I Smell Sex and Candy

I don't own Supernatural, Sebastian Richards to Rochelle B.

Author: Dimitri Aidan

Rating: Borderline R/NC-17.

Spoilers: Pilot, Home, Scarecrow, Faith, and Nightmare most obviously.

Pairings: Dean/Other, Sam/OMC, and Sam/Dean…I think. It may just stay one-sided.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Language, Torture, Rape, Sexual Tension, Incest, general badness, and some vaguely religious themes. Lets just leave it at 'Dean's having a bad day'.

Summery: Dean and Sam are investigating a series of infant deaths and find themselves in over their heads. When Dean is kidnapped by a demon, Sam is left alone and with no idea of what to do next.

Notes: I was listening to my roommate and his brother do a Hellraiser marathon while I was writing this. And yes, listening. I can't watch and write: I multi-task poorly. Anyway, that's what I was thinking about when this was being spawned.

This story is heavy in the UST. The RST is probably going to be in the follow up. This is Breaking Dean, the next one is Fixing Dean. Hopefully.

Added Note: Conform you damn story, confrom! ...aheh.

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Chapter Two

A Fool For Another Day

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Sam thought, for a moment, that he was going to sick. He couldn't explain what that was exactly, except to say that an intense wave of nausea came crashing down onto him. He gagged and could feel the burn of acid in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry." A voice, oily laced with poisonous sugary sweetness, came through the phone. "The person you are trying to reach is out of range. Please try again later."

Sam swallowed, mouth tasting as if something had died there, then looked up at Richards who had retreated so far back into the shadows that all Sam could see was the eerie blue light bouncing off of the frames of his glasses. Even his eyes behind the lenses were naught but shadows to Sam's eyes.

"Hang up." Richards hissed softly and there was something very…wrong about the way his voice issued forth from two free floating blue spots.

Sam blinked. "What?"

"Hang up!"

"Sebastian!" The voice laughed and Richards seemed to draw back even further into the shadows, completely vanishing from Sam's sight. "Hiding yourself from us are you? Don't stray too far, we'll be seeing you both very soon."

The soft click of the line disconnecting seemed to echo painfully in Sam's mind as the phone slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. He couldn't do anything except stare at his phone for a long moment, couldn't…what the hell?

He heard rustling and footsteps but didn't look up until a soft glow fell over him. He looked up to see Richards moving around the room, from one flat surface to another, lighting candles with a lighter as he went. Sam couldn't even fathom why he had so many candles but found himself oddly grateful as they all but eliminated the strange blue glow, chasing it away until there was only the pulse of it within its shell.

Once he was done Richards began to tinker with the coffee machine and, after a few moments, it let out a soft hum. He sat on the table next to the machine and pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes, looking incredibly tired. Sam raked a hand through his hair, forcing himself to stay calm and not throw up.

"What-"

"Shut up." Richards stared at him through narrowed eyes. "I need a few seconds here."

"You need…" Sam trailed off, returning the glare and them some. "Did you hear that? Something…has my brother-"

"Your brother is dead. People die." Richards' tone was mild and even but he didn't meet Sam's eyes as he said it.

People die. Bastard. "He's my brother, I can't abandon him if there's any hope-"

The coffee maker let out a hiss then reddish brown liquid began to drip into the pot. It smelled sweet and a little spicy and nothing like coffee. "If I were you I'd be hoping he was dead because the alternative is much worse. You can only die once after all."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked; he didn't like the way it sounded in the least but that was probably the point. Richards didn't want him going after Dean, for some reason. Not that what he wanted meant anything. "If he isn't dead where is he?"

"Hell." This was said with a wry sort of amusement. Sam's heart dropped to his stomach and he could fell his throat tighten up because he was almost positive Richards meant it in the most literal sense of the word possible. "I couldn't tell you exactly where of course, it's a surprisingly large place and when I say 'I hope' I mean I hope. If there's a caring god anywhere in the world… Would you like some tea? It's quite soothing."

"Fuck you."

"If you want but I don't see how that's going to help things…I mean, obviously it'll help, but you won't feel bad about the tea in the morning."

Tea was about the last damn thing Sam wanted and it must have showed as he forced himself to his feet trying to ignore the way the room was spinning, because Richards shrugged then, an unreadable expression crossing his face, got up and walked into the bathroom. Sam could hear running water, hear it splashing in the sink, and sat down again burying his face in his hands.

He wasn't going anywhere right this second, he felt like he might throw up if he tried to move, but he certainly wasn't going to do nothing. He had to find Dean, even if he had to do it alone.

