Spoilers: Pre-Pilot, Pilot, Skin, Asylum, Shadow

Winchester Angst Level in this Installment: Defcon Five and still climbing

A/N: The chapter title is taken from, appropriately enough, "King of Pain" by the Police.

Oh, yeah, thanks to everyone who have reviewed so far, and everyone who has this story on their alert lists! I hope these two chapters have the right mix of insanity, confusion, and violence. I know you guys will review and let me know what you think.

Then: Holed up in the church with Bobby and Sam, Dean physically manifests the pain he felt when John punished him for nearly getting Sam killed by the shtriga over twenty years ago. YED puts its end of the link and the collar onto the boy Aaron, puts the boy into a closet in the safe house Sam nearly demolished, and starts the process of darkening Coyote and Dean at the other end of the link.

Now: Bobby and Sam have to deal with a feverish Coyote/Dean as he manifests his innermost demons and pain. Some are just illusions, and some of them are real, and can kill. The shapeshifter from St. Louis gleefully torments Sam with Dean's darkest thoughts. Dean is visited by a vision in white and a devil in a plaid shirt. And Bobby finds out just how dangerous Winchester family life can be…

Dog Eat Dog

Chapter 26 …a butterfly trapped in a spider's web…

One

Throat hurt like a sumbitch. Scratchy. Raw. He tasted metal in his mouth and his head felt all floaty and strange. Dean levered himself upright, slowly, his weak muscles quivered and trembled with the effort. There was a weight on his chest, around his neck. Metal. Metal touching his bare skin. He thought about reaching underneath his t shirt and pulling the eye of Abraxas off, but even the thought of raising his arm was tiring. Maybe later.

Dean sat there blinking slowly until his eyes adjusted.

He was in a church. Huh.

Something chuffed down near his feet, and he froze. Something big and black, with limpid golden brown eyes and a long pink tongue. He felt like a damn fool as Bobby's dog grinned up at him.

She got up and put her head on his knee. Dean leaned forward a little, that's far enough, dude, he told himself groggily, and his fingers shook slightly as he reached out and scratched the dog behind the ear. "What 'ya lookin' at, huh, girl?" he mumbled softly, and her grin got even wider.

Even those small motions wiped him out, took whatever energy he had left. Dean fell back heavily against the pew and the dog once again settled down at his feet. He closed his eyes and listened to the tired way his lungs wheezed as he pulled air in and out. He was pretty sure that wheezing like that was not a good sign.

He felt lightheaded and sluggish at the same time. His right eye watered slightly. There was something he should have remembered, something about a link of some sort, and a collar, but he couldn't remember exactly what it was and the collar was probably for the dog. He couldn't even remember if she already had a collar, if he'd seen one, and he was too wiped out to sit up again and take another look at her. It was hard to think, even harder to hold onto whatever he was thinking about.

Feeling weak and feverish from wounds he'd received during a hunt was nothing new. Sometimes infection set in no matter how carefully he or Dad tended to the wounds with holy water. It was probably due to the toxic crap in the fuglies they hunted, their saliva, a poison in their skin, underneath their claws, something. Sometimes the antibiotics worked, and sometimes they didn't.

Damn, this time seemed so fucking…permanent. He wasn't going to recover from this. He knew it. He felt it.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the altar in front of him.

The face of the statue of the Virgin Mary cracked on a diagonal slant, right down the middle.

I didn't mean to do that, Dean thought dully. Is that like, seven years bad luck, or something? Seven hundred years, the way my luck's been runnin' lately.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again as he jerked forward, wildly. For just a moment there he wanted to hide, suddenly wanted to go someplace dark, confined, where no one could find him. He felt exposed, miserable out there in that wide open space.

Sam and Bobby would be better off without him.

He frowned as the voices grated and wailed inside his head. His brain bled every time they echoed inside his skull.

Dean, you have to stop this…

…you're killing us…you're killing Sam…

...none of this is real…

He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and he didn't like the way his body shook. He trembled worse than an old man more than twice his age.

