A/N: Okay, so I managed to get this chapter up a bit faster than anticipated... Again, apologies for the cliffie... I'm really not sticking them in at random just to torture you all... Although the next chapter might take a while as I'm still struggling with it - yes coming soon, the dreaded exposition chapter...!

Many many many thanks for all the reviews! I'm sure you can all see me blushing from where you're sitting...

Chapter Ten

"So, thanks for bringing him back, Officer Semansky," Ian called lightly, as the portly Police officer waddled back towards his squad car.

"Just make sure you don't go losing him again," the cop warned, easing himself back into the driver's seat.

Ian put his arm around Dean's shoulders, smiling at the cop as he reversed out of the driveway and headed off down the road.

Dean tensed, waiting for the inevitable, still scarcely able to believe the cop had fallen for Ian's garbled explanation about Dean's kid brother having told him that his sibling had gone off with some older kids he knew and had said he'd be getting a ride home with them.

Dean hadn't pointed out to the officer that he and Sam didn't actually know any kids around here. And he certainly hadn't filled him in on the whole 'mind control, ditch you in the mall while I kidnap your little brother' thing.

The old cop was good for a DMV check and a ride home, but Dean doubted he would be of much use against the Forces of Evil out to get his kid brother.

Ian's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened as Officer Semansky's car drew away down the street, and when the cop was completely out of sight, he grabbed hold of Dean's t-shirt and fairly dragged him into the house, nearly pulling him off his feet in the process.

Here we go, Dean thought, as Ian swung the boy around in front of him, taking hold of his arms and shaking him rather harder than Dean had expected.

"You shouldn't be here!" Ian spat through gritted teeth, while all Dean could do was try and stay on is feet.

"Where's Sam?" he demanded, scowling angrily at his Uncle. "If you've hurt him…"

Ian cut him off. "Do you know what'll happen if he finds you here?" he hissed. "Why couldn't you just stay lost? Why did you have to come back here?"

"Bad penny's my middle name, dude," Dean returned, trying to disentangle himself from Ian's grip. "Now let me see Sam…"

"You can't see him!" Ian snapped. "Or – or – he can't see you! If Sam sees you, then he'll know – " He stopped dead, attention drawn to something over Dean's shoulder, face paling visibly. Dean could feel the guy trembling. "No," he whispered. "Dammit, no…"

Dean tried to turn to see what Ian was looking at, but as soon as he heard the soft thrum of an engine heading their way, he knew he didn't need to, guessing correctly that the silver Mercedes had just turned into the driveway.

Ian pulled Dean away from the door, slamming it behind him so hard the glass panel rattled. "He can't know you're here," he said, grabbing Dean by the wrist and trying to drag him along the hallway.

"Dean?"

"Sammy!" The second Dean heard his brother's voice drifting uncertainly down the stairs, he dug his heels in and refused to budge. "Sam! You okay little brother?"

He heard Sam's footsteps as the kid started charging down the stairs towards him, but never got any closer thanks to a strong arm suddenly wrapping itself around his midriff and hoisting him up into the air.

"Dammit!" Dean cursed, kicking out at anything vaguely Ian-shaped. "Get off me!"

"He can't see you!" Ian sounded desperate, half-carrying, half-dragging Dean down the hallway in the opposite direction from Sam. "If Sam sees you, he'll know! Dean, he'll know! He'll know you're alive – he'll know you're here – and he'll kill you!"

For a second Dean stopped kicking. "Let go of me, you freak!" he spat. "Sam's not going to kill me!"

"No," Ian said. "Not Sam." His eyes darted to the front door, where the silhouette of an approaching figure in an expensive grey suit could be seen through the glass. "But he will!"

"Dean?" Sam had landed at the bottom of the stairs, causing Dean to resume struggling with Ian's death grip.

"Let go!" he yelled, trying to bite Ian's hand as he suddenly found it slapped across his mouth. He drew in a startled breath, the rest of his curses muffled as he clawed at Ian's hand.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Ian said, dragging him backwards. "It's for your own good. I mean it, he'll kill you."

