Chapter 1: A Captive Path I Lead

"Fuck!"

I quickly twisted to look over the seat and through the rear windshield, checking to see if the patrol car had pulled out from behind the giant Biggerson's billboard after I'd just blown past it at well over the speed limit. I couldn't see any movement on the road behind me, but I hurriedly turned to face forward and swerved onto the first side street I came across to be sure, slowing the truck down to a more casual pace. The last thing I needed right now was to be pulled over for what would surely escalate beyond a routine traffic stop, given that I hadn't been sober for days and the cab was full of empty liquor bottles—in addition to its usual less-than-legal arsenal hidden under the raised floor in the truck bed.

I swore again as my abrupt movements tore at the wounds on my torso and shot a sharp lance of pain right through me. It was barely two days since I'd checked myself out AMA from St. Mary's Hospital in Jefferson City, and the injuries inflicted by the demon were still fairly fresh. Thinking of the demon made me remember Dad's expressions that night —the sadistic malice while the demon possessed him, the angry desperation when he'd ordered me to shoot him, and the utter emptiness after the last bit of life had fled.

I grimaced and leaned over to the passenger seat to find something to drown out both the ache and the memories, then cursed for a third time when the last bottle there turned out to only have a mouthful of rotgut left. I blearily sat up and adjusted the wheel to keep the damn truck from veering off to the side, then tried to figure out where I was and more importantly where I could restock on more booze. I vaguely recalled passing through Grand Island not too long ago, which put me somewhere in central Nebraska, but beyond that I had no clue as to my current location.

Before I could get too frustrated, I noticed light from a building off in the distance. Hoping for a gas station or convenience store, I headed in that direction. A few more minutes of driving and a couple of turns later, I pulled up to a building that was reminiscent of an old-fashioned saloon, with its two-story façade, red-painted wood siding, and well-lit sign above the corrugated tin porch roof that read, "Harvelle's Roadhouse." A trio of choppers was lined up near the porch, while a number of pickup trucks and muscle cars, both mostly older models, were scattered throughout the gravel-paved parking lot.

I wasn't so out of it to miss that the trees lining the property were primarily ash, rowan, and yew, that the bushes along the side of the building were a mix of elder, hawthorn, and holly, or that the planters flanking the porch stairs were filled with wolfsbane, trillium, angelica, cinquefoil, and devil's shoestring. As I parked next to the motorcycles, I also noted the dreamcatchers and strings of cats-eye shells hanging from the porch and the edges of a devil's trap peeking from under the mat by the front door. All the visible protections reminded me of Bobby's place, and I suspected that like at the salvage yard, there were even more wards that I couldn't see.

Another agonizing barb when I got out of the cab made me groan, and the wetness seeping down beneath my shirt suggested that a stitch or two had ripped. Hopefully someone here could supply me with directions to the nearest cheap motel as well as enough alcohol to allow me to deal with this mess before it got much worse. I took a deep breath, winced, and then carefully made my way up the porch and through the front door.

Inside, a jukebox to the left of the door was playing the kind of cock rock Dad had loved. The right side of the room was dominated by a large U-shaped wooden bar with vinyl-cushioned stools to seat about ten, and along that wall was a glass-doored refrigerator filled with beer bottles on one side of the bar and a pass-through and door leading to the kitchen on the other. Spread across most of the remaining floor space were several sets of tables and four chairs apiece, and just past the jukebox was an alcove containing a piano and more tables. The back of the room had a dais with a pool table, dartboard, a couple arcade games, the door to the restroom, and a door marked "Employees Only." The wooden furnishings throughout were worn but still in fine shape, and everything looked clean and well-cared for.

The protections in here were even more noticeable than outside—lines of rock salt and iron filings shellacked along every windowsill and door threshold, sigils and wards carved in various places on the walls or painted on the floor, and bunches of dried pennyroyal, rue, vervain, valerian, and yarrow hung from the ceiling. The clientele filling most of the seats was about what I expected—mostly men, mostly alphas, mostly dressed in field jackets, flannel or twill work shirts, jeans, and heavy boots, and all well-armed if you knew where to look. Even the waitress going from table to table, a pretty blonde beta who looked a couple years younger than me, moved like she had self-defense training, wore an anti-possession charm around her neck, and had the hilt of a knife peeking out of a boot.