Slim hands dropped out of nowhere onto his shoulders, and the touch settled him, made him feel safe. Secure. She radiated peace and comfort, not fear and panic and death. Dean allowed himself to be pulled gently, slowly backwards, and he leaned back against the pew with a heavy sigh, before he tilted his head back and looked up.

"M-Mom?"

"Hello, sweetie."

Two

Sam glared at it and the 'shifter shrugged. "That's it? Nothin' else to say? This is the part where you say that I'm not your brother. No?"

Sam's stare was furious and steady. He didn't say Fuck you out loud. He didn't have to.

"Aw, well. I told you before. Your brother has a lot of good qualities." The 'shifter smirked. His grin was a lot meaner than Dean's. Its eyes went silver from the light overhead, then went back to green, bright and obscenely cheerful.

"You should have appreciated him more than you did. That advice he gave you about turning him over to the Feds and copping a plea? Man, that was a friggin'classic." The 'shifter shook his head in admiration and raised the glass of whiskey to its lips.

Sam stared. When the hell had the bastard even poured the drink out of the bottle?

Sam looked down and saw that he wasn't tied up, and the shifter drained the whiskey glass as Sam shakily got to his feet. It didn't seem the least bit concerned when Sam reached out and pulled out the butcher knife that was embedded blade first into the corner of the counter top.

They weren't in the church anymore. Sam's stomach clenched as he realized they were in Rebecca's house in St. Louis. Sam was alone; Bobby was nowhere to be found.

"He's right, you know." The 'shifter gestured with the glass. It was half full. Again. "You stroll into federal court in a suit, lookin' all normal and shit, with your lawyer at your side, I bet you'd be in and out of prison before you're thirty. And then, bucko, you can have your normal life." The 'shifter's face fell a little, and he frowned. "Well, you woulda had a normal life, but you're not gonna. Ya see, Sammy, you're not gonna leave here alive. I'm not gonna let you."

"Come on, you lying son of a bitch…" Sam grated out. He flexed his wrists, rolled his shoulders, and the thing laughed.

"Feelin' a little inadequate? You should be. You didn't leave John and Dean because you wanted a normal life. You left because you weren't Dean. Dean was the son Johnny boy always wanted. Smart, strong, lethal. Everything you're not." It cocked its head to one side and regarded Sam with a mixture of amusement and scorn. "That's really why you left for Stanford, isn't it?"

Sam didn't answer. The shifter put the glass down on the counter with a thump. "Okay then. Oh, just so you know? Don't expect the cavalry to come this time. Big brother is not gonna come charging through that door with that damn gun of his. I got his blessing this time."

Sam held the knife out in front of him at an angle, ready.

"Geez, you're so eager to get your ass kicked, Sammy. Okay." The 'shifter grinned and stepped forward.

Sam lost himself in the motion with the knife then. He made a pass with it through the air, slashed the sumbitch downward across its chest. Sam refused to think about the fact that this thing looked like Dean. At that moment he was all for killing the bastard, but…

The knife whickered through the air without meeting any resistance. For a moment Sam and the 'shifter stood nose to nose and then it smiled at him, wide and easy, and Sam felt its fist slam into his face, once, then twice, before Sam dropped to his knees, struggling to stay conscious. He slashed out with the knife again, and through the haze saw his arm and the knife pass harmlessly through the bastard's body.

The thing's fist slammed into the side of his face again, heavy, solid.

The 'shifter laughed. "Yeah, I know. This ain't fair. I can touch you, but you can't touch me. Dean's sandbox, Sammy. Dean's rules. Sorry."

And it lashed out and hit Sam again, this time in the chest. Damn thing was solid enough then, at least.

Three

Blood. There was so much damn blood.

Bobby could smell it even before he opened his eyes. He'd smelled it enough times, in enough bad dark places, during hunts that had gone south, and smelling that much blood was never a good sign.

He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had to. He lay on his side, facing a wooden door. Cheap, faded floral wallpaper. Worn brown carpet. Nothing he hadn't seen on the road, during countless hunts.