Besides, it wasn't like he needed the man's help; he was perfectly capable of figuring this out himself. He'd start at the O'Connell house, see if he could find any indications of what had happened and if that lead him anywhere. If not there was always research.

He hadn't let Dean die before and he wasn't going to let it happen now, no matter what it took. He'd sacrifice anyone and anything if it would save his brother.

"Have you ever seen your intestine? Seen someone's hand close around your heart, pulled just far enough out of your ribcage that you can see it pumping slowly? Maybe have your eyes pulled out until you can see your face? Do you think you'd like to? Because if that doesn't appeal to you I'd stop thinking about saving your brother." Richards said blithely. Sam didn't respond but did leap away when rough warm wetness touched his ear. He didn't get far because the older man grabbed the side of his face and tilted his head to the side, forcing him still. "Your ears were bleeding."

"I noticed."

"You must be connected to the psychic plane…and untrained at that. I know kids a lot younger than you who don't curl into a ball and bleed when they hear Demon Cries."

Sam tired to twist around, push him away but Richards proved to be as touch as he looked, letting go of him just long enough to avoid his swinging arm and then elbow him in the gut solidly. The air went rushing from him and he coughed, doubling over.

"Don't get mad at me about what's true." The cloth rubbed over his ear again and Sam realized for the first time how muffled everything have been sounding. A few moments later and he was released, Richards wisely moving away from him before he could lash out. He really didn't like him, at all. Why the hell was he even still here? He had to save Dean and the first step to doing that was getting out of her.

Still…the thought of moving made his insides twist in a fairly foreboding manner. "What do you know about the…psychic plane?"

"Not a lot." Richards righted the chair then rubbed his hands over the front of his pants. "My mother didn't pass her gift along to me and I inherited my father's skill with magick, much to her dismay."

"Inherited…do all people inherit it?"

"Most people inherit from their mothers, though women are infamously more adept at magick which is still a source of teasing to this day for me. Anyway, unless something more powerful gets in the way, in my case my dad's magick, males will inherit their mother's psychic tendencies, latent, recessive, or otherwise. I'm sure it makes sense genetically, X chromosomes and what have you." Judging by his tone Richards believed that, but couldn't have explained it to him. "Your mother…?"

"I…don't know. She died when I was a baby." He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his mother's spirit, serene and beautiful, apologizing to him. Was this it, her reason? Had she had these powers too and had passed them along to him, or at least suspected?

Was that why that…thing was after him?

"Oh." For a long moment there was only the sound of the coffee machine while Richards regarded him with thinly veiled interest. "What can you do?"

Sam hesitated a moment before speaking. The only living person to know about what he saw and could do was Dean…assuming Dean was still alive; it felt strange to be talking about it with someone else. Not that he and Dean talked about it, they pretended it didn't exist until Sam was doubled over in pain and instructing Dean on where to go.

"I can see things…the future. Move things, sometimes. If I'm under enough pressure."

"Huh." The older man nodded slowly. "Good skills. Not that least bit useful at the moment, but good. Ah, it's done."

Sam had a mug of tea in his hand five minutes later and was glaring at it very intently. He still couldn't believe he was sitting here drinking tea when he should have been out there, finding Dean. The longer he waited the colder the trail would get and the harder it would be to find him, but he couldn't make himself stand to leave. No…that wasn't it. He had the strange feeling that he'd do more good here than anywhere else.

He couldn't put a name to the feeling exactly but he couldn't deny that it was there. He took a sip, letting the slightly spicy cinnamon taste roll over his tongue.

Oddly enough he did feel calmer the moment it passed over his lips, which only made a sick feeling of guilt well up in his chest.

Richards set down his mug with a sigh. "Are you going to help me save the rest of these children or do you plan to commit suicide and leave me to it?"

Sam took another drink and closed his eyes to savor the strange warmth that flowed through him. "I have to save Dean."

"Would he abandon this job to save you?"

Sam opened his eyes and met Richards placid gaze. There was nothing in the cool amber orbs except questioning, no judgment or accusing. He worried his bottom lip for a moment, considering. He let his mind go through every job they'd ever been on together and all of the stuff in between and the answer was painfully obvious.

"Yeah, he probably would."

"But?"

"He'd kill himself before he'd let me."

