So….I've been away for a while. Not to far from my computer; just far, far away from my creative side. This year will be different, I know. So, I apologize for the severe neglect this story has suffered. And I promise you, we're going to get to the end. We have to save Dean, because that's what we do.

Bobby Singer's Panic Room, Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean was losing it. Or not. He couldn't tell anymore. He had been fighting nightmares, one after another, before a noise yanked from him another vision of Hell. His eyes flew open as he tried to bring the room back into focus. He could taste brimstone in the back of his throat, burning as it suffocated him. He fell to his knees as he rolled off the cot, gasping and sucking in cool air as he reminded himself that he was in the panic room.

Not hell.

Not yet, anyhow.

Hearing the peculiar sound again he moved to door and peered through the narrow slit, tracking shadows out in the cellar. He could hear Bobby walking around upstairs…and that meant it wasn't Bobby who he had heard in the cellar. His eyes narrowed as he continued to peer into the dim room, trying to ignore his trembling hands. He wanted to call out to Bobby, but he didn't want to bring any attention to himself.

"Sam," he whispered painfully, trying to call out. His throat was raw and ragged from screaming his lungs out earlier. A low growl met his ears and he really didn't think it was Rumsfeld. He needed Sam; whatever was snooping around the cellar was obviously not a friendly.

His ears pricked at the sound of a door opening and slamming overhead, familiar voices making him let out a shaky sigh of relief. Sam would come down soon and Dean would make Sam let him out… He needed someone to let him out. He was a sitting duck. He had no weapons. No means to protect himself. His heartbeat filled his ears, making any other sound hard to discern. He bit back a shaky breath as he spotted the shadow on the far wall. Whatever it was, it was lanky.

He considered again calling out for Sam, but before he could; the grating sound of metal on metal stole the last of his voice. The sound grew louder. His shaking hands worked to firmly hold the large metal wheel that locked and unlocked his iron cage. He jumped back from the door as the overhead light bulb burst in a brilliant flash, broken glass falling to the floor as the flash blinded him. Back to the wall, his eyes fought to adjust to the dim light that came in through the vent overhead. Quick, painful breathes threatened to burst his lungs. He blindly moved across the room, desperate to find a weapon. Glass cut his feet as he tripped over the cot, his hands bracing his fall as he sprawled on the floor.

As the scratching sound grew deafening, Dean's grasp of stealth failed. "SAM!"

Upstairs, Sam was listening to Bobby's lecture on keeping his stitches intact when he heard it. Dean screaming, his voice filled with panic as he wailed for Sam. He had heard Dean yell before, but this was enough to make his stomach flip-flop. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He hadn't even thought Dean was capable of screaming anymore with his throat already so raspy. Sam took off for the cellar door, yanking it open and running down the steep steps, his shoulder twinging in pain as he did.

"Sam, wait," Bobby yelled out from behind him.

Sam didn't slow down; tripping on the steps and sliding down the last five. Alice and Bobby were right behind him; he barely registered the sound of a pump action shotgun before Bobby yelled for him to get down. He hit the floor as Bobby pulled the trigger, the sound deafening him as it tore through the air.

He didn't need to look to know that his stitches had burst; he could feel the sudden warmth of blood spreading across his shirt. He opened his eyes, blurred from the searing pain in his shoulder. He yelled out in surprise and scrambled backwards, a gray skinned Fay laying inches from him.

"It's dead, Sam! Keep moving, get to Dean! Get going," Bobby called out he reloaded the gun.

He didn't acknowledge Bobby's words, his attention focused only on Dean, whose voice still filling the air with fear. Sam yanked on the heavy iron door. It didn't budge.

"Dean—open the door!"

Sam looked through the narrow slit in the door; he could barely see Dean's silhouette across the dim room. He stood in a defensive position, yelling and swinging blindly. Sam ignored the blood seeping from his shoulder and tried the door again, cursing when it refused to budge.

"Bobby, I think the door is jammed. Or locked from the inside…"

Bobby handed the shotgun to Alice before sidled up to him. He and Alice shared a stern nod before she stepped into the shadows that filled the end of the cellar. "Watch it, Sam. We need to make sure we're alone down here."

"What about Dean? How do we know he's alone in there," Sam asked nervously, ignoring the large red stain that was working its way down his shirt.

Bobby shrugged. "We don't, but since he's still here, I'm going to guess he is. See if you can calm him down while we can get this damn door open."

