Well, here's Chapter 11. Thanks again for all the reviews!

His head still pounding, Sam laid his head gingerly against his shoulder. He blinked twice, willing the unwanted pain of the vision away, and then smiled. The knife lay glinting on the carpet beside him. Slowly, he scooted toward it until it was within reach.

Even though his head still ached and the pain was beginning to spread down into his neck and shoulders, Sam was able to get the weapon into his hands and carve away at the ropes. His wrists fell free and he started on his ankles, having no idea how long he'd been trapped in the basement, where Marcy's house was in the town, or if his captor had stolen the car.

With his ankles free, Sam stood up and walked to the window, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to hinder his escape. The only window in the room was small and set high up in the wall, but the glass was thin and he broke it easily with the handle of the knife. He began to clamber out as footsteps again echoed overhead.

Grunting, the hunter rolled onto the grass of the house's front lawn. He crawled on his belly across the yard and found his brother's car parked faithfully in the driveway. From the interior of the house, he heard an aggravated scream. Still clutching the knife, Sammy ran for the car.

It wasn't hard to get the car started, and Sam smiled as he pulled out of the driveway. The old car sure was getting around a lot that week. In fact, it had been stolen by the same person three times. He checked the rearview in time to see a man dressed all in black running down the street after him, waving a shotgun over his head. Of course, it was Dean, and he would never shoot the Impala.

John's eyes narrowed as the tentative knock came again. Sammy had a key, so it couldn't have been him. The hunter peeked out the window, his eyes narrowing even more. It was Dean.

"Where's your brother?" he called out, slipping a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulling out the small gun he always kept there. He put the other hand lightly on the doorknob.

"I took him," Dean replied shakily, "and stole the car. I don't know where they went."

"How don't you know? You just said you took him."

"The other me. The bad one. Dad, let me in, I need your help."

Slowly, John unlocked the door and turned the knob. It creaked slowly open and Dean came running in, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"Dad," he muttered, staring straight into the barrel of the gun, "put the gun down, please."

"Not until I'm sure it's you. The you that Sam took to the diner, not the you that tried to kill me."

Dean's eyes widened. "That reminds me," he gasped, and ran out of the room. He returned a minute later holding a Styrofoam box in his hands. "Sorry if it's cold, but I had to walk. Like I said, I took the car."

John sighed, lowering his gun, but not putting it back in his pocket. "What happened?"

The younger man shrugged, setting the box down on the dresser before sitting on the edge of the bed and running a hand distractedly through his short hair. "I thought I'd made him mad. He went into the bathroom before the food got there, and he didn't come out for twenty minutes. I picked the lock and went in, but he wasn't there. I looked out the window, and saw the tracks. One set of footprints, and a pair of lines, like someone had been drug out."

"And you're sure it was the other you?"

Dean nodded sadly. "I stood in the footprints, dad, and they matched mine exactly. The car was gone, too. Who else could it be?"

"Do you know where it took him?"

"No," he said, turning the wince that came from his father calling any part of him 'it' into a small shrug, "no tire tracks, and I got there too late to see where the car was going. I asked around, but nobody saw anything. I'm sorry."

John sighed, noticing the watery look of his eldest son's eyes, and set the gun on the dresser beside the Styrofoam container that held his lunch. "Think," he said, sitting down on the room's other bed, "is there any place in town that it might have taken Sam?"

The wince-turned-shrug again. "I've never been here before, sir. I only know where the motel and diner are, and even then, I got kind of lost trying to make it back here."

"Then concentrate," John suggested, "close your eyes and clear your mind. That thing's part of you, so maybe there's a psychic connection."

"Like with twins?"

"Just do it," John snapped coldly, staring at the floor to avoid the hurt look in his son's usually-strong eyes.

Dean nodded slowly and closed his eyes, putting his hands up to his head. He saw only darkness, heard his father's footsteps as the older man paced the room. He concentrated on clearing his mind, on trying to find his brother. Still, he only saw the insides of his eyelids.

"I'm sorry, sir," he muttered, shaking his head, "nothing. It's just dark."

"Try harder," John hissed, still pacing, "there's got to be something. Some kind of mental link to match the physical one."

"I don't think there is. That's why I've been hearing voices for the past month. We're separate minds."

"Just try again. Concentrate. We need to find him."

The younger man nodded again, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The truth was, he was scared to try and get inside the evil man's mind. He had a feeling that he wouldn't like what he would find. Apparently, though, it wasn't a problem. Dean still only found darkness and the sound of his father's feet on the floor when he closed his eyes.

He closed his eyes tighter, fighting off the tears that his father's constant disappointment threatened to bring, knowing that if he cried he'd be seen as a weakling. He shoved the heels of his hands into his temples in a desperate attempt to block out the shuffling noises coming from the room. Darkness, still, complete, empty, lonely darkness.

"I can't do it," Dean moaned, "it's just not there. I'm sure he'll be all right, though. Sam can take care of himself."

"No, Dean," John replied, his voice low, "no, he can't. Do you know why?"

Dean shook his head as his father walked back to the bed, his eyes sharp with the disappointment and subtle hate he'd always harbored toward his eldest boy.

"It's because he's always had you," the older hunter muttered softly, "you were always there protecting him, Dean. It was your job." Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the younger man's shoulders and slammed him against the wall. "You failed, son," he barked, "you let him out of your sight and now he's gone. You know what that maniac's going to do to him? He's going to kill him. Your brother is going to die because of you and at your hands! Is that something you can live with?"

John released the death-grip he'd had on his son's shoulders and slowly backed away. He'd always had a quick temper, had had a number of problems keeping it in check, especially when Dean was involved, but what he saw in his son's eyes as he backed away was enough to bring him out of his rage. The man's eyes were blank. The lights were on, but no one was home. And it was his fault.

Dean slid down to the floor, pulling his knees into his chest as he did so. John kept backing away, staring at the emptiness he'd put in his boy's eyes, at the fear written all over the younger man's face, at the way his whole body shook with silent sobs, the way it had before the fire, before he'd been turned into the perfect soldier. Before the evil inside of him, and evil that was now free, had been bred.

As he watched the man cry, John had to put out a hand to steady himself. He grabbed the dresser and stood, watching his son quiver as the light returned to his eyes. Those eyes, the ones that had once been so full of life and happiness, darted insecurely around the room as his breath hitched in his throat.

I did it, the older hunter thought, shaking his head but finding himself unable to tear his eyes from the broken man that sat hunkered in the corner, I made him what he is. Everything. Good and bad, he's my son. I did this.