Spotting an empty stool at the front of the bar, I made a beeline for it, trying to walk as steadily as possible. My state of inebriation or the damage I'd just done to my healing wounds must've been worse than I'd realized though, and the last few steps were more of a stagger. I pretty much collapsed onto the seat and planted my elbows on the counter to prop myself up before looking for someone to flag down for a drink.

I was more than pleasantly surprised when I saw the bartender, who was easily the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Short, spiky dark gold hair, large, long-lashed emerald green eyes, straight, narrow nose, full, sensuous pink lips, smooth, fair skin flecked with cinnamon freckles, all framed by expressive brows, high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline—his face was pure perfection. A faded Metallica t-shirt and torn jeans did little to hide his broad shoulders, strong chest, flat belly, narrow hips, and long legs, and his graceful, controlled movements as he prepared and served drinks seemed almost like dancing. The pièce de résistance was his rich, sweet scent, redolent of apple blossoms, nutmeg, and caramelized sugar, winding through the acrid odors of the various alphas nearby.

"What can I get for you?" he asked when he came over but then did a double-take. "Whoa, you don't look so good there, buddy!"

"I'm fuh—fine. And if I can buy a couple bottles of hu—hunter's helper to go, I'll be even better," I replied, trying not to slur my words too badly.

"Sorry dude, but we're not a liquor store—if you ain't drinking it here, we can't sell you anything harder than beer." The omega eyed me skeptically. "Besides, seems like you've already had more than enough. Maybe you should just sit a while, get someth—"

"I to—told you, I'm fine," I interrupted impatiently. "Just hook me up with a six-pack of . . . uh, El Sol and directions to the nearest place where I can buy some li—liquor, and I'll get ou—out of your hair."

He shook his head. "Listen, we're not gonna let a hunter's kid go out in your fucked-up condition and wrap himself 'round a telephone pole or some shit. You got someone I can call for you? If not, we'll take care of you until you're sober en—"

I shot to my feet, ignoring the stinging pain. "You don't kn—know me, so butt out of my life! I ca—can take care of my own da—damn self!"

I then spun around and headed for the door—or at least that's what I tried to do. I made it no more than a handful of steps before the spinning in my head became overwhelming, and everything went black.

I had no idea where I was when I slowly drifted back to consciousness. The bed I was lying on was an extra-long twin like the one in my dorm room, but the mattress was far more comfortable than the one I'd slept on at Stanford or at any of the crappy motels in the past year, and none of those came with a somewhat worn handmade quilt either. The room wasn't very large, furnished with only a nightstand, small dresser, and a rather beat-up armchair in addition to the bed. Someone had made an attempt to give the room a homey feel with framed photos of rocky landscapes on the walls, lace curtains in the window, a braided rug on the floor, and a bowl of fresh lavender, marigolds, and coneflowers on the dresser.

I took stock of my condition. My head was the clearest it'd been in days, probably since that night. My chest and abdomen were only a little sore and covered in fresh bandages when I looked under the quilt. I also noticed that I was now wearing a pair of old Stanford sweatpants from my duffel bag. An IV inserted into my left arm led to two bags hanging from a metal stand—a larger one of 5% dextrose in lactated Ringer's solution and a smaller, nearly empty one of amoxicillin—while a catheter snaking out from under my sweatpants led to a drainage bag hanging off the side of the bed.

Before I could try to sit up, the door opened, and the gorgeous bartender from earlier, now wearing an AC/DC t-shirt under a green twill work shirt and faded jeans, came in carrying a tray. His eyes widened when he saw I was awake, and he hurried to set the tray down on the nightstand and come to my side.

"Hey, hey, don't try to move on your own yet—let me help you up!" He slid his hands under my shoulders and gently shifted me into a more upright position, adding another pillow to prop me up. "Okay, better now? Dunno how much you remember from the other night, but you're still at the Roadhouse. We got a coupla rooms in the back for hunters who are in bad shape or just need crash space, and we carried you to one of 'em after you passed out. You pulled some stitches and had been bleeding for a while, plus some of your wounds got infected, so we cleaned and fixed you up and have been checking on you ever since."

I coughed to clear my dry throat. "How long?"

"You've been here for 'bout a day and a half since you keeled over. Weren't sure how long you'd be out, and you were also pretty dehydrated and shit from what looks like living on nothing but booze recently, so we put in the IV and catheter," he continued to explain. "I can take all that out if you think you're up to eating and drinking on your own. The name's Dean Harvelle, by the way."