Sam stared through the slit. He could see Dean, listing from side to side before leaning heavily on the wall; he wasn't going to stay upright for long by the look of it. Dean kept calling out, his voice breaking on Sam's name. "Looks like he's about to crash, Bobby. We've got to get in there."

"Him passing out might be a blessing right now. He's in bad shape and a drawn out panic attack ain't going to help him," Bobby grunted as he tried the door again. "We're going to have to address your shoulder before long. Bleeding looks bad."

"It's fine, Bobby," Sam snapped before turning his attention back to his brother. "Dean, calm down! I'm right here…Can you open the door? Dean, listen to me…"

Dean didn't react to Sam's voice, not this time. Dark figures kept creeping around the edges of his vision, their whispers assailing his already fragile reality. He kept right on yelling, his voice hoarse and failing; his grip on reality shaky and slipping from his mind. He had seen and questioned too much already. Shock could claim a body, but this time, it was claiming his mind.

"Let me out! Let me out! Sammy—get me out!"

"Dean! Listen to me—open the damn door," Sam's voice came out sterner than he intended. He cringed at the sound…it had sounded like John.

Bobby gave him a sideways glance before grabbing a wrench from a table across the room. "Careful there, Sam."

Sam ignored Bobby, watching Dean's silhouette straighten. "Dean? Can you hear me, man? Please, open the door."

He let out a sigh of frustration when Dean began to pace back and forth again, his voice fading to nothing even as he kept trying to cry out. Sam didn't move from the door, trying to coax Dean across the room towards the door.

"Let me out," Dean suddenly shouted, his voice ragged. "Sammy!"

Sam watched in concern as Dean lashed out at something only he could see. "Bobby, there aren't any weapons in there…right?"

Bobby rolled his eyes as he tried to open the door again. "What kind of idjit do you think I am? Course there are no weapons in there…except that Dean is quick on his feet and can turn anything into one. Why?"

"Just worried," Sam murmured. "Dean! Listen, man, open the door."

He watched as his words seemed to startle Dean. He turned and faced the door, his hands splayed on the wall at his sides.

Inside the dark room, Dean tried to ignore the many voices calling his name. He knew some of the voices weren't real…they couldn't be. He wanted quiet. He wanted fresh air. He wanted Sammy. He wanted Sam to let him out. He wanted the nightmarish voice hissing from across the room to just be a nightmare and most of all; he wanted to be able to tell the difference. Exhaustion and fear was wasting his grip on reality and some part of Dean's well developed self-preservation knew that.

Sam watched as Dean slid down the wall until he was sitting with his knees under his chin, his face buried in his arms. It had been a long time since he had seen Dean in that defeated pose. It unnerved him. He could hear a faint mumble through the door. He wasn't sure what Dean was saying, but for a split second he was certain heard Mary's name.

"Bobby, we've got to get this door open," Sam pleaded. "Right now."

"We'll get it open," Alice said as she stepped up to the door. She gave the metal wheel a heave, trying desperately to make it turn before stepping back, eyeing the door, her hand going to her side again. "Bobby…I see two ways for us getting in there. Either the vent above or we're taking the damn door down. Take your pick."

Bobby didn't hesitate as he handed the gun to Sam. "We'll be right back. Alice, let's go grab some things from the garage."

Sam stood at the door, one eye on Dean's quaking form and one on the dead Fay. He was getting tired of all this, they needed to find a permanent solution. Locking Dean up might be the recommended method, but it had come with a high price and no end. If Cas hadn't been so damn unreliable lately, Sam would have called him up and demanded help; but when the angel had to be summoned before bothering to show up only to be dismissive…Sam wasn't interested in wasting any more time.

Sam was startled out of his worrying when Bobby set a metal tank next to the door with a grunt. "Move over, Sam."

"Bobby—"

Alice gently pushed him aside as she tossed her loose over shirt and hat out of the way. "Move it, kiddo. It's about to get real hot down here and I don't need you getting burned…Bobby, you might as well take Sam upstairs and check him over. This isn't going to be quick."

Sam allowed himself to be pushed away from the door, away from his only connection to Dean. He watched Alice stretch her shoulder, testing the weight of the torch in her hand. She rested a hand on her side, staring hard at the door, her face guarded.

"Alice, you okay?"

She ignored his question, pulled the welding mask over her face, effectively ending any conversation between them. He could see a faint smear of blood on her shirt and was about to ask Alice about it when Bobby placed a striker in her gloved hand and moved back next to Sam. "Sure glad we've got Alice for this. It's gonna be hotter than hell down here and being a phoenix, she won't be as bothered by it."