Unlike Dean there was always a chance Sam would be seeing whatever happened as a result of his abandoning these children in his nightmares for a long time to come. He'd never be rid of the guilt and there would never be a chance he could convince himself he'd done the right thing. Dean would rationalize, saying that Sam and his gifts were more important in the long term, especially considering how many people they would save in the future and how many less would be saved in Dean had to go it alone.

But as far as his own life went…Dean was sure he was expendable. He didn't understand that he was Sam's world, the one thing that never changed no matter what horrific visions he had while he was sleeping. He was his anchor…Dean was his everything and he would have killed for him…but he couldn't put innocent people in danger for him.

Dean wouldn't allow it and if he found out there would be hell to pay for it. It wasn't that Sam didn't want to, it's that he knew he couldn't. Stupid Dean.

"So you'll help?" Sam nodded slowly. "We'll start early then, hit all of the families before nightfall, hopefully and then…wait."

Something in the way Richards spoke made a chill run up Sam's spine. He had a feeling what they were waiting for was nothing good. Not that it mattered; he'd help Richards finished this thing with Lilith up and then go looking for his brother. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could even get the other man to help him or at last give him some insight.

Sam may have been out of his element but Richards seemed right at home.

The first thing he needed to do was get to the O'Connell house and see if what had taken Dean had left anything behind. It was night and they were waiting until morning to finish up the job so he wouldn't need to feel guilty about it. He just had to figure out how to get out there, sine Dean had taken the Impala and-

"My brother's car…he'll haunt me if I don't get it back."

"Haunt you?"

"Yeah. He'd sooner sell his first born than let anything happen to the Impala."

"…Okay. We'll take my car."

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"It must have been hard for you, always doing what your father wanted and demanded of you, without so much as a 'good job Dean' to go along with it. You tried so hard to be just like him in every way."

Someone was whispering in his ear in a way that would have been arousing if not for the fact he was just regaining some form of consciousness and felt terrible. His head was pounding, as if his brain was trying to split his skull in half and jump free. He could only just barely focus on the words being spoken to him and even less on the whispery quality to it or the air being blown over his ear.

His arms hurt in a distant sort of way, stretched so far above his head his shoulders were burning, sharp edged chains cutting into this skin. His feet just brushed the floor, which felt sharp under his feet and cut into his flesh.

"It's a little ironic for you, I'd imagine, that your brother is more like your father than you can ever hope to be, right down to putting his obsession with finding his girlfriend's killer ahead of you, just like your father did while looking for the thing that killed his wife. You're always second best."

Dean opened his eyes slowly, wanting to get a look at the thing that thought it could taunt him, but found that there was nothing…total blinding white nothingness stretching out in every direction in a way that made him dizzy just to look at and to say it didn't help his head was an understatement in the worst way. Then again he was dizzy and hurting in general; he felt like he'd been run over by a mack truck or something just as big.

"But, of course, its not really about being like him for you, is it? It's more about not reminding your father of your mother to you? He used to look at you, listen to you and cringe you're so much like her. You even cut your hair to hide it." Sharp nails scrapped over his scalp and he could feel the skin giving way and splitting. "But mostly it's the way you act. Even now he thinks you are so much like her…do you think that's why he left? You've tried so had to make yourself hard and untouchable like him, but you'll never be him. You're weak and he can't stand to look at you."

The needle like nails trailed down the side of his face to his neck, cutting the skin open as they went. Blood followed the cuts down his cheek, warm and tickling in an odd way, but he couldn't see anyone or anything around him except for the whiteness. Something cool and wet lapped over the blood and he couldn't help but cry out.

It felt like salt was being rubbed into the cuts, packed and pressed in deep, only so much worse than just salt. Like…acid, creeping under his skin and into his body, burning its way deeper inside of him.

He grit his teeth and jerked his head back, thinking he'd be prepared for the pain. He was wrong and as silky laughter wormed its way into his brain everything went black and colors danced in front of his eyes. He coughed as bile burn his throat as he emptied his stomach. He could smell and feel the rancid wetness, hot and sticky, against his skin and had to put forth a serious effort to not heave again.

"Humans." The voice was almost mockingly affectionate. "So fragile. We haven't even begun and already you're sick."

Dean sucked in a breath then forced his eyes open. This time he was confronted with…something resembling a man. He was dressed in all leather, black and shiny to the point that the whiteness of the room caused a glare against it. What skin was visible was white, not just pale but paper white, and run through with more pieces of metal than Dean had ever been witness to in his life. Two large leathery but paper thin wings protruded from his back, folded down against his back like some kind of cape, and his fingers ended in long, thin claws.

