AN: I have a confession: I don't like this chapter much at all. The funny moments from the beginning half wouldn't come, it doesn't flow well and the two halves don't tie in well. I am NOT fishing for compliments, just apologizing for an effort that isn't my best. But I'm honestly already behind, so I'm going to get it out there and start on today's prompt, which hopefully comes out better.

This takes place in season 6, after Sam has his soul back but before the brothers find out what Cas has been up to with Crowley. The prompt options were: Forced Mutism / Blindfolded / Sensory Deprivation.

Shaza19: I missed mentioning you last time – I'm sorry! I love that you have cats that are 20 and 21! My Oscar lived to 23. Actually, my huge Ozzie is sort of named after Oscar. And I love one of the boys watching over the other in the hospital.

Lena: When I saw that one way to say chemist was kimikari, I knew I had to use it as a name. And I wanted Dean to overhear some of the stuff Sam was saying about him – goodness knows he needs to hear it sometimes!

Kathy: I'm seeing your reviews! It seems like they take a day or two, but I see them! Glad you like the nereids.

sylvia37: Oh how I would love to have a way to get good sleep! I am a chronic insomniac, sadly. I'm so glad you liked the chapter with the terror demon.

Black Fungus: Thank you!! I love that you have a 20 lb. cat. My fur boys are 23 lbs, 18 lbs, and 9 lbs. And the smallest one bullies the biggest all the time. It was fun to put cats in a story. And yeah, can you imagine Sam frantically searching for an answer and recruiting a teenager to help?

Jenjoremy: I have to give the boys a bit of lighthearted fun here and there, because I'm so mean to them. I love your silly demon comment! Obviously, she hasn't been reading the demon newspapers, because she should really know better. I love Gwen too, and Jake as well. I get very attached to my OCs! Now I want to bring Jake back…hmmm… Oh, and I changed my profile pic to one with Oz the Great and Terrible in it. If you can see the smaller cat on the arm of the couch, that is Finley, and he's a "paltry" 18 lbs.

JaniceC678: I'm so glad you're reading these! Chapter 8 is one of my favs. Thanks for your words about chapter 9, too. I find Cas harder to write than Sam or Dean, so I'm thrilled that it worked for you. Thanks for your kind words.

Jesse Daley was a decent hunter, but a really lousy baby-sitter. He was forty-something but still carried the physique that had allowed him to play linebacker in college, and both his size and speed would have been assets against the werewolves. But since he was rehabbing a busted ankle, he was the one stuck watching Thing One and Thing Two. He eyed the boys, ages five and nine, for a few minutes, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with them in the barely standing old house that was the hunters' base of operations. There was a minimum of furniture, but at least there was a decent couch and a tiny TV someone had brought along.

"They're fed and watered. Keep 'em inside and if you have any questions, just ask Dean," had been the extent of John's instructions. Jesse would have been more comfortable fighting the werewolves with nothing but a pair of boxer shorts than watching children, but he couldn't keep up with the rest of the hunting party, so he wasn't given a choice.

Dean cast Jesse more than a few suspicious looks even as he read a book to his brother, but neither boy seemed inclined to run outdoors or otherwise act crazy. So finally, with a shrug, Jesse tossed the remote onto the table. "I'm going to sit outside and smoke. There's ice cream in the freezer if you get hungry. Sleep if you wanna, watch TV if you wanna. Just don't leave."

"Can we go upstairs?" asked Dean cautiously. He had a feeling that Dad wouldn't have let them anywhere near the rickety steps.

Jesse considered. The boys couldn't weigh much, right? "Sure."

The boys thought it was fabulous. They finished every bite of the ice cream before Jesse had finished his first cigarette.

Dad would leave them for short stretches, but he laid out every rule, every time, having learned quickly how good his boys were at finding loopholes. Jesse was completely outclassed.

So when the naga came and crushed Jesse to death as he smoked out on the porch, the boys were playing "the floor is lava" instead of sleeping, and that probably saved their lives.

