Author's Note: A special thanks to Fiery Charizard for helping me write this chapter to the best of my ability. :-)

SPN

For obvious security reasons, the Syndicate could not—and would not—summon a demon directly to the compound. Rather, they conveyed a large troop of hunters three miles up the mountain to an off-site warehouse, one of many throughout the country. Such facilities gave the Syndicate reliable fronts for supernatural showdowns, especially against demons. The storage space contained no supplies, no equipment, no sign of occupation—it was basically an empty room with a coated concrete floor and a mezzanine office high up on a corner balcony.

When Sam trudged into the office, by himself, he didn't bother switching on the lamps. The room had wide observation windows overlooking the storage space, so plenty of light poured in from the rest of the facility. Honestly, he preferred the dark, felt safer in the dark, less exposed…

"Okay… You're awesome!"

When Dean's counterpart—the stranger from a distant reality—praised Ethan for killing Lilith, everything inside Sam turned to ice. He had thought, maybe, just maybe, he could trust the man who showed him such compassion, such concern… But of course it turned out Dean's counterpart was no different from the others. He meant well, but he couldn't see… would never see… Sam shuddered.

Downstairs, the chief was busy briefing his hunters on the situation—they were in the process of compiling a weapon with the juice to kill Eve, but required one more ingredient. Upon forging the weapon, they would embark on a rescue mission to save an alternate version of Sam, who had been kidnapped by a horde of monsters. According to Castiel—an angel!—Eve was holding her captive in a cave near the Montana-Idaho border. They had the coordinates, so they knew exactly where they were going, but their enemies would be expecting them. They had to exercise extreme caution.

Meanwhile, Dean and his counterpart were spray painting a giant devil's trap on the warehouse floor, covering the whole expanse. When the time came to summon Alastair, they had to make sure he landed inside the symbol, so he couldn't escape. Despite their cooperation, they didn't try to hide their disgruntlement. One was still upset that he wasn't allowed to check on his brother. (Bobby and Castiel were both guarding the balcony steps, so no one could follow Sam up into the office.) And the other was still upset about the demon's identity.

Alastair.

From the moment Ethan spoke the name, a change had come over Dean's counterpart. With his brother in danger, he had always been tense, angry, focused… but from that moment, he became agitated. Even a little scared.

"Are you freakin' kidding me!?" he exclaimed back on the compound. "Alastair!?" Despite the aggression in his voice, a visible tremor rippled through him. "Great. Cause that's just what we need, on top of everything else!"

"I take it you know him," John grumbled.

"Actually, we don't," Castiel replied. "Alternate reality, remember?" He turned to his friend with unmistakable urgency. "Dean, you don't have the same history here. You don't have to make this personal."

The man glared at the angel with a look of hostility. "You know what? I'm glad it's him. Maybe now I can finally kill the bastard."

He continued fuming all the way from the compound to the warehouse. When they entered the facility, he began barking orders like the chief himself, and when he told Sam to hide out in the mezzanine office, no one dared question him. Now, Sam sat curled up on the floor, away from the observation windows, with his back pressed up against the wall. It was almost a relief, having an opportunity to distance himself from his family. He missed them. God, he missed them. But he wasn't ready to face them. Dean's worry and his dad's discipline were overwhelming. They didn't understand…

Why the hell did he agree to this? His family—the whole Syndicate—would be on the lookout for a chance to separate him from his "captors." They would drag him back home, lock him in his room, and leave him for Ethan to…

For Ethan to…

Sam's heart hammered in his chest.

But what choice did he have? His safety wasn't the priority. Killing Eve and saving innocent lives… That was the priority.

A small knock on the office door disturbed his brooding. He flinched, startled, but it was only Castiel. When the angel found him on the floor, his brow furrowed, and his blue eyes softened. He entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Are you all right?" Concern seeped into his gravelly voice.

Sam shook his head. (How much trouble would he be in if he lied to an angel?) "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course." He gingerly approached, treating Sam like a wounded animal, and knelt beside him.

It took a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, he whispered, "If you're really an angel, can't you ask God to intercede for us?"

"Oh, Sam…" Castiel's gaze drifted away, and he paused, contemplating his answer. Sam waited anxiously, barely aware that he was shaking. After a beat, Castiel pursed his lips. "There's no easy way to explain this, but God has distanced himself from his creation, even from his angels. We've all prayed to him, but all we hear is a deep, profound silence."