Alice squeezed the striker near the end of the torch, the rasp of metal on metal making Sam grimace. The pop and whoosh of the gas ignited, making him take a step back. Alice adjusted the valves on the small tank, taking the flame from yellow to a hypnotic blue.

"Come on, she knows what she's doing," Bobby said as he urged him up the steps as Alice moved toward the metal door, her silhouette glowing from the fire in her hand.

"Bobby…is this going to work," Sam said as he stepped back into the kitchen.

He nodded as he adjusted his cap. "It better, cause it's going to ruin the damn door."

"I thought the panic room was iron—"

"It is, but the door is steel, with an iron sheet on the back. She'll be able to use the torch to burn off the hinges and lock. I had to do some welding to make the panic room in the first place…guess I should have figured we'd be down there taking it apart the same way," Bobby said as he dug out the large tackle box from under the sink that held some of the first aid supplies.

"Sorry, Bobby…"

"Don't be sorry, idjit. Just be glad I had a small tank…I wasn't looking forward to lugging one of the bigger tanks down there. Now get over here so I can do something about your shoulder."

"Bobby—"

"Don't 'Bobby' me. Now sit!"

Sam dropped into the chair, defeated. After removing his flannel shirt, Bobby cut away his bloody t-shirt and whistled. "You did a bang up job of finding the floor with your shoulder. We've got time until Alice will need some help so how about you just sit there and let's get this over with?"

"Fine," Sam muttered indignantly, feeling punished by being injured. He needed to be downstairs. The tattling words were out of his mouth before he could consider the consequences, his voice laced with spite. "Just make sure Alice gets hers too…"

"What was that," Bobby grunted from across the room as he dug through the box.

"She's bleeding."

Bobby frowned and grabbed the gauze. "You damn houseguests don't tell me anything… until it's too late and every last one of you is half dead. Has my bedside manner gotten so crappy that no one wants to tell me anything?!"

When Sam didn't say anything, Bobby went back to silently scrutinized the torn stitches as he figured out how to keep Sam from the emergency room. "Looks like these haven't begun to dissolve yet so I'll just pull them out and start over. Let's hope you only pulled a few loose. I can't imagine having to goes as deep into your shoulder as before….if we do, you're going to the hospital."

Sam snorted and shook his head. "Bullshit, Bobby. There is no way you'd send me into a hospital half stitched up from a bullet wound. How are you going to explain that?"

Bobby grunted. "Easy. I'd drop you at the curb and haul ass out of there. Let you explain it."

A sudden banging from below caught their attention. "Is that Alice," Sam asked worriedly.

"I doubt it…I'd bet money it's Dean. He's pretty damn determined to get out of there," Bobby muttered. "Let's just hope he doesn't hurt himself in the process."

Sam leaned back in the chair, worry growing and eating at him. He needed to get to Dean. A painful jab in his shoulder made him wince. He hated having stitches removed. Nowhere near as much as having them put in though. Bobby slid a book across the table to him. "Might as do some light reading while I patch you back up."

"Light reading," Sam quipped as he hefted the heavy book. "Not funny, Bobby."

"Neither is this mess," Bobby remarked as he peered at the torn flesh. "Try not to wince. You know the drill."

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly as Bobby began pulling the old stitches out. He flipped the book open with his good arm and resolved to not ask Bobby for painkillers. He was going to help with Dean whether Bobby liked it or not and that meant he had to be awake and focused.

The loud banging from the cellar came and went, spaced out with muffled yelling. The sounds worried both of them. Bobby knew there wasn't anything valuable in the room for Dean to destroy, but he wasn't looking forward to the damage it was undoubtedly doing to Dean.

Bobby worked methodically, removing the damaged stitches and plotting where the replacements would have to go into the red, angry flesh. Over the years, he had repeated several patch-up jobs. They were always bad news, most ending with infections and bulky scar tissue. After washing his hands again, Bobby tore open a new kit. He hated putting in stitches. It was tedious work, one that caused someone pain by his own hands. He paused over Sam's shoulder; one look at him and he knew Sam was waiting for the needle to pierce him. He was sitting perfectly still, fists clenched on either side of the book before him, eyes glued to the text in front of him, and his breathe held.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Bobby," Sam asked, his eyes glued to the book.

"You need something before we do this?"

"I'm fine," Sam said evenly, his voice tight from concentration.

"You're holding your breath," Bobby countered.

"I am not," Sam sputtered with a sharp cough. "Let's get this done already. I want to be ready to help Dean."