Nagas were rare but extremely dangerous supernatural creatures. They could appear as mostly human on the top half and a heavy snake tail as the bottom half or their hunting form – a giant, hooded snake with an eyeless human face and venomous fangs that hung well below the bottom of the jaw. They lived in nests and humans were their favorite prey.

Nagas were blind, but it didn't hinder their hunting very much. They could follow a scent, but their main tool was their hearing.

Jesse and his hunting buddies had almost literally stumbled on a nest of nagas the week before. And when Jesse broke his ankle, they'd committed the cardinal sin of leaving one alive. Finding Jesse alone and wanting revenge, it had bitten him, carefully injecting only enough venom to paralyze rather than kill, then slowly suffocated him with its muscular tail. It didn't eat him, as it had more hunting to do and such a huge meal would have made it slow and vulnerable. It was ready to track the next hunter who'd attacked its nest when it heard the irresistible patter of small hearts.

To nagas, humans were the best food. And children were delicacies. In its normal form, the naga might have been rational enough to focus on continuing its revenge. But in its hunting form, its instincts were more primal, more prominent. Venom dripped from its fangs in reaction, and it smashed the door into toothpicks and slid into the old house.

As soon as his boys were old enough to understand, John had started a game with them. Randomly, he'd yell, "Dean, drop!" or "Sam, freeze!" and they would be praised for quick compliance. And they'd already learned that ignoring the "game" was not an option. Dean knew why it was so important, but Sam did not.

So when a monster burst into the ancient house the boys were in, Dean yelled, "Sammy, drop and freeze!" from his perch atop the table, which he'd slid into the living room so he could "sail" it across the "lava." Sam was up on the landing at the top of the stairs because they'd decided that was the crow's nest. From his perch, Sam could see Dean, but not the monster sliding along the floor. But he'd reacted to Dean's words instinctively. As he stared, frightened, at his brother, who was also prone, Dean lifted a single finger slowly to his lips.

The naga, hinging and unhinging its jaw, twined its body around one of the legs of the table. It could hear one of the prey it sought very nearby, but the scent was blocked by something. It wound its way up until the top of its head touched the underside of the table. The beating heart was so close, the fear palpable in its rapid tripping. The naga let out of soft, involuntary hissssss, almost able to taste the child.

It moved impatiently, but still carefully, checking one leg after the other. The fourth table leg was a bit wobbly, and the naga's head touched the very edge of the table instead of the underside. Its head rose higher and higher, until any breath Dean expelled would literally be in the monster's face.

Then there was a soft, shuffling sound from the other side of the room. Faster than a blind creature should have been able to move, the naga was at the base of the stairs. It could hear the second, faster heartbeat better now. Finding the stairs, it eased its heavy head onto the first step.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

When Dean was staring at those fangs, he had been more afraid than he'd been since his house burst into flames. But seeing it stalk his brother was worse. Lying down, Sammy couldn't even see the danger coming. Dean began a silent mantra to the stairs. Please break, please break, please break. This was interspersed with equally silent cries to their Dad. Please come back. Please come back. Please come back.

It move another step up. And another. And another. Dad wasn't going to be back in time. Jesse was either dead or he'd run away. The only thing Dean could do was jump off the table and run out the door to lead that thing away from Sammy. But when – if – it caught him, it would probably come back for his baby brother.

Dean blinked rapidly, overwhelmed with the weight of the moment. Maybe he could run for the gun in the kitchen. He'd left it there, like an idiot, thinking with a hunter guarding the door and everything salted and warded, they'd be safe. Maybe he could run for the gun and shoot the thing before it ate him or whatever snake monsters did to people. Of course, Dad had warned him that a lot of monsters couldn't be killed with bullets. But what choice did he have? Evil snake man was halfway up the stairs now. Dean's eyes met Sam's.

A flush of pride went through Dean. Sammy could hear that something was climbing the creaky stairs, and it had to be terrifying. Dean was almost twice as old, and he'd been really scared when he thought it would get on top of the table with him.

But Sam wasn't moving or making any noise. Instead, he was staring at Dean and waiting for instructions. Tell me what to do, his eyes pleaded silently. Dean glanced at the kitchen door, then back again twice.

I'm going to run that way.

