Author's Notes:

I disclaim.

Thanks to all reviewers. I think everybody who sent a signed review got a reply.

Thanks especially to the lovely and talented A-blackwinged-bird for the excellent beta. If you enjoy this chapter you owe her big time.

With that, Hunter/Killer Chapter 5.

Chapter 5: Alone in the Dark

Dean awoke in darkness, not for the first time in his life. This time he didn't find himself in pain, so that was something. Well, his chest did still hurt from the bruising strike of the night before, but that wasn't new.

He quickly found that he could not move. This too was something he was familiar with, though he was fairly certain he had never been manacled, spread-eagle, to an elevated table. Demons, he reflected, seemed to have an infinite variety of torture devices and dungeon equipment.

But hey, he wasn't naked. So, awesome.

He struggled against the metal bands and was not surprised by his lack of success. They were tightly clasped, edges digging painfully into his wrists and ankles. He ignored how exposed he felt, how vulnerable. None of that self-help psychology crap about facing his feelings was going to get him out of these cuffs.

Without any significant light, he couldn't determine where he was, or even make out the features of the room. His nose told him where he wasn't, though: he wasn't at the warehouse. Its musty, stale air had been replaced by the warm smell of smoldering wood.

His last memory was of his brother holding on to him back at the warehouse. Sam had gripped him so tightly it had hurt. No, it hadn't been Sam. It had been a shaken, terrified Sammy. Dean hadn't seen his little brother look that lost and desperate since Sam had hit double-digits. That look, out of all of the things he had seen in his brief but dramatic life, was both the most gut-wrenching and the most frightening. It was not a good memory.

No wait, his last memory was being torn out of Sam's grip by the demon. And the even more desperate, more defeated, more terrified look on Sam's face as that happened. Okay. That was definitely a worse memory.

"Sammy!" Dean cried out, even though he knew, somehow, that he was alone. There was no answer.

The youngest Winchester was, at best, still back at the warehouse, in every kind of pain. Whatever the demon had done to Sam, it had nearly broken him. Add to that the trauma of having Dean torn out of his arms, especially when he seemed to know what the demon had planned, and it was unlikely Sam was functional. His little brother wasn't weak, but Dean doubted that he was strong enough to deal with all that alone.

There were very few things that Dean would not give to be back there right now to help his brother.

Warmth filled his eyes and he shook his head, taking a shuddering breath, ashamed at his own weakness. He was not crying. He was not thinking about his own trauma, his own loss. He would not allow himself be useless, not allow himself be a victim. Here Dean was, chained to a table in the lair of a powerful demon, and he still saw Sam as the one who needed protection, the one who needed saving.

A cold wind blew across his face like a draft from an open window and his thoughts quieted. He wasn't alone anymore.

"The darkness is good for introspection, Dean Winchester." The hated voice seemed to come from all around him. "Let us share your mind for a while."

Even in the darkness Dean could see the sadistic smile.

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Sam scrambled to put himself back together.

He tried to get to his feet, failing several times as sobs buckled him. God, what he had seen! He couldn't suppress the images of carnage and torture the demon had flooded his mind with; images of women skewered on poles and men flayed alive, images of battle in which he saw the demon cut down dozens of armed and able men as though they were children. Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the joy those things had brought the demon; a joy he disgustingly remembered as his own. He nearly threw up.

Then he remembered what the demon wanted with his brother, and saw Dean being pulled out of his arms again.

He threw up.

He was fighting a losing battle against himself, he realized, after failing to stand for something like the fifth time. His heart was racing, his breath shallow and fast. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating, and was already becoming dizzy. His brain wasn't going to let him wait to deal with this until after Dean was safe. It wasn't going to allow him to ignore it even long enough for him get to his feet. Sam was going to feel this now. The longer he fought against it, the longer he would be useless to Dean.