"This is an interesting form for you to give me." This was the source of the voice, slick sweetness that made him feel sick. "Very…Hollywood. Does it make you feel better?"

Dean kicked out, catching the thing in the stomach before howling in pain. It was like kicking the side of a tank or a steel beam or something that people really shouldn't be kicking. He could feel the bone break only it seemed intensified tenfold, crashing directly into his brain. His vision went hazy again and he was only dimly aware of hands on his foot as his body tried to shut down.

He swallowed, forcing himself to stay conscious and glaring. He got a slow grin in reply before there was a sharp twist and then his foot, which had been turned a very awkward angle, was back in place.

"I wouldn't advise such action. You'll hurt yourself." Claws moved over his chest, cutting through his layers of t-shirt with no problem and nicking skin ever so faintly. "And we wouldn't want that. You're such a beautiful thing and wasting beauty is a tragedy."

He narrowed his eyes for a moment then spit in the thing's face. He barely had time to register the saliva landing before his head snapped back viciously and the world went black for a moment. When the whiteness surged forward again there was a very distinct pain in his jaw and he could taste blood on his lips. The thing was giving him a mildly annoyed look, no harsher than what Dean might wear when Sam got mud in the Impala.

"I will never understand why your sort insist on being hurt so." It sighed, shaking its head slowly. As if from the air itself the thing withdrew a blade, sharp and hooked at the end.

It didn't hurt so much being thrust into his stomach, more of a tingle. It was the wet sound and trickle of warmth down his stomach that bothered him at first; then the blade was yanked back out and Dean could feel things shifting and being pulled out to fall with a soft pattering sound on the ground. Then a metallic clatter filled his ears, followed by a soft squish and presser on his stomach. He could feel…something, inside, touching and grasping and wiggling. He choked, blood welling up to clog his throat.

"Human anatomy is interesting. It's a hobby really, finding out how much you can pull out before death happens."

The last thing Dean saw before everything went blank was an almost mocking smirk on the face of his captor.

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The O'Connell house was a newer one in the neighborhood, built to match the older cabin looking houses around it, all smooth brown painted wood and friendly green shutters with flowered hangings in the window. Even the door was a cheery red color and Dean had laughed, telling him it looked like something he'd built with Lincoln Logs.

Sam had been inclined to agree.

That had been earlier that day, when they'd been looking for the family to speak to them. It couldn't have been more than five or six hours ago. A look at the clock on the dashboard showed that it was barely ten-thirty.

Now the house seemed to have been swallowed by living shadows, which coiled and slithered around it, hiding it from sight, like a million tentacles, wound tightly together and sliding over each other. The sound was a kind of…wet slurping as slow moving black goo oozed itself across the front porch and down the steps. The Impala was a few paces away from the house and just outside out of the border. Sam had been holding back the urge to throw up since turning onto Shady Glen Drive and now that they were standing on there, less than fifteen feet away, he found himself swaying on his feet and desperately needing to sit down or throw up or…something.

Sam took a step forward then reared back, hand going up to cover his mouth. A smell like rotting flesh hung heavy in the air, almost like an invisible wall. He stumbled back, turning to look at Richards who was just staring, lips pursed.

"What the hell is that?" Richards shrugged then looked around as if looking for something. Sam looked around as well; most of the houses still had lights on and he couldn't imagine why no one had rushed out or called the police to report the giant…thing that had enveloped their neighbor's house.

While Sam was used to people seeing what they wanted to see and nothing more he couldn't believe the entire neighborhood was somehow blocking this out of their minds. There wasn't that much denial in the entire world. At least, he hadn't thought there could be. Maybe he'd been too optimistic.

"Huh." Richards muttered before leaning against his car and tilting his head to the side. "You know what I think that is?"

"No."

"I think that is psychical evidence that when someone tells you not to fuck with stuff you should, in fact, not fuck with stuff. May this be a lesson to you." Richards shrugged again then straightened up. He opened the door of his car and made to get in. "Magick backfire is such a pointless and ugly thing."

"This is backfire?" First Dean was missing and now some black thing that smelled like a swamp and sounded like…he didn't know what, was all but eating the house. "Is there anything else that might happen that you want to share?"

"God…I hope not." The older man hesitated for a moment, as if considering then shook his head. "Get your car and let's go. I work better when I'm not up all night."

"You're just going to leave that?"

"Trust me kid, it'll be here tomorrow." Richards didn't look the least bit concerned, the polar opposite of Sam who could just feel the…sickness pouring off of the house. It was like syrup or oil, slowly slipping into Sam's brain and leaving a thick, sticky trail over him as it went. It felt disgusting and it made him feel nauseas and lightheaded just to stand so close.