A single tear slid down Sammy's face, his expression begging Dean not to do it. Dean could practically hear Sammy begging him not to go, but he didn't know what else to do. Then he saw something. The baluster next to Sam's elbow was leaning, barely attached to the top railing or the floor. One good push should knock it to the floor. Hopefully that noise would distract their predator.

Dean deliberately lowered his gaze to his own elbow, then made a tiny shoving motion with the appendage, careful not to make noise. He looked back at his brother, catching Sam's eyes, then looking at the baluster. He looked back at Sam, willing his brother to understand, to ignore the sound of the monster hunting him just three steps from the top now.

Sam's brow furrowed, which Dean always thought made him look like a little old man. He looked at the post, then lifted his elbow minutely. Looking back at Dean, he raised an eyebrow in question. Dean barely nodded. Then he lifted one finger. Two fingers. Three fingers.

The volume of the crash startled both the boys, as the railing remained stubbornly attached to the post and dragged two more posts down with it. The naga had raised its head and the top third of its body, and it slammed down in surprise at the crashing. The sagging stairs whined and broke, and the heavy snake smashed to the floor with broken wood raining down around it.

Then it was angry. It reared up to almost its full height, the top of its hood nearly six feet up and its jaw unhinged so its mouth gaped. Dean realized that it could swallow him entirely if it so chose.

But then Dad was somehow between Dean and the monster and the snake's head was cut off before Dean could blink. And Dad was big and brave and possibly a super hero. The other guys dragged it away, and Dad was so tall Sammy could hop right down to him. Sammy who, to Dean's relief, had never seen the nightmare inducing face of the naga, thought it was only "a snake as big as a house, Dad!"

And though the boys didn't know it until they read Dad's journal many years later, John had systematically tracked and hunted every hint of nagas he heard about from then on, holding a personal grudge against the whole species because one had tried to eat his children.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam hadn't thought about nagas in years. Oddly, the encounter hadn't especially frightened him, probably because he couldn't really see what was going on. He had a very good reason for thinking of them now.

Three days after a meteor strike nearby, nearly two dozen people had gone missing from a small Minnesota town, apparently at random. There was no evidence at the scenes, and people who'd been sleeping in the houses, even the same beds as those taken had heard and seen nothing. And there had been some random violence in the area. There was an entire family who were apparently…turned inside out, including their rottweiler. And a thankfully empty restaurant burned so hot that the appliances inside melted. And a wind with no meteorological explanation sprang up and tossed three cars off a bridge, then died down again.

Sam and Dean were on their way when Cas appeared, rumpled and stressed and in a hurry, as he always seemed to be lately. After Dean nearly crashed the car from the angel's appearance, their friend filled them in. "I know who is causing the disturbances. It is an angel named Damael."

"An angel. Great." Dean was not pleased. "He with you or Raphie?"

"Neither. He is insane. He was…never right, but was thought to be harmless. He's been wandering the galaxy for over a thousand years, mostly drawing pictures in the dirt on planets many, many light years from here. Nobody knows why he is on Earth now, and in a vessel for the first time, but perhaps rumors of the civil war reached even him. In any case, he is completely unpredictable, so you must use caution." He handed over an angel blade. "I do not have time to assist you."

That fast, he was gone. "Great. We're cleaning up Heaven's mess." Dean scowled, but pulled back onto the two-lane highway. People were still dying.

It was Sam who'd figured out the pattern of disappearances after Cas' information. Everyone who had been taken had a first name found in the Bible. "Take this family," he was explaining. "Dad James, son Elijah, and daughter Elizabeth are missing. Mom Susan and daughter Kara are not."

"I don't know how that's helpful," Dean had grumbled. Angels appearing in his car always made him crabby. Except you sound like this Damael's type, Samuel."

They'd tracked the people easily enough. They were all on a large farmstead belonging to the Gilead family. "Gilead means hill of witness in Hebrew," Sam reported. "If this Damael takes everything literally, it makes sense for him to bring people there."