Sam caught his breath.

In the back of his mind, Ethan's voice echoed maliciously. "No one can help you, pretty boy."

"But… how can he do that?" He couldn't hide his anguish. "We need him!"

I need him.

"I know," Castiel gently acknowledged. "Believe me, I share your distress. For a long time, his absence angered me. I even used it as justification for sinful behavior, of which I'm not proud. But… I've sought penance, and I've pondered the significance of doubt. Do you know what I've learned, Sam?" Their gazes met. "Doubt… is powerful. It makes us kinder, less ruthless, more humane… And contrary to popular opinion, faith—true faith—requires it. Faith that springs from doubt is strong. I've seen it in your counterpart—the Sam from my reality. His faith—whether it's in God, or Dean, or even himself—has proven time and time again that a light does shine in the dark."

His words were soothing, but changed nothing. Sam still felt hollow, and tears brimmed in his eyes. "How am I supposed to believe that?"

The angel sagged, crestfallen. "Sam… What are you really running from? You can tell me, if no one else…"

He shook his head, haunted by Ethan's smug voice.

"I bought him, Sammy. Deal of a lifetime, and I negotiated for a lifetime. That means I own him till the day he dies. That means you'll never come between us, and more importantly, my… cravings… will never be denied." He chuckled. "It's friggin' amazing what they'll sell to you for something as trivial as your soul…"

He could still feel Ethan's thumb tenderly stroking his bottom lip. He could still feel…

Don't go there. Just don't.

Sam forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, and focused on his immediate surroundings. It was cold. Pine filled the air. He was here. Now. The person beside him was calm and benign.

Let the past stay in the past.

Another knock on the door announced another arrival. Sam and Castiel both glanced up to see Dean—the foreign Dean—peering in at them. His gaze locked onto the angel. "It's time."

SPN

To avoid defacing the giant devil's trap on the floor of the warehouse, Ethan scrounged up a folding table, which they used as an altar. John supervised as he produced an arcane sigil with a stick of charcoal. They dumped the necessary ingredients for the summoning ritual into a cauldron, and lit half a dozen votive candles.

Meanwhile, the troop of hunters took up strategic positions around the periphery of the room, gripping fire hoses that (if necessary) would discharge holy water. Dean was brandishing his knife; Castiel, his angel blade; and Prince Charming, the Colt. Alastair was strong, but they were ready. At least, as ready as they would ever be.

John spoke the incantation from memory. "Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum, ad ligandum eos, potiter et solvendum, et ad, congregontum eos, coram me." He sliced his palm with an athame, and poured his blood into the cauldron, which triggered a small eruption. Flames billowed angrily, casting sparks around the altar, but only for a moment. Then, the fire died, and silence ensued as the hunters watched and waited, cautious and alert.

If not for a year in Purgatory, Dean wasn't sure how he'd be handling any of this. He tried not to think about his stint downstairs, he tried to bury it deep, but nothing could fend off his recurring nightmares. They would torment him till the day he died.

Alastair…

Any old demon could make Dean fear for his family. That was no secret. But fearing for himself? Not even Yellow Eyes could accomplish that. His life didn't matter, so what could demons do to him?

But Alastair… He was the exception. He knew Dean in ways that no one ever would—not Cas, and especially not Sam. God forbid. That bastard stripped away everything he had, reducing him to something vile, broken…

Damned.

A fire burned inside him, invigorating him—and thanks to Purgatory, he could pretend it was the familiar compulsion to survive… the wild, savage instinct… primitive and pure…

It had to be.

Nothing else.

Please be nothing else.

Suddenly, the overhead lights began flickering, and the smell of sulfur filled the room. Tensions were high, but still, the hunters stood their ground. They were trained for this. The Syndicate had to be good for something.

He materialized in the empty space before them. Tall and slim, he wore polished shoes, dark slacks, and a loose overcoat. Perched on a long neck, his oval head featured short chestnut hair, a mustache and chin straps. His sunken eyes were completely white, and a cold, cruel smile stretched over his face.

"In the interest of full disclosure," he said in a casual, nasally drawl. "I've taken special precautions…" He raised his left arm out to the side, making sure they could all see the detonator in his hand. "To prepare for this obligatory confrontation." His thumb was already pressing down on the red button. "Dead man's switch," he explained. "Ingenious device."

Crap!