Letting himself break down did not come naturally to Sam. I mean, he was better at it than Dean, but then, so was everyone else on Earth. He could do it if he needed to. And he really, really needed to. The tears came slowly at first, as Sam let a few sobs escape, until eventually it was coming out of him like a flood. He curled up on the floor in the near-total darkness and cried. Cried as he hadn't since he was eight and he'd first had to spend a night apart from Dean. He let himself be overwhelmed. He let himself have ten minutes of helplessness.

Too quickly, the time was up. None of it was gone, not the fear, not the pain, not the images in his mind, but they were manageable now. He stopped crying and got to his feet without difficulty, ashamed of his weakness. Here he was wasting time while Dean needed him. He could hear his father's voice as clearly as he had when he was eight.

It's time to be a man.

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Sam waited outside in the Impala (thank God Dean had finally sprung for backup keys) for the monks to arrive. He'd needed to get out of that warehouse, and the car had felt safe. Unconsciously, he had gotten in on the passenger's side. Surrounded by the miscellanea of Dean's life, it was almost like his brother wasn't gone at all.

Some part of him hoped that the demon would still make his attempt. He was pretty sure he wouldn't, but Sam had no other leads. Besides which, the monks might know something useful about how to find the demon—and by extension Dean—before it was too late.

It would have been easy just to wait until the demon came to him. He knew it would happen. He knew the part that he still had to play in the demon's plan. The endgame required both brothers, not just the one. Though San knew that if he waited, it was likely that the demon would not show himself until nothing could be done to stop him.

Sam was unwilling to face what he might have to do if he didn't get to Dean in time.

The first monk arrived at 10:38 and Sam dove under the dashboard to conceal his 6'4" frame. He would wait until they had all arrived to reveal himself. He didn't want to spook them: cults like this generally didn't appreciate observers, and there was no way of telling which of them might have useful information. So he hid and waited, peeking up through the windshield every once in a while to note the arrivals.

At 10:57 he pushed open the car door and sneaked out. He pulled his jacket closed against the cold night air and tried to lighten his footfalls to soften the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet. The warehouse door was already cracked open and he peered through, waiting until the leader took the stage before entering. He felt a twinge of guilt as he realized that he still half-hoped the man's head would soon be rolling on the ground.

Sam eased himself inside and the man on the stage—the only one facing him—instantly noticed. His confused stare was enough to get the whole mass of brown robes to turn around to face Sam. This would usually have caused Sam (or indeed, any person) significant discomfort and fear. But at this moment, it was something very near to inconsequential.

"Who—" The leader started, his drawn and aged face equal parts suspicious and annoyed. Sam didn't even let him finish before launching into the speech he had been preparing in his mind.

"My name is Sam Winchester. I hunt the supernatural. The demon that killed your friend in the museum has taken my brother and is going to try to destroy his soul so that he can possess his body and live eternally here on Earth. If he succeeds, he will use his new freedom to kill you all, one by one, until everyone who touched the relic of St. Ansius is dead." He knew he was breaking the #1 Winchester rule, but at this point, he didn't really care. Dean was missing, and Sam did not have time for clever lies and con games. Besides, it was not as if a cult dedicated to obtaining powers from a magical finger-bone would really think he was crazy.

Sam took a deep breath and summoned up his most lawyerly, persuasive tone. "After that he will be unstoppable. You can only imagine the things I've seen inside his mind, the things he'd do if he had the chance. So you can help me or you can have the blood of thousands of people on your hands."

The audience looked at him in stunned silence. Sam was impressed with himself. He hadn't lost his oratorical touch. The leader looked down at him appraisingly, scratching absently at his short grey beard.

"You…have faced this demon?" The old man asked in a wary voice.

"The pool of unidentified blood they found at the scene of Milo Jacobs' murder was mine. The demon let us live, and healed me, because he enjoyed fighting us. Now he has a different reason to keep us alive." Sam struggled not to let his apprehension show as he laid everything out, just as he struggled to ignore the memories his own words brought to mind.

"Why should we believe you?" Grey-beard asked. Sam looked back up impatiently.