"What about the O'Connells?"

"They'll still be here too." The door to his car slammed shut and then he leaned out the window. "You can shoot at it if you think it'll make you feel better, but I won't be doing anything until morning."

"We can't just leave this."

"Well what do you suppose we do, rush into this with no idea of what's going on, what that is, or what to do? Does the idea of waiting for a plan of action offend you so much?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond then shut it, brows furrowing in thought. Just rushing in…normally he'd be totally against something like that. Running in blind was a very 'Dean' thing to do and he wasn't Dean; he was 'Research guy'.

But someone had to be the other guy, right? That was how he and Dean worked, forcing a middle ground. There couldn't be two 'Research guys' and this was evidently why. He shook his head.

"Yeah. What if they die?"

"Who? The O'Connells? They're already dead." Richards still didn't look the least bit concerned and Sam couldn't even wrap his brain around such an apathic response. "Kid, don't look so horrified. People die; it's a job hazard."

"How can you not care? This…I…" Sam didn't even have words. He turned and looked back at the house. "You said they'd still be here."

"Their soulless reanimated corpses." Richards said lightly then, softly: "I think."

"You think?"

"I didn't do this! I told you to stay away, I said it multiple times even, but you still let your brother go running in there and now this. I didn't kill anyone." The door of the car creaked open and a moment later a hand grabbed Sam and turned him around to meet cold brown eyes. "Don't get mad at me because you fucked up. Maybe you and your brother should have stuck to hunting vampires instead of demons are old as life itself?"

Sam's mouth worked but no words were forthcoming. It wasn't…only it was. Richards had everything under control, at least here, before they'd gotten involved and it had been them, him and Dean, who screwed this up. Killed the O'Connells, if they were actually dead and let loose…whatever that thing was. He should have called him, should have told him to lay off, but he hadn't. He'd…he'd killed these people.

He was going to be sick.

Before he could though the dizzy feeling that had been dancing along the edge of his senses hit him hard. He felt the world slip away and suddenly he was somewhere else, only…not. He knew where he was, could feel Richards' hand on his arm and see his expression change from one of anger to confusion to panic, but he was still somewhere else.

It was white and hazy, burning his eyes. There were vague shadows, wobbling and jumping up and down like the image on an old TV that couldn't hold a screen properly.

"Is he-"

"Of course not. I plan to keep him around for a while yet Aroich." There was a wet feeling around his ear and he wanted to bat it away but he didn't have any control. His head moved and he was looking into…nothingness. Black that seemed to stretch on forever, unblinking and endless. There was that wet feeling, rough and ice cold, along his cheek and then a sharp bite.

His head dropped back and for a moment he could only stare down into a mass of red on red, slimy and wet looking, falling from a rip in tanned flesh.

"You should fix him now Alastor. He smells."

"I suppose."

Sam felt a warm shiver and then, slowly he blinked.

"Sam? Hey!" A hard slap and Richards, who had been written over when Sam had been elsewhere, came back into focus sharply. They were on the ground and the earth was wet and cool, sticking and seeping through his jeans.

"Oh."

"Christ. Where were you?"

"I…" He pushed Richards away, hand going to his chest and infinitely relived to find everything still whole and inside. He sighed, sorely tempted to give in to the fatigue that was starting to creep up on him. He hadn't slept since yesterday; having been lucky enough to get the last driving shift. "I don't know. There…blackness. Forever and these voices. Alastor and Aro-something. I thought I was cut open but…I'm not."

Richard's eyebrow quirked. "You didn't say anything about being linked to your brother. That's really the sort of thing you should mention."

"I'm not. I don't think. What-"

"Linked. …It's really a lot what it sounds like. Psychic crap. Where his brain is, yours is, when he's in excruciation mind numbing pain, you know it. Fun stuff like that." Richards shrugged. "You've had to have noticed before this. If anything him being in hell should make it impossible for you to be aware of him, not prompt sudden psychic connection."

Sam didn't say anything for a long moment before firmly filing that away under 'shit to tell Dean about next time he tries to make me bend spoons'. "That other stuff I saw, you know about it?"

"Badass demons are my specialty. Aroich, I assume you meant, is just an in general mean bastard. Feeds off of the pain and mental torment of humans, invokes cruelty in people. Alastor, he's the Executioner. People who really get on someone's nerves are shuffled off to him to play with. He's been perfecting the art of hiding among humans by getting inside of us."

