at the Key of Solomon with glowing eyes and chanted in a language of something raw, ancient, and Latin. Dean watched as the symbols and circle melt from the ceiling and evaporate into wisps. Lilith's hands then went to Dean's neck.

"Let's go into the kitchen. I have a feeling things are going to get pretty messy, and we don't want to get all your juices onto the carpet, do we?"

As Lilith led the eldest Winchester into the kitchen, Dean hoped that Sammy made it down into the panic room. He couldn't hear anything beyond his own blood rushing and his heart pounding.

Sam sprinted down the basement stairs, the two bikers hot on his trail. Ignoring their pounding feet, he turned the corner and saw the panic room Dean and Uncle Bobby had shown him a week ago. He ran towards the open iron door but tripped over his feet. He fell heavily onto the cement floor, tearing the material of his soft cotton pajama pants. Sam felt the liquid burn on his knees and hands the rough cement flooring gave him. Ignoring the pain, he tried to get back onto his feet but failed when he was flipped over onto his back. Sam bit his bottom lip to fight the wobbling of his chin and the threatening tears. They had caught him. They were going to kill him. That Lilith girl was going to kill Dean, and Bobby might already be dead.

Sam dared to open his eyes and stare at the looming figures above him. He saw their black eyes and remembered the white glowing eyes of Lilith. Who? What were these monsters?

In the brief few seconds Sam had before the bikers attacked, he wracked his brain on what these human looking monsters were. Sam had only recently begun studying the paranormal with his dad and Dean before waking up in the future. And Uncle Bobby and Dean had not taught him anything in these past couple of weeks, hoping they wouldn't have to, hoping everything would go back to normal.

Sam tried to remember anything about the chicken scratch writing and squiggly lines in his Dad's journal when he stole it that Christmas, but his heart was trying to crack his chest open, and his few seconds were up.

One of the two bikers bent his knees and rested his palms against his thighs. He spoke, "Now look here at the Boy King." He chuckled. "Acting like a little boy. How fitting. He's not even fighting us. I'd find that hilarious if it weren't so disappointing."

"Yeah, if he doesn't fight back, we might get carried away. We might kill him."

"Perhaps."

"Lilith wouldn't like that."

"True. She thinks Sam's special." Snort! "You know what. I think she and the other uppity ups are hiding something from us."

"I think you're right. So uh…" Biker #2 said, "Do you think we should kill him?"

"No, no," Sam interrupted. "I don't think you should."

"It's tempting." Biker #1 said and scratched his chin thoughtfully, both men ignoring Sam's input.

Sam watched as the two conversed about his demise versus continual existence like he wasn't there. Still on his back, he rotated his head from left to right in hopes of finding something to defend himself with. Regardless of what the two bikers decided, he wasn't stupid enough to think he was getting out of here unscathed.

Sam looked to his left and noticed he was quite close to a wall. This said wall had hooks and straps imbedded into it. The hooks and straps harnessed or hung all kinds of weapon: guns, knives, swords, crossbows, archery, scythes, axes, hatchets, and etc.

Sam had the sudden urge to swallow as he looked back at the still conversing pair of biker monsters. He assumed they had yet to notice the wall. Dad had once told him that brains and brawn were two different things, and the enemy may or may not have both.

The wall was only a few feet away, Sam noticed. Casually, or something like it, he slid his arm closer. With his arm outstretched, he concluded that he was able to flatly palm the bottom of the wall and then some. Sam sent a silent prayer of thanks to Whomever for growing up into a long-limbed fellow.

His elbow was still bent with his palm against the wall. Careful and slow, but not too slow, he moved his hand up and came across a sawn-off shot gun.

Sam had learned to shoot not long after his brother verified the supernatural world to him. His dad figured that because his youngest boy knew, it was high-time to train. His first stage of training involved guns, assembling and disassembling in record time. Blindfolded and at a speedy pace. After a straight year of this with his father's critical eye and expectations of perfection, he was taken on his first target shooting. The event took place around some heavy forested back road. His father lined up the empty beer cans, all ten of them. Dad handed him a 45 and told him for everyone that he missed, he had to run in miles.

Sam had missed them all.

He remembered the heavy weight of metal and lead in his small hands. He looked up at Dad who beamed down with an encouraging smile and helped with his form.

"Shoot like you mean it, son." Dad said and rubbed his back soothingly and kissed the top of his head. Dean was in the background leaning against some tree with a bottle of Coke in his hands. His brother and Dad had not been worried at all, Sam remembered. Like they were both so sure he'd hit every single target. Dean had when he got to go on his first shooting expedition, and he had been a lot younger than Sam.

Because Dad had been Dad and not some other dad, Sam had run. Because Dad was a dad and loved his boy, it wasn't ten miles. Sam had to run for ten full minutes at a marathoners pace around the park, near where they lived at the time. It may have not been so bad if he had not been a bit rotund around the middle and…everywhere else.