Bobby pushed himself up, got to his feet as quickly as he could.

Sam Winchester lay on his back a few feet away. The young man's shaggy hair was clotted with blood. Streaks of blood ran down his face, pooled in that large hole in his chest. The cheap carpet underneath his body was soaked with it.

John Winchester sat upright a few feet away, his back up against the foot of one of the three twin sized beds in the room. His eyes were closed and his head was down, chin on his chest, and he was just as bloody as Sam was.

Just as dead as Sam was.

Bobby saw a Bowie knife and a gun lying on the floor, slick with blood.

Dean Winchester sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his back jammed up against the nightstand between the two twin beds.

"Dean. My God," Bobby said hoarsely. "What the hell happened here?"

Dean sighed, and it was a terrible, tired sound. Adult Dean's green eyes were just as dead as his younger counterpart's had been, in that other motel room.

"I was only gone for a moment," Dean said in a small broken voice. He laughed, and there wasn't any humor in it, just deep sadness with barely concealed hysteria underneath. "I went out to get some air, y'know? That's all. They'd been fighting all day."

Dean was still for a moment. "All damn day." He shrugged. "About stupid stuff. I can't even remember what the damn fight was about. I think…I think sometimes Sammy would just…" Dean glanced over at Sam's body, then glanced quickly away. "…pick a fight with Dad just for the hell of it, y'know? I -- I don't…" Bobby could see him struggle to maintain his composure, saw Dean's face almost break, then he settled himself again, and his face went carefully blank.

He cleared this throat again, and his voice was too calm, too controlled, for a man who sat on a blood-slick floor between the bodies of his father and brother.

"I don't even remember what the damn fight was about. They were at each others' throats, but they weren't fighting when I left. That's the thing. They weren't fighting when I left. It was quiet. It was quiet, and I let my guard down. Should have stayed. I should have stayed. When I came back…I found 'em like this. Never should have left." He shook his head, slowly, numbly. "Never should have left."

"Dean," Bobby said slowly. "This isn't real. None of this happened. John and Sam didn't kill each other." This was one of Dean's fears come true. Bobby had gotten glimpses of Dean's inner turmoil when they'd done the exorcism on Meg Masters, but up until that time Bobby had never guessed Dean had that many personal demons inside of him.

"I fuck everything up, you know?" Dean continued, and Bobby realized that Dean either couldn't hear him or wasn't listening. "I couldn't keep my family together. I couldn't stop them from fighting."

"Dean, you gotta snap out of it." Bobby took a step forward. "You gotta stop this, now, before someone gets hurt. You're creating all this stuff out of thin air…."

"They're both dead." Dean said dully. "They're all dead. I got nothin' to live for---"

"Dean? Dean, come on boy, listen to me --- "

Bobby watched Dean's eyes shift to the pistol on the floor, and Bobby knew what was going to happen even as he lunged forward. Dean somehow had the gun in one hand already, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The sound of the first gunshot as it struck Bobby really wasn't that loud.

Dean jammed the pistol underneath his chin.

That gunshot was muffled.

Bobby came out of the darkness slowly. Ahead he could see a faint yellow glow that was getting brighter.

Someone had their hand on his bare stomach, and he growled to himself. Better be a fine looking woman doin' that. An angel.

He opened up his eyes and stared. Oh, shit.

"You…you shot me."

"I know." Dean shrugged. "Sorry." That yellow glow in Dean's eyes never failed to give Bobby the creeps. He looked down and saw Dean's hand on his stomach, and Bobby quickly looked away. He could actually feel his insides knit back together, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation.

They were back in the hallway of the rectory. That other motel room was gone, along with John and Sam's bodies, and all that blood. Bobby sat with his back against the wall, and here was Dean, looking all calm and normal and unbloodied, except for that glow in his eyes.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Which one are you?"

"I don't know." Dean frowned a little, then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a grin. "Bet you're sorry now you didn't let me use the Colt, huh?"

Bobby's right hand curled up into a fist and he punched Dean in the face.