"This afternoon I had a dream in which I saw you die. I saw the demon appear behind you as you began to speak and I saw him cut your head clean off your shoulders with little more than a flick of his wrist. I saw him slaughter you all and the only reason you're alive right now is because when I saw it, the demon did too. Because of my vision, the demon knew we were coming, and presently, my brother and I are more important to him than you are."

Sam took a step forward, looked down at the floor and then back up, his eyes blazing with every ounce of sincerity he could project.

"As for why you should believe me…I have no reason to lie. You don't have the artifact. You can't give me the powers you got from it. And I'm not asking you for money or to go into danger to help me find my brother." Sam ticked each item off on his fingers. "All I'm asking you to do is tell me everything you know about the demon, the relic, and St. Ansius. That's a small price to pay for the only chance you've got to live out this year."

Another step forward and Sam grimaced as he felt a stabbing pain in his belly. His hand dropped to cover the still-sore wound. Around him the monks continued to gawk dumbly.

"Brother Darius, go to him." The leader commanded, hard brown eyes softening at the sight of the young hunter in pain.

A small, balding man of perhaps forty years stood up from his chair and walked over to Sam. Sam eyed him warily, especially as he reached out to grab Sam's shirt. Sam deflected his arm, shooting him a look that said 'what do you think you're doing?' The look he received in return was an unmistakable 'helping you, fool.'

Sam realized in that moment that he would have to trust these monks if he ever wanted them to trust him.

Sam reluctantly dropped his arms to his sides and let the man pull up his shirt, revealing the scarred remnants of the entry and exit wounds of the demon's sword. Brother Darius put one hand on each wound. With some difficulty Sam resisted the urge to withdraw from the feeling of strange hands on his skin. He was deeply discomfited by his public vulnerability.

The monk's hands softly glowed yellow, and Sam could hear the quiet hum of the magic doing its work. Warmth shot through Sam's abdomen and the stiffness and pain began to miraculously subside, though the scars themselves did not heal. Still, he felt stronger, like he was regaining lost blood. It was invigorating, and Sam felt his anxiety melt away, if only for as long as the contact lasted.

After perhaps a minute, Darius withdrew his hands and crumpled to the floor, clearly drained of energy. Before Sam could reach down several of other monks had grabbed up their Brother and were carrying him back to his chair.

"Thank…you." Sam tried hesitantly, not knowing what else to say. He felt good, better than he remembered feeling for quite some time. He looked up at the leader again.

"Now, Sam Winchester, we will tell you what we know." The monk said.

----------

In the darkness Dean was carrying baby Sammy out of the fire. This was the fifth time the scene had replayed in his mind. He knew it wasn't really happening. He knew the demon was making him see it. It was like he was merely observing it, even though he experienced it as vividly as he had when it had originally happened.

"Do you love your brother, Dean Winchester?" The demon asked, tauntingly, from the shadows, his voice mellifluous.

Dean didn't answer. He wasn't going to play this game. He would not be so easily manipulated.

"DO YOU?" The voiced boomed inside his mind so loud he felt like his head would explode. Dean cried out in surprise and pain, squirming uselessly against his restraints. He realized now that this must be how the visions felt for Sammy, and that knowledge hurt worse than his head.

"YES!" He yelled quickly. "Of course I love my brother. What the hell does it matter to you?"

"Oh, it matters a great deal." He showed Dean the memory of carrying Sammy from the house again. "Now, do you really love him, or is this merely filial duty? Obedience to you father?"

Challenging Dean's love for Sam was not something Dean took lightly. "I love my brother because he's my brother, you twisted son of a bitch, not because my father told me to."

"Good." The demon seemed convinced. "This will not work if you do not truly love him."

----------

The senior monks sat with him in a circle of folding chairs, having excused their lesser brethren. Mostly the leader spoke, though occasionally one of the others interjected a detail or date. These men knew precious little, Sam quickly realized. Their traditions had not forgotten the demon, but they had certainly underestimated his power. Besides the relic, they knew nothing of his weaknesses. They did not know his planar home, and had no idea how to find him.