Sam had puked at his dad's feet when his time was up. His father gave him a pat on the back, a drink of water, and promises that his aim will get better because they were going to be practicing for a long time.

The youngest Winchester tore himself away from the past and as fast as he could, he yanked the sawn-off out of its harness and jumped to his feet, cocked the gun, and aimed.

The two biker monster stopped conversing once they heard the clean sound of a cocking gun. They faced the noise attached to the Samuel Winchester, the star of their discussion. A tinge of fear both plagued them out of surprise, for their victim had some fight in him after all. But then they realized his choice of weapon was a gun.

"I like your spirit, Boy King." Biker #2 clipped. "But that gun of yours ain't gonna do anything but cause problems you may not be ready to face."

"You better listen to him." Biker #1 said with a nod.

The bikers may have been right, but Sam was not going to acknowledge it. His father's 'no B.S.' voice was yelling at him in his subconscious. He swallowed and looked hard into the bikers' black eyes.

Monster.

Monster.

Not human.

Monster.

Dean's upstairs with a monster.

BANG! BANG!

Sam jumped twice for every time he aimed and pulled the trigger. He gazed at the howling figures on the floor and the speckles of white scattered about. Hey eyed the speckles curiously. Was that…rock salt? Sam tore his gaze away from the salt when a loud curse jolted him to peer back at the bikers. There was some blood on their chest and stomachs as well as…smoke? Sam tried not to dwell too much on his confusion. He needed to get to the panic room. With the gun still in hand, he raced inside the panic room and locked the door. He knelt below the poster of Bo Derek and curled himself into a ball. He began to rock on the balls of his feet as he tried to calm his heart down. It was too loud and making it hard to breathe because the tears streaming down his face were not slowing down, either. He needed to sob, and huff, and scream, but his lungs and heart were battling, and they both wanted to win.

Sam was having a panic attack. He's had them before but never this severe, and Dean or Dad had always been there to calm him. He let go of the gun, rose to his feet, faced the exposed wall next to Bo Derek and rested his sweaty head against the cold cement.

Minutes passed consisting of deep breaths before Sam felt like he could think somewhat clearly. His heart was still pounding, and he was still crying, but he was alive. That's what mattered.

No, Dean!

Dean is what mattered.

Sam choked on a sob and cast his watery gaze to the ceiling, wishing he could see his brother and at the same time, grateful that he couldn't. What was that thing doing to him? She had said that she wanted to kill him. What was she doing to him? Sam had not heard any screams, but the panic room was soundproof anyway. Maybe Dean was okay. Maybe Dean had already killed that girl-thing and was just taking care of Bobby.

Sam may have been thirteen, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that was the case.

He would have to leave. He would have to save his older brother. He would have to-

Sam's nose flared and looked down at his blood spattered night shirt. It must've gotten splattered when he shot those bikers with the rock salt.

Suddenly, all the hunger, thirst, and nausea had felt in the past few weeks hit Sam all at once. He doubled over onto his hands and knees and dry heaved onto the floor.

He wanted. He needed. But what?

Sam's nose flared again, and he breathed in deeply. He could smell the dry, cold pavement and iron with a hint of dampness from the outside. But mostly, he could smell the blood on his shirt. There wasn't even a lot, Sam offhandedly thought. But he could smell it. The scent was strong and made the youngest Winchester's stomach clench in need.

Sam's desire struck terror in him. He looked at his bloodied shirt once more with hunger before forcing a cringe and yanking the shirt above his head. Breathing deeply, he forced himself to wad the material into a ball and chuck across the room.

Standing in the cold room barefooted and shirtless, Sam stared at the tossed shirt lying across the room. He wanted to go get it and lick the material clean. It sounded like a really good idea, but it should be disgusting, right? Sam knew the answer was yes but couldn't remember why. His body was hot and cold all at once and-

Sam stole a step towards the discarded shirt but then stepped back. He swallowed the bile that was burning the back of his throat. He had to get out of there. He grabbed the shotgun and dashed to the iron door, threw it open and fell to his knees at the smell of blood.

The two biker demons were still somewhat rolling around and howling but stopped when they saw Sam kneeling at the entrance of the panic room. Both of them were about to curse him or toss a sarcastic retort but stopped themselves short at the crazed look in the Boy King's eyes.

This blood did not smell like any blood Sam had ever smelt. It usually smelt like warm water boiling in a copper kettle. The bikers' blood smelt like that only with a hint of rotten eggs, and he wanted it. Disgusting, yes, but Sam needed it.

Sam walked away from the safety of the panic room and closer to the silent and staring men who watched him warily. He fought the urge to throw himself on top of one of them and feast. Instead, he shakily walked passed them, up the stairs, and to the main floor of Bobby's house where he heard a chilling scream from his older brother.

R and R, ya'll!