Bobby shook his head and gripped the mangled flesh, pulling the torn edges back together. Soon, Bobby was lost in the methodical rhythm of the needle sliding into flesh, the taut thread being pulling through, and the sound of the scissors as he clipped the thread after each knot. He noted Sam's tight jaw and slow, long breathes. He knew the kid was hurting.

Halfway through, Bobby nudged him. "You holding up alright?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You've been staring at the same damn page for thirty minutes," Bobby said as the banging from the cellar ceased.

"Just worried is all," Sam replied, his eyes not straying off the one word on the page he was affixed on. He had experienced worse pain but his shoulder still burned like fire. "He….He's trapped in a giant metal box that I stuck him in…He could be hurt or taken, and he's terrified… that's not like Dean…I don't like that he wouldn't answer me."

Bobby grunted his agreement. "Nothing to argue with there, except that I'm the one who forced him into the panic room. Not you."

"It was the only good option we had, Bobby," Sam muttered.

"Well since you damn well know that, don't go beating yourself up over it," Bobby remarked. "He's in there. He's scared, any of us would be. He might be hurt. Doesn't matter, cause we're going to pry that damn door down and do whatever we have to…we'll call up Crowley and light his ass up until he lets Dean out of the Fay deal if we have to."

Sam fell quiet as Bobby smeared antibiotic ointment over the new stitches and applied a new bandage, taping it securely in place. Sam was halfway to standing when Bobby shoved him back down in the chair. "You're not going anywhere. Especially, down into the cellar, it's too damn hot down there right now. She'll let us know when she's done."

They sat across from each other at the table, the clock silent as the time dragged by.

"What about Dean," Sam muttered as he flipped the book closed.

"What about him?"

"If it's too hot for us to be down there, aren't you worried about the heat getting to him," Sam asked, trying to head off his anger at Bobby. He knew Bobby was just trying to keep him out of Alice's way, not away from Dean. But evening knowing that didn't do anything for his growing impatience.

"The turbine in the vent overhead is turning and moving the heat and fumes from the torch well away from Dean," Bobby explained. "Unless he touches the door, he'll be alright."

"And Alice," Sam asked.

"Well, she is using an acetylene torch in an enclosed area…but she can take the heat. The fumes though….I've set a fan down there and opened a few of the cellar vents, but…..we'll just have to hope for the best. I was going to do it, but Alice….you know how she is," Bobby's voice rambled off.

Three loud knocks from downstairs caught their attention. "She's about done then. I'll go down and help her."

Sam was to the cellar door before Bobby caught him. "Not a step down there, Sam. Get everything ready for us to bring Dean up."

A sweat broke over Bobby's skin as he descended the stairs into the stifling heat. He watched in silence as Alice slowly moved through last steps of cutting away through the lock. Once again, Bobby was glad they had the extra help. Remembering Sam's comment about Alice being hurt, he took the opportunity to look her over while her back was turned to him. Her feet were both firmly planted, favoring neither side as she held the equipment. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of her arms, one elbow tightly tucked to her side even though the job would have been easier if her arm were higher. She was protecting something. He slowly walked toward her, knowing she couldn't hear him over the burning gas. The small patch of sticky blood on her shirt made him frown. He remembered how hard headed she was about things like getting patched up, reminding him of Dean but in an angrier 'I'm fine' kind of way.

Alice could feel Bobby's gaze burning a hole in the back of her head, and while she couldn't hear much of anything past the hiss of the flame, she knew that the house had fallen into a deep, bone chilling silence around her. Sweat glistened on her skin, the torch making the room unbelievably hot. She finally turned the gas down, letting the flame die out. She turned to Bobby as she pulled the mask from her face. Phoenix or not, it was unbearably hot and she wanted to finish the job as soon as possible.

"You alright," Bobby asked as he moved to the door and handed her a bottle of lukewarm water.

"Fine," she muttered as she wiped sweat from her eyes. "Let's just get this done."

"It's gone awful quiet," Bobby muttered. "Think he's still in there?"

"He better be or I'm going to be pissed as Hell," Alice snapped as she grabbed the crowbar Bobby held out to her. "Let's get the damn door down."

Okay, so I know that this chapter was supposed to have certain elements, but to be honest to contain all said and previously promised elements, the chapter was pushing 11,000 words and not even done. So…I broke it into pieces. You can have this part now, while I keep working on the next two. One to polish, one to finish. And of course, more beyond that to write so we can save Dean. Sorry again for the delay. Let me know what you think about the chapter please. More to come!