For a long minute, no one moved. They were too busy staring at the bomb strapped to the demon's chest, barely visible beneath the flaps of his coat. If he released the trigger, if his thumb so much as moved, the subsequent explosion would destroy everything, killing the hunters and breaking the devil's trap. Only Cas and Alastair would survive—and the angel had yet to beat the demon in a fight. One wrong move and they were screwed.

Mustering his composure, John stepped around the makeshift altar and boldly approached his enemy. "A bomb? Really? Isn't that a little mundane for the likes of you?"

Alastair sneered. "Why, if it isn't the chief himself…" His eyes rolled from white to his host's natural blue. "You make a compelling argument. I'm not one who normally skips the pleasantries… But I've learned from the mistakes of my predecessors, and if you force my hand, I'll sacrifice my toys for the sake of survival… however reluctantly."

"That won't be necessary," John assured him, finding the right balance to challenge the demon without provoking him. "Our fight's not with you. It's with Eve. And I know for a fact she's not fond of your ilk. She considers you rancid food—only suitable for swine." Alastair sniffed at the gibe. "So I thought, since we share a common foe, perhaps we could come to an agreement?"

He lifted his brow. "The Syndicate wants to make a deal with the devil?" He clucked his tongue. "My, aren't these interesting times?" His gaze drifted towards Cas. "And look at you, big boy! Does daddy know you're out of bed? He'd be so disappointed."

Cas scowled, and Dean reflexively sidled between him and the demon. Not that Cas needed his protection, but this was Alastair! Dean's emotions were raging within him—fear at war with hatred and a thirst for blood. He tightened his grip on the knife, eager to finish what he started on that grim night four years ago. Eager to kill the son of a bitch, bomb or no bomb.

"What are you doing up here, Alastair?" he demanded, venom dripping from his voice. "You're not a leader. You're an artist."

"That's what I keep telling myself…" Alastair cocked his head, glancing from Dean over to Prince Charming, and back again. His blue eyes twinkled in amusement. "It's a constant struggle between duty and desire, but if I don't take the helm, who will?" He looked Dean up and down, suggestively. "You know, there's something about you I can't quite put my finger on."

Dean scoffed. "And you never will."

It was obvious he loathed the demon, and Alastair couldn't hide his sadistic itch to poke at the raw nerve, but thankfully, he was in no position to try. "It would be a terrible shame to blow you up, son, just when we're starting to get to know each other. But I will if you don't release me now."

"Not so fast," John cut in. "We called you here for a reason. If you're really the one in charge of the pit, we need a sample of your blood for a weapon that will kill Eve."

"Ah."

"Here's the deal," John continued. "You donate some blood, we let you go, and you let us kill Eve. No one else has to get hurt. At least not tonight. Or… you can blow us all the hell up, but where's the fun in that?"

The demon smiled, shifting his weight as he pondered the transaction. "Hmm… Killing Eve would certainly fall under the 'win' category. Might I ask who designed this weapon of yours?"

Cas stepped around Dean. "Who do you think?"

Alastair nodded. "The big guy, huh? Well, okay then. I'll take one for the team…" A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "But if anyone's gonna be drawing my blood… I'd like it to be Sam. I know he's here. I can smell him."

Dean nearly lost it. Oh, hell no! He would have launched himself at the demon if Cas wasn't there to pull him back. "You mention my brother and your blood in the same sentence ever again, and I'll make you beg for death!"

"Dean, no!" Cas exclaimed, gritting his teeth. "That's not helping!"

While everyone else gawked, Alastair grinned. "Touchy, are we? Just wait till I get started."

Dean shook his head. "Bring it on, you dick!"

"That's enough!" John snapped, managing to stem the tide with his commanding tone. He wasn't Dean's father… not really. But in a way… he was. Caught off guard, Dean registered his dad's voice and faltered despite himself. Satisfied, John focused back on Alastair. "Forget Sam. This deal's between us. I'll draw your blood."

The demon sighed. "Very well."

John quickly produced the athame from the summoning ritual, along with a glass vial, and made quick work of the gory acquisition. As the blade carved through the palm of his free hand, Alastair gasped with a blissful expression on his ugly face. "We should do this again sometime."

John grunted.

Once he capped the vial, he motioned for Prince Charming to spray paint a line across the floor, defacing the devil's trap.

Alastair winked. "Pleasure doing business with you."

And with that, he was gone.

SPN

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