Dean heard the sound of a key grinding in a lock behind him, a 'clink' as a padlock was opened, and the creak of a door. The next thing he knew Ian was shoving him roughly into what he at first thought to be a storage cupboard, before suddenly realising he was at the top of the stairs leading down into the forbidden basement.

Ian looked positively panic-stricken, one hand pressed against Dean's chest as he tried to keep him from running straight back out into the hallway. "Dean, please be quiet," he begged. "If he finds out you're still here – if he finds out I couldn't do it…"

"Dean!"

Dean could hear Sam skidding along the hallway towards him, but try as he might, he couldn't get past Ian, who just kept pushing him back into the basement.

"Couldn't do what?" he demanded. When Ian didn't answer, eyes darting towards Sam and the front door behind him as a heavy knocking echoed around the hallway, Dean repeated, "Couldn't do what?"

Ian looked down at him then, real fear in his eyes. "I was supposed to kill you," he admitted softly, not meeting Dean's gaze.

Dean swallowed hard.

"When he finds out I couldn't do it – "

"That's why you ditched me?"

"Dean. Just be quiet," Ian pleaded. "Please. Just be quiet. If he doesn't know you're here, he can't hurt you." Another rap on the door made Ian start like a frightened rabbit, and he just looked at Dean. "I'm not lying to you," he said, earnestly. "He'll kill you."

And with that, he slammed the door.

"No!" Dean kicked at the door as hard as he could, the sound of the padlock clicking back into place causing him to bang his fists against the wood as he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Lemme outta here you asshole! I mean it! Lemme out!"

"Dean!" Dean could hear Ian's pleading voice on the other side of the door, and he desisted with the racket for a second, just as another loud rapping could be heard on the front door. "Dean, please!" Ian actually seemed to be begging. "I admit, I've lied to you a lot over these past couple of days…"

I knew it!

"But believe me when I tell you this: If he finds out you're here, he'll kill you. I'm not kidding, Dean. Please be quiet. Please. I won't let him do anything to Sam, I swear. But if you ever want to see your brother again, you've got to be quiet. Please believe me."

Dean leaned his head against the door, thinking. "Swear to me you won't let him hurt Sam," he insisted, just as a decidedly more impatient knock echoed down the hallway.

A pause. Then, "I swear."

Dean took a deep breath, but didn't resume kicking the crap out of the lousy door.

"Uncle Ian, where's Dean?" he heard Sam's voice, and wanted so badly to get out there to him that he thought he would die right there.

"Don't worry, Sam," he heard Ian say, his voice somehow different. Almost sincere. "He's okay. But he won't stay that way if the man at the door finds out he's here. You get me?"

Dean strained to hear Sam's reply.

"He's not here to make Dean better, is he?" Sam asked.

"No," Ian replied shortly.

There was a pause, then, "I get you."

And then Dean heard the front door open, and after that he couldn't hear anything at all.

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"This must be Sam," the guy with the silver hair said cheerfully, reaching out a hand towards the little boy in front of him.

Sam took an instinctive step backwards, so used to Dean being there that he almost expected his brother to step in front of him like he usually did if anything threatened them. But Dean wasn't there, and Ian merely pushed him gently forwards again.

"Shake his hand, Sam," Ian instructed him quietly. He was trembling, and Sam didn't understand why.

Sam tentatively took the man's outstretched hand, an involuntary shudder running down his spine at the touch of the unnaturally cold skin.

"Sam, I'm Mr Oliver," the man said, not offering to remove his dark glasses as he stepped over the threshold and into the house uninvited. He glanced about himself, a frown visible on his deathly pale face, and Sam would have sworn he was sniffing the air around him like a bloodhound.

The smile on his thin lips became thinner, and he turned his attention to Ian very briefly. "Is there anyone else in the house?" he asked, an innocent enough question on anyone else's lips, but on his it sounded to Sam like an accusation.

Mr Oliver's attention had drifted to the padlocked basement door, and he took a hesitant step towards it, frown deepening.

Ian moved in front of him. "Only – " he began, before looking down at Sam and smiling weakly.

Mr Oliver appeared to come back to himself, attention returning to Ian. "Yes," he said. "Of course. That must be what I was sensing."