"You must be the owner then. And something to eat and some water would be great," I replied, realizing that I was actually feeling hungry for a change. "I'm Sam Winchester."

"Nah, Dad and Mom run the place—that would be Bill and Ellen Harvelle. Me and my kid sister Jo just help them out how we can—which in this case includes taking care of your oversized unconscious ass. And we figured out who you are after cleaning out your pockets when we had to undress you and then run your clothes through the wash. But it's nice to meet you for real, Sammy." He gave me a pleased smile.

I flinched at the childhood nickname, which had taken me months to convince Dad to stop using after we'd started hunting together again, then quickly covered it up with another cough. "Well, it's uh, good to meet you too, Dean. Thanks for taking care of me, and sorry for being such a bother."

"No problem! You ain't the first guy we've had to scrape off the floor and put back together—kinda comes with the territory. Though you are the hottest patient I've had so far!" His smile widened into a flirtatious grin. "Anyway, let me check you over, since that's why I came in here to begin with, and then I'll see about getting you some lunch."

Dean proceeded to measure my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, then removed the dressings over my wounds, which were neatly re-stitched and no longer enflamed, to examine them before deciding that they no longer needed to be bandaged and then applying what I presumed to be an antibiotic cream over them. He also removed the IV and catheter and piled all the used medical supplies onto the tray. He kept his touch and demeanor fairly clinical until he was done, when he gave me a fairly heated glance through his long lashes before leaving with the tray and promising to be back in a few minutes.

He returned shortly bearing another tray, this one laden with a steaming bowl of soup, bag of chips, and cold bottle of soda, as well as a small plastic cup with two oral antibiotic pills. "Here you go! Soup's been simmering for a coupla hours now, and it's best we start you off with that instead of something heavy, since it's been a while since you've eaten properly. I'll get outta your hair for a bit to let you eat in peace, so just holler when you're done." He set the tray down on my lap and started to back away.

"Please stay—I could use the company," I requested. "If you're not busy, that is."

He smiled again and sprawled in the armchair. "No problem, kiddo! Lemme do the talking though, and you concentrate on finishing that soup while it's still hot."

He proceeded to ramble on, telling amusing anecdotes about some of the bar's regulars, most of whom were hunters but included a few locals as well. I meanwhile focused on my meal as instructed. The soup was clearly homemade, swimming with chunks of chicken breast, shredded carrots, diced onions and celery, minced garlic, orzo pasta, and various herbs in a flavorful broth. I'd apparently graduated from hungry to ravenous, and it took effort to not inhale everything too quickly and make myself sick.

Once I'd eaten enough to no longer be thinking solely with my stomach, I shifted some of my attention to my companion. I was positive that we'd never met before—there was no way I would've forgotten someone who looked like that—yet there was something familiar about his appearance, as if he reminded me of someone. More than that, I couldn't recall ever feeling so comfortable around someone so quickly.

"Oh man, I needed that!" I exclaimed after dropping the spoon into the empty bowl, resolving to keep my reaction to myself for the moment. "My compliments to the cook!"

Dean shrugged modestly. "Well, thanks! Mom and I take turns manning the kitchen most nights, but she's been trying to convince me to take over—says the customers always like my cooking better. I like working the bar too though, so I'm still splitting my time between 'em. Anyways, let's see if we can get you up and over to the bathroom, 'cause you could really use a shower!"

He moved the tray to the nightstand and helped me maneuver myself out of the bed. Once standing, I discovered I was feeling unexpectedly good, with only a little weakness and light-headedness. I also noticed that he was pretty tall for an omega, maybe only four or five inches shorter than me, and that his scent was even more intoxicating this close. He drew one of my arms over his shoulders to let me lean on him as he led me out of the bedroom, and I had to suppress the urge to bend down further and bury my nose in the nape of his neck.

Out in the short hallway, there were three other doors on the same side as my room, two closed ones which I guessed were for other guest rooms and one open one near the junction with another corridor. Across from me were two other open doors, one to an infirmary complete with exam table, monitoring equipment, and cabinets of drugs and medical supplies and the other to a library lined in bookshelves and outfitted with a couple of tables and a computer station. The hall ended in a window looking out onto the rear of the property, which was edged with more ash and rowan trees.

