Woo! More love! Lol. And for all you wondering readers, I haven't decided on an official name for the creature, but it's a demon… of a sort. I kinda made it up in my mind. Thanks to KlownKid-131 for some ideas! Anybody is welcome to send in their own stuff, I'll happily try and integrate them into my fic!

Anyway… here goes nothing…

Rescue Me

Chapter II

"He's a little taller than me, shaggy, light brown hair… any of this ringing a bell?"

"No, sorry."

Dean cursed, thanked the man, and trudged on. Sam had gone into town to interview the locals earlier, and that's when suddenly vanished. Dean figured that if he could find somebody who had seen his brother, he could figure out where exactly the twenty-two year old went. Of course nobody could tell him anything, and it depressed him quite a bit. So much that he thought it was time to call his father.

Dialing John Winchester's cell phone number, he felt hot tears rush to his eyes and he immediately darted into a small alley. He got that stupid voicemail again, and it took a moment before he began to speak into the cell.

"Dad? Dad, it's me. Look, I know you don't want to be found, but Sam's gone missing. Something has him hostage, and he's being tortured as I speak. I need your help. I've hit a dead end and—" Dean had to pause as he swallowed hard, trying not to bawl like a two-year-old. "And I really, really need you," hot tears began to run down his cheeks, and he had to keep swiping them away, for fear, of being seen. "If, and when, you get this message, call me, text me, anything. Just, please, Dad. It's important."

Shutting the phone he jammed it back in his pocket. He rubbed his eyes hard with his palms, trying to drive away the tears that just kept coming. He drew in a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. He needed a beer.

Dean meandered into a bar in search of an alcoholic beverage of some kind. It was only noon, but hey… it was five o'clock somewhere, right? It was good enough for Dean, so he ordered a beer and hustled some pool. After making a good hundred bucks, he wandered out of the bar a slightly happier man. Grinning to himself, he began counting the tens and twenties on the way to the Impala. He wasn't exactly watching where he was going, and walked smack into an older man. They clocked heads, and Dean let out a curse in frustration and pain. When he looked up, the man was staring at him. Dean found this creepy.

"Um. Sorry…?"

"You're looking for your brother, yes?"

Dean paused a moment, having to think about his answer; the hit on the head must've knocked his brain around, or something. Finally grasping what he was being asked, he nodded, "Yeah, have you seen him?"

"I spoke with yesterday morning," the old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it up, he took a long drag, and puffed the smoke out in Dean's general direction. The hunter coughed and attempted to wait patiently for the next sentence. It was difficult.

"He was wondering about the disappearances," another drag on the cigarette. "Asked if I had seen anything," another puff in Dean's face.

Waving his hand in front of his face to blow away the smoke, he raised a curious eyebrow, "And…? Have you?"

"Of course I have!" The old man shouted so loud that Dean stumbled back a few steps, "I see everything that goes on in this town!"

The old man proceeded to tell Dean that his name was Norman Blaine, the town's "psychic". More like psycho Dean wanted to say, but resisted; he knew that there really were psychics out there, and he figured that this man might be one of them. Who knew? So, just in case this man wasn't really crazy, Dean followed him back to his house, which smelled terribly of cat urine and burnt noodles. It made Dean wonder what in the world this man was doing. It made him keep his hand behind his back, gripped tightly on the handle of his trusty Colt .45 pistol. It also made him wonder why he was even there.

To find Sam.

He had to find Sam.

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Sam groaned; his shoulder ached, his chest burned, his head throbbed, and he was cold. Curled up on the floor in the basement-like room, he tried to calm himself to the point where he could think. His wrist chained him to the pipe again, and he was way too weak to even try to get out. He thought about giving up. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It was leaking. Water dripped down from the smelly cement ceiling and created a puddle in the center of the room. He glanced over towards the doorway, and noticed that there was a tray several feet away with a sandwich and a glass of water on it. His stomach growled; he hadn't eaten all day. Pulling himself from his laying position, he slowly inched over towards the tray. He reached out a shaky hand, but the food was just out of his reach. He stretched as far as the chain would allow him and even tried to get at it with his foot. Nothing. He was going to starve. This thing was going to kill him slowly, and then eat him. Or worse, it would start chowing down while Sam was still alive. That could be painful. He whined softly and fell back onto the floor with a soft thud. Sliding up against the wall, he pulled his tattered shirt away from his chest and shoulder wounds, and examined them. His shoulder was still dripping blood, so he tore off some of his shirt and tied it around the gash as tight as he could. The burn on his chest was extremely tender, and it hurt to even breathe. He took another chunk of his shirt and pressed it down on the burn. That hurt. A lot.

He drew in a deep breath and leaned his head back against the cement. He had just closed his eyes in an attempt to relax when the door creaked open again, and the demon limped in. It was holding something in its hand, and for a second, Sam thought it was going to stab him again. But, alas, it was just a small bag. It wandered over to Sam, and ripped open the bag. Pulling Sam's shirt away from both of his wounds, it took some of the bag's contents and rubbed it first on the burn, and then into his shoulder wound.

It was salt.

Sam let out a scream of pain, and grabbed the demon's wrist, trying to pry it away. It ripped from Sam's grip and backhanded him across the face. Gripping Sam's throat, it lifted him from the ground and held him against the wall with one hand.

"I figure that since you're going to die here, Sam Winchester, you may as well know my name," he, once again, spat as he spoke. "I am called Sazglur."

If Sam could have breathed, he probably would have laughed himself unconscious. Instead, he snorted and coughed in a mock-laugh manner. What kind of name was that? He cracked a smile on his face, but immediately regretted it.