Ian nodded eagerly. "Yes," he agreed. "Erm. Should we – do you want – ?"

"Yes," Mr Oliver cut him off. "We should begin. Time grows short. Lead the way."

Ian smiled awkwardly, taking Sam's hand and leading the boy back towards the stairs. "Come on, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam followed reluctantly, almost afraid to take his eyes off Mr Oliver, who followed behind them, a little too close for comfort.

Ian led Sam back up to his bedroom, taking him inside and motioning for him to sit on the bed. Sam hesitated for a second when Ian let go of his hand and Mr Oliver made to sit next to him.

Sam really didn't like this. This guy was way creepy, and he suddenly found himself wishing Ian still had a hold of his hand.

Mr Oliver smiled, folding his own hands neatly in his lap. "So, Sam," he said. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time now."

Sam looked surprised. "We – we've only been here a couple of days…" he stammered.

Mr Oliver laughed, a cold sound like ice cracking. "Yes," he agreed. "But I've been waiting to meet you much longer than that. It's been a couple of years at least since you first came to my attention."

Sam's eyes darted to Ian's in alarm, but Ian just stared at the carpet and moved further towards the door. "How – how did you – why – ?"

"A friend of mine," Mr Oliver explained. "A teacher at one of your old schools. She thought you and I would get along. She thought that we would be – " he searched for the perfect word. "Compatible."

Sam glanced at the door nervously, as if willing Dean to come bursting through it and whisk him away to safety.

"A pity your Father should decide to disappear off the radar with you at that exact moment," Mr Oliver continued. "Or we might have found each other a little sooner."

Dean, please come get me… Sam found himself wishing. Please… But he knew it wasn't going to happen. Not with Dean locked in the basement…

Mr Oliver frowned suddenly, turning abruptly towards Ian. "I told you to dispose of him!" his voice was so cold it could have sunk the Titanic.

Ian looked taken aback. How did he know? How could he possibly have seen…? "I – I d-did," he protested fairly unconvincingly. "I did dispose of him – "

Sam's eyes widened. "You hurt Dean?" he burst out, making as if to run towards the door. But Mr Oliver put a hand on his arm, and suddenly all he wanted to do was sit back down.

The dark glasses turned back towards Ian. "Come here," he ordered.

Ian swallowed hard before shuffling over towards the bed. "Sir, I swear…"

"Show me!" Mr Oliver demanded, and Ian made a slight choking noise, head snapping back for a second. When he raised his head and looked again towards Mr Oliver, his eyes were totally white.

Sam let out a startled whimper, but Mr Oliver merely squeezed his arm. "Don't be afraid, little one," he said smoothly. "It is less disturbing from the other side, you will see." He put a cold hand on Sam's cheek then, and the boy found himself unable to pull away. "Such a shame to erase such pretty eyes," he muttered softly, before turning back to Ian, who was still standing rigidly before him. "Show me," he repeated, voice like broken glass.

Ian let out a strangled little cry. "No!" he whimpered. "He's just a kid – please don't!"

Mr Oliver's mouth compressed into an angry line. "He's here?" he demanded. "You brought him here? Now? At this critical time?"

"No," Ian protested. "I – I tried to – to dispose of him, but – but he found his way back here!"

"When I told you to 'dispose' of him, I had something a little more permanent in mind!"

"I know," Ian apologised. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't. He's just a child… You – you said I could – that I could keep him. That I could keep them both. That they'd be safe with me. I just wanted to help them! That's all I ever wanted! You never said I'd have to – to…"

"Weak," Mr Oliver spat. "Weak and incompetent. Your sympathy for the boy will cost both of you your lives!"

"No! No, I…"

"Leave us!" Mr Oliver waved an angry hand, and Ian turned jerkily, moving towards the door as if no longer under his own power, a puppet on a string. "Go. I will deal with you presently."

Ian's colourless eyes seemed to linger on Sam for a brief second.

And then he was gone.

And it was just Sam.

"Now," Mr Oliver said, voice softer as he turned back towards Sam, his hand returning to the boy's cheek. "Where were we?"

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God, was it ever dark in here.