"Inside."

"Inside." Richards repeated, drawing the word out carefully, eyes serious in a way that left no question to his meaning. "So if you saw him you must have…you know, been in your brother. I had no idea you were annoying enough to warrant Alastor. That takes special skill."

Sam blinked up at him. His mind wanted to take in the words and understand them so he could come up with a plan but it just…wouldn't. Adamantly refused to let any of it be real or understood. All of this…'Wrath of God' and Magick and Psychic Plane stuff was something he needed time and a lot of alcohol to fully absorb and neither was an option. He wasn't the sort of person to panic when things got tough or out of control, but he honestly had no fucking idea what the hell was going on anymore.

He rubbed his hands over his face. He just…it was out of control.

"I don't understand."

"Which part?" Richards tone was somewhere between earnest and excited.

"Any of it!" Sam snapped as something inside of him twisted. There was a loud bang and Sam looked over just in time to see a telephone pole along the street burst into flames. "Fuck."

That was new. Of course. He wanted it to stop so it just impounded and got worse. His head was pounding, an incessant and annoying pressure against his skull and he just wanted to bang it against something to make it stop so he could fucked think. He had to focus on something. What did he know? What wasn't completely unknown and insane all of a sudden, what still made sense? He had to give his brain something to hold onto before…well, before something else happened.

"Sam?"

"…I have to save my brother and the O'Connells."

"I think we've backtracked. The O'Connells are dead."

Sam waited for the inevitable 'and so is your brother' but it didn't come. The silence stretched between them, weaving itself around them, until Sam looked up again. Richard was sitting back on his heels, eyes turned heavenward.

"What about Dean?"

"Logic dictates that if Alastor has him he'll keep pushing him to the brink of death and bringing him back for the sake of his experiments. He'll probably wish he was dead but he won't actually die for a very long time." Richards sounded almost defeated. "If you are linked to him, on a psychic level, I can't keep you from saving him because it'd probably rip your psyche into little pieces. I've heard that's unpleasant."

Sam nodded slowly. "How do I save him?"

"You'll need to open a doorway to him. The chant is simple, some chalk on the ground, invoke your patron god, and you should be good. Maybe not even all that, since you're linked." Sam bit his lip, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Except you'd have to do it where your brother was taken from."

Of course. He needed to be inside the house, which was covered in shadow tentacles and do a spell when he had no concept of magick beyond exorcisms and banishing. This was going so well already. He could feel laughter welling up inside of him but managed to just nod again.

"All right. How could I get inside?"

"Another spell. Go around to the front door and activate the wards I set up to create safe passage in. Getting out would be a bitch, since your brother destroyed the back wards and the front wards will be ineffective after all of that. Assuming they're even up now." Richards didn't look at him even now, just kept staring up. "If you did get in, did somehow get your brother without being captures and slaughtered, did get back out of hell, and did get out of the house again, you'd be forever marked and any demon who saw you would know you were touched by Hell. The Lower levels will flee but the higher ups will seek you out."

Sam nodded again. "So basically I'm fucked."

"Yep."

Nothing new. "I can live with that."

Richards snorted softly. "Goody. Come on then, I know someone who can help us save your brother."

"Us?"

"Of course. How the hell are you going to do all that stuff on your own?" The look Richards laid on him was nothing short of 'What are you, a dumbass'. It wasn't as honed as Dean's 'Jesus Sammy, are we even fucking related?' look, but it wasn't bad. "We have to find holy ground."

"Why?"

"Because you can't call a God from un-holy land. It's rude."

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Yawns So. Next chapter we find out how exactly Richards knows so much, meet this God of his, and Sam tries to use his 'talents' on purpose and burns some stuff down. Oh, and the torture really starts for Dean. Not that having a demon shove a hand into his chest and muck about wasn't bad…

Anyway, I missed the deadline for the challenge so it'll probably end up longer than I originally thought, with more plot twists, torment, and mindfuckery. This chapter, even, is totally different. Originally Richard's opened a door into the house then left Sam to fend for himself because, and I quote "I don't do Hell. My soul's already forfeit, why in the hell would I want to go early?"

Thanks to Shy eye, Cee Wave, SamDean4ever, Depressed one, Mechante (Rochelle said thanks by the way.), Latanya, Powr, Spnlover, belleimani, jdsampson, Atana, Rosemary, Gact, and SSJ.

All review comments are on my live journal. Or…you know, will be soon. Right after I catch some sleep. I promise.