All right. A couple of reviews. It's a good start, and I really hope that everyone enjoys the sequel.
"Please, no," the girl muttered as he drew closer, a sly smirk plastered across his face as the knife gleamed in the light thrown by the lamps. Metallica blared from the CD player he'd swiped from one of his victim's houses. This girl would soon be added to the list. He'd take her money just as he'd taken her virginity, and would take her life.
All in all, it had been a good day. He'd met Ellen at the town's small café that morning, had charmed her, and gotten her into the motel room. They'd had fun, lots of it, even when the spoilsport in the next room over had banged on the wall and yelled at him to turn down the music. Like that would happen.
He'd tied the girl to the bed, told her it would be fun, and pulled the knife as soon as she was secure. He looked at the knife, his weapon of choice, and the smirk widened into a full-on smile. This part was his favorite, even better than the sex.
"Honey, scream all you want," he cooed, placing the knife lightly at her throat, "because no one can hear you. You're all mine."
With a quick flick of his wrist, he slit her throat, her final scream piercing through the music and fading into a gargle as she bled out. Still smiling, he cut across her stomach. Her eyes rolled wildly in her head, telling the murderer that she was still alive, which made everything even more fun.
Finally, after he'd finished carving her like a jack-o-lantern, she died. He sighed, sticking the knife in his back pocket, and calmly exited the room. He heard a door swing open behind him as he crossed the parking lot to his car, sunglasses perched atop his head.
"Oh," he grinned, "hey, Sammy."
"Dean," his brother replied, "what was that?"
"That was Ellen."
"What did you do to her?" The tone of the younger man's voice implied that he already knew, but felt obliged to ask.
"I had to cut her loose, Sammy. Her usefulness had ended."
"How'd you, um, cut her loose?"
Dean smirked, pulling the knife from his pocket and wiping it quickly across his bloody shirt. "With this."
"You killed her," Sam marveled as he followed his brother to the Impala, "you stabbed her to death. You've been killing those girls all along."
"Right-o, college boy."
"Dean, something happened. There was an accident when the hospital blew up. This isn't you."
Slowly, Dean turned to look at his little brother, anger bubbling within him. He wanted nothing more than to end his own suffering and slash at the younger man with the knife he still held in his hand, but that would ruin all the fun that torture could provide. He took a deep breath, and chose his words carefully.
"I'm free now," he muttered, "if that's a problem for you and goody-two-shoes in there it's just too bad."
"But we can fix it," Sam argued, "things can go back to the way they were."
"I don't think so," Dean said, elbowing his pesky little brother in the stomach before bringing the handle of the knife down hard on his head. Sam fell to the floor, a small trickle of blood dampening his shaggy hair.
Smirking, Dean unlocked the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Yes, torture was definitely a good idea. But how best to do it?
The hunter jumped away, biting his tongue to stifle a scream. His heart was pounding with the thrill of the kill, his adrenaline pumping, his mind racing with a number of terrible things he could do to Sam before going in for the kill. The images, the memories, the dream, it was so vivid. He shook his head, hoping to clear the murderous thoughts running through his brain.
"I'd never do that," he muttered quietly, "never. He's my brother, and I'd die for him. I couldn't hurt him. Could I?"
The question was there. Could he? Should he? He could try, oh yes, he could try. There were some terrible things he could do to the man asleep in the other bed, the one that had walked out on him, the one that had left him alone. He could abandon him, for instance. Tie him up in a sewer somewhere and just walk away. Later on, he could go back, untie Sam once he had weakened, and plunge the knife deep into the younger man's chest. Oh, and how Sammy would scream.
"No," he mumbled, running his hands through his hair and back over his face. He pulled them away, wet with the tears that were freely falling for no reason Dean could comprehend. What was happening to him?
"Pull it together, Dean," he whispered, swiping at his eyes, "Sammy needs you on this one. Just keep it together. For Sam, all right?"
He sighed. They'd traveled to Elkhorn, Nebraska to get rid of a pesky ghost in a house there, then traveled out to one of the state parks, where a lone vampire was causing trouble. After that, they'd headed to Oklahoma to take care of a resilient werewolf that almost seemed immune to silver. They were planning on getting rid of it that night, after a good day's sleep. If only he could get one.
The wolf changed in a warehouse on the outskirts of town, the boys knew that much, and were planning on killing it as soon as it had turned. Because killing people was wrong.
No, not wrong, the smooth voice that sounded freakishly like his own said, fun. It's fun to watch them suffer and die. You know you want to.
"Sam says it's wrong to kill people," Dean muttered, "and I believe him."
Only part of you believes him, Dean, the voice replied, but part of you wants to have some fun. Come on, who'll it hurt? Sammy? Who needs him?
"I do." The tears, again unbidden, began to flow freely, and he wiped them away. He just had to keep it together until the wolf was gone, them he would start the research, find out what had gone wrong when they'd blown the hospital in Onyx sky high a second time.
In the other bed, Sam stirred. Dean glanced over at him, anger flashing briefly in his haunted hazel eyes. His hand strayed toward the pillow, reached under it. Fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife. It would be so easy to end it, to be free again. With Sammy out of the way, no one would be there to stop him.
Yawning, Sam sat up and looked around. "You sleep OK?" he asked, apparently not noticing the sudden fear etched across his brother's face.
"Uh, yeah," Dean replied, slipping the weapon back under his pillow and fighting back another bout of tears, "fine. You?"
"I'd be a lot better if it was dark, but yeah. I'm all right. You ready for this?"
Dean just nodded. "That overgrown puppy's not gonna know what hit him."