So the triumphant rescuers had walked right in, and discovered that nobody wanted to be rescued. In a remarkably short time, the rogue angel had created his own cult, and those who disagreed were buried along the wheat field behind the house. By the time Sam and Dean had discovered this, they had been cut by a blade that had been dipped in naga poison, just enough to cause paralysis and nearly complete sensory deprivation.

And that was why Sam was thinking about nagas. He couldn't yet feel his body, but he could start to see his surroundings. He was seated, legs stretched out in front of him, with Dean slumped across from him. Sam couldn't turn his head or call out to Dean, so for all he knew, Dean was also conscious but unable to move.

"…coming soon?...pleased…sacrifices…"

Words started trickling in at an uneven rate. The cultists were chatting, but Sam could only make out the odd word here and there. He really didn't like the implications of that last word. He swiveled his eyes, trying to make out more of his surroundings. If his hearing were returning, hopefully his sight was getting better too. Sure enough, he could make out that they were in an aging barn, and Dean seemed to be tied to some kind of rusted, curved metal spike that was attached to a heavy frame above his head. Sam squinted. The curved spikes hung down in neat rows from the implement, and his brain supplied the name: chisel plow. It was one of those facts that Dean would mock him for knowing, and all he wanted was for them to wake up enough for that mockery to happen.

There. He would swear Dean was looking at him. Feeling like he was pushing a thousand-pound weight, Sam managed to life his eyebrows. He wanted confirmation from Dean, who gave one, deliberate blink. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Sam knew that code.

The voices moved closer, and both men stopped looking around at their surroundings. They couldn't move, but didn't want to give any sign of awareness yet. A woman's voice rose above the rest. "It's not a proper sacrifice until they're awake. Do you want to dishonor Jii Do Ra? We can do the full ritual this time."

"He will be pleased!" cried a younger voice, a teenage boy, maybe.

Sam gave the world's tiniest eye roll at their theatrics, and Dean smirked back with only his eyes. Sam ignored the cultists when he realized that he could feel the cold floor through his jeans. Feel. Then a foot nudged his boot…Dean was apparently able to move his foot. Though their situation still sucked, Sam felt almost like smiling. People (and monsters, cosmic beings, etc.) often underestimated them, and these psychotic angel worshipers were soon going to learn why that was such a bad idea.

Time moved oddly when you couldn't move or feel much, and the next hour or so was an exercise in patience and frustration as sensation dribbled in. He was cold, his hands noticeably swollen under the coarse ropes binding them. It felt like he was tied to another post of the chisel plow. The metal was rough, so he began to drag his wrists up and down the post as quietly and subtly as he could. His muscles still felt heavy and weak, and the time in the awkward, hunched position wasn't doing him any favors.

The cultists were complete morons, and openly discussed their plans as they wandered in and out of the barn. Apparently, they intended to bleed the Winchesters, then burn them alive in hopes that their leader would "show them his radiance" again. He must have let his grace show at some point, leading to this twisted form of worship. It was also growing clear that they weren't in their right minds.

At one point, a blonde in her thirties crouched next to Sam and lifted his head by the chin, studying him with a frown on her face. It was easy to keep his muscles lax; it was what they wanted to do anyway. She dropped his head and did the same thing to Dean, apparently getting impatient. "What did Hal say about this stuff?" she asked someone Sam couldn't see.

"He had all kinds of things that I didn't think existed. He said it was, uh, naga poison and it would paralyze them for a while."

"How long is a while?" Her voice rose.

"I don't know. And I can't ask him because he tried to leave, remember?"

Their voices faded.

Dean nudged Sam's foot again, and Sam remembered the other part of the night the naga had attacked. Without exchanging a single word, the brothers had communicated and executed a plan. Now adults with years of experience hunting together, it would be even easier.

By the time Sam had his hands free, he and Dean had worked out a plan. Dean, who was also free, would pull his knife and go after the small group watching the main door of the barn – the only people in sight. Sam would run the other way and get their weapons, specifically the angel blade. He had a diversion planned out, too. And though the details were too complex to explain with only expressions, he'd sent Dean a hint of smile that said you'll like it. Dean had lifted his eyebrows, intrigued.