Sam did learn that the remains of St. Ansius had disappeared from the catacombs 900 years ago, around the time the original order of Ansius had been killed and their monastery burned. It was presumed that the demon had stolen them first, and come looking for the remaining sliver of the Saint only after. This news was unsurprisingly unhelpful.

Sam was about to give up on them when they began to tell him about Ansius himself. The Saint was a great, godly man, or so they said. He had learned to hate the supernatural early in his life when his parents had been killed by a demon, leaving him alone to care for his sister Imoen. His study of the Bible led him from pauper to priest, in an impressive display of medieval class mobility. He spent his days evangelizing and hunting evil beings, all the while sending back considerable portions of the tithes and donations he received to help his sister live in relative comfort.

That was all before his sister developed her gifts. Ansius had returned home one day to find that Imoen had nightmares in which she saw the future. Suddenly his own sister was a witch, and Ansius had no idea what to do about it. Eventually he realized that he had to do what he had done to all the others: he had to kill her. Sorrowfully, he did.

For so much did St. Ansius love the world and his God that he sacrificed his only sister.

That was when one of the memories the demon had showed him crystallized in Sam's mind. The final piece clicked into place.

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"Please Eisen, I swear to you I don't control it!" Imoen cried.

Her voice carried a fear Eisen could hardly stand. He knew that she couldn't control it. He knew that she did not have her powers of her own choice. But he also knew that people like his sister were gateways for the devil to invade this world, that she was a witch whether she wanted to be or not. He advanced on her and she threw herself back away from him, tears streaking down her face as her own brother brandished his sword.

"Do not fight this, sister. It is…hard enough already." The priest managed to choke out. "You know what must be done. And you know that I cannot be deterred."

Eisen moved toward her again, and she turned to flee. He leapt forward and grabbed her shoulder with his left hand. He spun her around and pinned her to the wall as she screamed.

"No, Eisen, I'll stop it! I will! I won't use the powers anymore! Please don't kill me!" She pleaded, her voice breaking with sobs as her brother looked at her sorrowfully. He was almost breaking. It was the closest to tears she'd ever seen Eisen.

"You can't promise me that, Imoen. The powers are not yours to control. God will hold you blameless." He hoped against hope that he was not lying to her. "God will let you into heaven, and you will see our parents. And you will never have to worry about endangering others again."

"No…Eisen please…"

Eisen leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then summoning up all his might he drove his sword right through his sister's heart.

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Dean's mind swam up from the vision into consciousness.

"You sick FUCK! You killed your own sister!" Dean yelled into the darkness.

"It had to be done, Dean Winchester, just as this does." Ansius' tone was almost apologetic, like he was trying to justify his actions to himself, and not just to Dean. Or maybe he was trying to justify his actions to the sister he had killed 1300 years ago.

"What are you talking about? What the fuck do you want with me?" Dean was growing more and more terrified, as he realized that Sam was very much like Imoen. Whatever this demon had planned, it likely involved doing very unpleasant things to his little brother.

"What I want, Dean Winchester, is to use my powers to destroy all of the evil supernatural things that I couldn't when I was alive. But I am bound by mystic power to this in-between place, and I need a body, your body, to manifest in the material realm for long." The demon was suddenly determined, his voice bordering on cold anger. Dean recognized the tone because he had used it himself when trying to suppress guilt.

"I'll kill you before I let you touch my brother again!" Dean yelled, momentarily unaware of the ridiculousness of his threats from his bound and helpless position. The world brightened a little and Dean saw Ansius' face looking down at him, the demon's regal features absent of emotion, frozen solid. Ansius was holding a small box that Dean recognized as the relic.

"I don't intend to touch your brother, Dean Winchester. I intend for you to." Dean looked on in terror, trying to come to grips with the implications of the demon's words. Ansius unchained the hunter's left hand and with terrible strength forced it into contact with the relic. Dean felt a disgusting warmth wash over him before his vision faded.

End Chapter 5