"Wow, you've got a much bigger setup here than I expected!" I commented as he steered me toward the open door closest to the other hallway.

"Originally this place was just the bar and kitchen up front and the office, a coupla storerooms, and shit like that in back. We built this addition when I was about sixteen, after Dad finally agreed to quit hunting. This was our way to keep giving back to the community, and in my not so humble opinion, it's ended up doing more good in the long run than the cases he might've taken," he explained, before turning us into the open doorway near the end of the hall, which was a white-tiled bathroom that held a console sink, toilet, tub-shower combo, and a rack of shelves piled with towels, washcloths, spare toilet paper, and a selection of various toiletries.

At this point, my pride decided that I was steady enough to not need help getting cleaned up, even though my awakening libido had other ideas, so he left me to my privacy. The shower was amazing after so many days of neglect, and when I climbed out I found Dean had brought me a clean set of sweatpants, t-shirt, boxers, and socks. After dressing, brushing my teeth, shaving off over a week's worth of scruff, and fixing the mess my hair had become, I felt the closest to normal in quite a while.

I left the bathroom and headed in the direction of faint voices toward the front of the building, which led me past the previously mentioned office and storerooms, as well as two other rooms with signs on their doors for "Dean Cave" and "Dr. Badass is IN" respectively. I soon found myself back in the bar, where Dean was talking to an older beta couple. The man had short blond hair shot with silver, grey eyes, and the bearing of a hunter, the woman long bronze hair, brown eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude, and both looked to be in their late forties or early fifties. Judging by the warm, easy manner between them and Dean, I assumed that these were his parents, despite the lack of any physical resemblance.

"Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes! C'mere and sit down, sweetie. You shouldn't be on your feet for too long, considering the shape you were in when you got here," the woman scolded, gesturing to one of the barstools.

"Better listen to her, dude, or she might take you over her knee, Sasquatch or not," Dean warned with a smile. "In case you hadn't figured it out already, this is my mom Ellen, and this is my dad Bill."

Bill waited until I took a seat on the stool before extending a hand. "It's good to see you up and about, son. How are you feeling?"

I gave him a firm handshake and a grateful look. "A lot better than before, sir. I want to thank you and your family for everything that you've done. I . . . I'm not used to getting so much kindness from strangers."

"We take care of our own here at the Roadhouse. And your thanks should really go to Dean and Jo, who did most of the work. Though Dean does of course have his ulterior motives for wanting to nurse you back to health." He nodded toward his son, who grinned back unrepentantly.

"Speaking of taking care of you, is there someone we should call for you? A boy your age shouldn't be off hunting alone! So where's your daddy?" Ellen didn't seem impressed with whoever should've been watching out for me.

"My dad . . . died a few days ago, in the same hunt that gave me these." I gestured at my chest, then paused for a moment in surprise. Talking about Dad still hurt, but the grief and guilt weren't as overwhelming as before. "Did you know him?"

"Oh honey, we're so sorry!" She reached out and laid a hand on my arm. "We mostly knew John Winchester by reputation, from the stories the others told about him. He'd stopped by the Roadhouse once or twice a long time ago, back when I was pregnant with Jo, but he kept to himself and then stopped coming around for whatever reason."

"Closest we ever got to really interacting with him was around eleven years ago, when I caught a case about a hellspawn taking kids out by Devil's Gate Reservoir in California. I contacted John for assistance since he was known to specialize in demons, but he ended up backing out on me. I was able to get Bobby Singer and Pastor Jim Murphy to help me out instead, and good thing too, because that creature nearly did a number on the three of us. If it had just been your father and me like I'd originally planned, I don't think both of us would've walked away from that fight. As it was, that case put enough of the fear of God into me to finally realize that hunting wasn't worth the risk anymore, not when I had a family who needed me," Bill explained.

I groaned at the mention of the other hunters. "Crap! I really should call Bobby—he's probably freaking out with worry! Uh, could I borrow a phone? I . . . um, threw mine away a few days ago so he couldn't find me."

Dean pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and scrolled through his contacts, then handed it to me. "Here, use mine."

The phone rang about five times before Bobby picked up and immediately barked, "Dean, is that you? I was just about to call your folks. Listen, have you—"

"Hey Bobby. It's me, Sam," I interrupted nervously. "I . . . uh, wound up here at the Roadhouse a couple nights ago, and—"

"You goddamn idjit!"