Dean blinked. "Okay," he said slowly. "I deserved that."

He looked down and smirked a little more as Bobby's hand curled up into a fist again.

"Dude. I'm not gonna let you hit me again. Quit moving around. I gutshot you, remember?"

"So now what?"

"Gotta find Sam after this. And he's gotta give me the Colt."

"Damn, boy, you've got a one track mind about destroying yourself, don't you?"

Dean shrugged. "If you can come up with another way to end this, I'd sure in the hell like to hear it."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"I got nothin' else," Bobby finally admitted.

"Didn't think so. We gotta go."

Four

Mary leaned down, kissed the top of Dean's head, then ruffled his hair. Dean opened his eyes, inhaled deeply of her scent. She smelled nice. Clean. She smelled good, not like smoke, blood, and charred flesh. "Remember what I used to tell you when I tucked you in at night?"

"You said…you said angels were watching over me." Dean frowned as the headache behind his eyes intensified. Felt like the top of his head was about to come off.

"That's right. They still are." Mary laid her cheek against the top of Dean's head. He nearly sighed out loud as the pain melted away. He heard a voice, sounded like Bobby, faint, distant. He couldn't make out the words. Fever, that was what it was. That was all it was…

Dean snort-chuckled weakly. "Your angels have been falling down on the job, Mom. They have been for the past twenty four years."

She sighed. "I know it seems that way, baby, but that's not true."

"It's not?" Dean leaned back, stared at her. He couldn't help himself. She was beautiful. Perfect in every way, and his heart ached at the sight of her. "Then why do we always pay the price for this? Can you tell me that? Huh?"

Her hand came up, and Mary pressed her hand over Dean's heart. He tilted his head slightly, put his hand over hers.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," Dean said softly. "This Trickster thing…."

She shook her head. "You're my son, Dean. Always have been. No matter what. Coyote doesn't change a thing..."

Dean swallowed thickly. Felt like his throat was closing up. He couldn't tell if it was rage or grief or sadness. "I've done a lot of things tonight…some of 'em I'm not proud of…" He raised his right hand and stared at it. He could almost see, feel Travis' heart as it beat out its last between his fingers.

"I know."

"I've called down lightning, been struck by it, and stood there laughing. I can move things just by thinkin' about it. If…if I can do all that, then why couldn't I…"

"Why couldn't you save me that night?"

He nodded.

"It was my time to go." Mary's voice was filled with a calmness, a certainty.

Dean shook his head. "I can't. Can't accept that." His voice was small, like a child trying to be so grownup.

"You have to. You were both so young back then. Both of you. You were only four. After he was reborn inside you Coyote had forgotten a lot of what he knew before." She smiled sadly. "That's why you were able to wall him up like that. If you had tried to stop the Demon, it would have killed you both, and I wasn't going to allow that."

"You weren't going to allow---" Dean repeated. Mary nodded without saying a word.

"This mystical new age shi --- crap-- is making my head hurt."

She smiled. "It is kind of hard to wrap your head around at first."

More than anything he wanted to just turn around, put his head on her shoulder like he did when he was a kid, wrap his arms around and never let go. Please Mom, take me with you when you leave. Please. I'm tired. M' scared. Please, Mom, please…

Take me with you.

He didn't ask, because he knew she couldn't.

Her heartbeat, her touch soothed him. Dean closed his eyes again, and he really couldn't say exactly when he felt her leave.

The damn voices came back.

…Dean, you gotta stop this, now…

…they're both dead… they're all dead…

Shut up, he silently pleaded. Shut the fuck up. I don't have to listen, I don't want to listen…

He kept his eyes closed. The voices echoed inside his head, rising and falling and then, mercifully, faded.

The hair at the back of his neck stood up, and his skin prickled. He was being watched. Intently. He was being…measured. The hunter was the hunted now, and whoever – whatever – this was obviously considering all the options. What's it gonna take to bring him down. How much trouble is that going to be?

Dean opened his eyes, turned, and stared calmly at the person sitting on his left.

Gordon Walker.