"You think that's funny?" Sazglur tightened his grip and Sam choked again. Still holding onto the Winchester boy, he unlocked the chain and dragged Sam out of the room. The place looked like an old, abandoned warehouse that hadn't had any real life in it for decades… well, except for the unfortunate souls who had been kidnapped. He didn't have a lot of time to look around, considering as how he was still being strangled and pulled through the warehouse, but he did manage to note several rotting skeletons around. The smell of rotting and burning flesh still lurked around, and he was pretty sure he would've puked if he could even breathe. Before he knew it, Sam was thrown back into that same torture room he was in earlier. Scampering back across the floor, he tried his hardest to get away from the demon. He stood as quickly as he could, but soon found himself pressed up against the corner, Sazglur advancing quickly.

Sam's eyes shifted quickly to the coal stove across the room, and ran towards it. He wasn't quite sure how he had found the strength to keep going. He guessed it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and went with it. He snagged the hot poker from the flames and swung it as hard as he could, just as the creature came at him. It contacted with Sazglur's head, sparks flying everywhere. The beast fell hard to the ground, and Sam took off in a sprint. He stopped only to grab his bag before he took off out of the door. He darted through the warehouse, trying to grasp his bearings. The pain started to return, and he lost all feeling in his left leg. It gave out, and Sam tumbled to the floor, smacking his head on the cement once again. He managed to pull himself to his feet, only to find that blood had begun gushing from his forehead. Groaning, he examined the small puddle of blood on the floor, and what was dripping down onto the rest of his face. He heard footsteps behind him, and whipped around quickly. Sazglur had recovered and was out for vengeance.

Sam spun back around, snagged his stuff, and took off down the hall again. He rounded a corner, almost falling over from his speed combined with his off equilibrium. There was a door at the end of the hallway, which he flung open when he reached it. Slamming the door behind him, he looked around for something to put in front of it. Gripping onto a desk, he shoved it in front of the door. He knew full well that it wouldn't hold the creature, but it would keep him at bay for a little bit, until he figured out what he was going to do. Taking a deep breath, he limped over to the shelves that stood against the far wall. He started pulling things off, trying to find something to work with. There wasn't much, but he did find an old lead pipe. Hey, it worked in Clue, right? Yeah… right…

He slid back over to the door and stood along side it, careful not to look out through the small opening. Footsteps came closer, and Sam instinctively compressed himself against the cold wall. It gave him goose bumps across his bare back and chest. The footsteps stopped just outside, and Sam listened closely.

"I know you're in there, hunter," Sazglur spat. "You can't hide forever." He turned the knob and shoved the door as hard as he could.

Just as Sam had anticipated, the desk flew across the room and slammed into the shelves, knocking everything off. The door slammed into the wall and fell partially off its hinges. The demon entered and took a glance around the room, hoping that he had gotten Sam with the desk. No suck luck. Just as it turned around, Sam swung the pipe. This time, it caught it with one hand, and grabbed Sam's throat with the other.

"You're dead, hunter."

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Dean stared blankly at Norman. Was this guy for real? He had taken Dean into what appeared to be the kitchen of his house, where he had some sort of crystal ball set up on the table. Raising an eyebrow, the twenty-six year old began to have his doubts about the man. But he did claim to have seen Sam… or was that just another hallucination? He was surprised when the man kept walking through he house, completely ignoring the ball. Apparently, this was just for show. He shook his head and followed Norman into the back of the house.

In the den, the walls were papered with news articles about every disappearance ever recorded in the small town in Pennsylvania. It was rather awkward, but it reminded him of the motel room he had found with all of his father's things.

"Every ten years," Norman spoke out of nowhere.

"What?" Dean turned from the article he had been reading.

"Every ten years or so, people start disappearing," Norman repeated. "It happens for a couple of weeks, and then stops."

Dean nodded slowly and skimmed a couple more articles. This man had to be a hundred years old, "So, do you have any theories as to what's doing it?"

"Theories?" Norman shouted at the top of his lungs. It startled Dean so much, that he tripped over himself, and fell over onto the floor.

"I've seen the thing! In fact! I've got pictures!"

Dean stood and dusted himself off. Elated, he clambered over to the man, "Do you really? Can I see them?"

Norman thwacked Dean over the head with two fingers, "Don't be daft, of course." He opened a desk drawer as Dean rubbed his head and pulled out a folder, "Some of them are drawings."

Dean opened the folder. The first picture he saw looked like it was sketched by a two-year-old schizophrenic child. Scribbles covered the page, and there was a small black blob in the middle of the page. Norman snagged it away embarrassed, "Sorry." He grinned sheepishly. Dean brushed it off and continued looking through the pictures. The first several were of an arm, or a leg, or a foot, all of which were very blurry. But after he got a little deeper into the stack, he found a few that held some sort of being. It was from afar, and mostly obscured by bushes, or the occasional finger. Near the end of the stack was a very detailed sketch of a demon-like creature. It had blades for fingers, and knives for teeth. It looked like a burnt, anorexic Freddie Krueger.

"Can I hold onto this?"

"Yeah, yeah… sure! If it'll help!"

Dean nodded, "Where did you see this thing anyway?"

Norman wrote down some directions, "Here, follow these. It leads out of town, and into the woods. I think it's out there."

"Thanks again." Dean took off out of the house, and practically dove into his Impala, "Hold on Sammy boy, Dean's comin'."

So? So? Wha'd you think! Next chapter (and quite possibly the conclusion!) on its way!