The plan was to force Damael, or Jii Do Ra, or whatever, to show himself, then take him out. Simple? Sure. But planning was only so effective against such an overpowered opponent. It would just come down to being able to catch him by surprise and negating his natural advantages.

Sam worked on tensing, then relaxing every muscle group he could, trying to counteract the effects of the venom, the cold, and the stiffness of sitting still so long. Two of the people holding them captive sort of drifted their direction, and Dean glanced at Sam, then burst to his feet. Sam jumped up less gracefully, heading for the pile of supplies. As he went, he kicked the wooden chocks out from behind the tires of every farm implement he passed. As was typical, the barn floor tilted just slightly toward the door, so the chisel plow, planter, and manure spreader all began to roll slowly toward the fight that Dean had started.

Reaching their weapons, Sam scooped up their guns, Ruby's knife, and the angel blade. Then, seeing Dean had the fight well in hand, Sam took a second to start the closest tractor and pop it into gear. It proved powerful enough to drive right through the wall.

The cultists were ordinary people, not fighters, and even though the rest of them ran to join the melee, Sam and Dean soon had them all sitting on the ground, cowed. "Call your boss," Dean growled.

"I hope he destroys you," said a middle-aged man with a goatee. He spoke almost reverently.

Suddenly, a model-pretty man with deep black hair stood next to Dean. There was something off about his expression, and his eyes were too distant, too blank.

"What did you do to these people?" Dean demanded, fearless. "They walked away from their families, and now they're doing sacrifices and killing each other."

"Jii Do Ra," he said distantly.

"Jii Do Ra," repeated all of his acolytes.

"Yeah, that. That's creepy, and you need to let them go."

The angel studied Dean like he was some strange insect. Sam came up behind him, weapon drawn. "Look out!" screamed an Asian man who had fought the hardest.

The angel spun around and struck Sam in the sternum, sending him to the ground. But Sam had been a feint, and before Damael could do anything else, the angel blade protruded from his chest. Sam covered his eyes as the angel's grace blasted out of him with his death.

Dean reached for Sam and pulled him to his feet. Behind him the cultists were wailing, some of them clinging to each other, one facedown on the ground.

"You good?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Muscles feel slow and stiff, but I'm not hurt. You?"

"Same." Dean looked at the fifteen people left. "What do we do with them?"

"I think we better get out of here and let the police sort it out from here. They'll probably attribute it to drugs or something." Sam sighed, and saw the dissatisfaction he felt reflected in Dean's eyes. Too many people were dead, and there would be literal and emotional fallout for those left, though it seemed they weren't acting of their own volition.

"I agree. But I can help them."

Sam and Dean both jumped at Cas' voice.

"Geez, Cas. Warn a guy," said Dean, who hated to be startled. "Nice of you to show up after the dirty work's done."

The angel didn't answer for a moment, looking down at Damael's body. The rogue angel's wings were clearly delineated on the grass. "I came as soon as I was able, hoping to help, but you had already completed the…task." He looked back at the people cowering on the ground. "His madness seems to have infected them. I do not have much time, but I can help them find their way back, at least somewhat. It is not perfect."

"Hunts hardly ever have a perfect ending." Dean unbent enough to offer a little wisdom, and Sam thought it was because of the weight Cas was visibly carrying.

"Hey, Cas, he kept saying Jii Do Ra. What does that mean?"

Cas' burden seemed to grow exponentially heavier. His eyes were still on the body at his feet. "I means, I don't understand." He lifted his exhausted gaze to the Winchesters. "You two should go, since they will remember you killing Damael."

Sam almost felt like they should apologize, but it had been Cas who had told them who they were up against. He knew they'd have to kill the other angel. So he just clapped Cas on the shoulder before turning to go. After a second, Dean did the same.

The half mile walk back to the car finally cleared the rest of the fog for Sam, finally allowed him to stretch his aching muscles. They walked in thoughtful silence, hardly speaking as they drank a bunch of water and cleaned and wrapped each other's abused wrists. Dean had already turned the nose of the Impala back toward Lebanon before he spoke.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's find something to kill that isn't related to any of our friends."