Dean could just about make out a rickety wooden handrail following the twisty stone steps down into the black depths of the basement, but beyond that, he couldn't see much further than a foot in front of him. Glancing longingly at the thin strip of light filtering underneath the basement door, he turned reluctantly back towards the dingy staircase.

He did so not want to go down there.

But he had to.

There had to be another way out of here. There just had to be. He had to get to Sam. He had to get him away from that freak of nature in the silver Mercedes, and although for some reason he actually believed Ian when he said he wouldn't let the guy hurt Sam, that wasn't nearly assurance enough. Dean needed to be there himself. He needed to make sure no-one­ hurt Sammy.

He took a deep breath, one hand fumbling for the rough wooden handrail, the other tracing the quick-limed wall opposite, oddly cool beneath his fingers.

He was glad the stairs were solid stone. At least the only thing creaking was the handrail.

Carefully negotiating the one-eighty bend half way down the staircase, Dean blinked hard as the basement opened up before him, a tiny sliver of illumination filtering through a skylight set high up in the wall way over on the far side of the room.

He studied it for a second, but figured even if he could somehow get up there, no way he'd fit through. Even Sam couldn't have made that.

Sam. His stomach lurched when he thought about what might be happening to him upstairs, galvanising him into trying to find a way out of this place. Quickly.

What he could make out of his surroundings didn't provide Dean with any reason why Ian should be so adamant that he and Sam shouldn't come down here. Shelves, tools, hardware, sure, the normal stuff people kept in their basements, but nothing…

A grunt from the far corner of the room caused Dean to jump back about a foot, heart hammering so hard he thought he might have a coronary right there on the spot.

There was someone – something – else down here.

Dean glanced nervously back up the stairs, where he could still just about make out the light shining under the door, and it took all of his admittedly limited powers of self control to resist the urge to sprint straight back up there and start kicking the crap out of it some more.

Had to find a way out. Had to. No matter what else was down here. Sammy was depending on him.

Gingerly, he followed the direction of the previous noise, creeping between the high shelves stacked with old paint tins, power tools, boxes of old discarded crap that Ian obviously hadn't the heart to throw away.

Stopping at the end of the row, he caught sight of an old camp bed lurking in the far corner beneath the skylight, what looked like a pile of old blankets piled on top.

Dean took another step forwards, eyeing the blankets suspiciously, half expecting a bunch of rats to come scurrying out at any minute. That would be just his luck. God, he hated rats.

But there were no rats, no other noises, and so Dean took another step towards the bed, then another, reaching out a trembling hand towards the blankets…

…Just as they moved.

Snatching back his hand and stifling a yell, it took Dean's brain a couple of seconds to register what he was seeing.

That wasn't a pile of blankets: there was someone lying on the bed.

Although their top half was in shadow, Dean could see filthy bare feet sticking out from under the bottom of the blanket. Another grunt, and the figure turned restlessly, a jangling noise drawing Dean's attention to the chain looped around the bottom of the bed, attached securely at the other end to a manacle which was shackled to the figure's ankle.

Dean took another step closer, from the heaviness of the person's breathing pretty sure they were well out of it.

He could see that the figure lay on its side now, face to the wall, one arm stretched out backwards towards Dean, awkward and at an odd angle. Another manacle was fastened securely around the red-raw wrist, this one attached to a chain which disappeared right into the wall above the bed.

The sleeper looked decidedly uncomfortable, another grunt issuing, followed by what sounded like a string of curses muttered through a sleep-addled haze.

Again, Dean resisted the urge to turn tail and run like hell, that old adage his Dad had taught him, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend', rolling around in the back of his head.

He reached out to touch the sleeping figure's arm, almost afraid of what would happen should they awaken, but completely unable to stop himself. This was important. But he wasn't sure why.

Carefully, he laid a hand on the muscular shoulder, pulling slightly in an attempt to get a better look at the sleeper's face, still obscured by shadow.

"Sammy!"

Dean tried to jump backwards as the manacled hand shot up and made a grab for his t-shirt, pulling him right up against the bed so that he had to kneel on the mattress just to stay upright.

As he grabbed at the rough hand clutching his shirt, his voice caught in his throat as he found himself staring into a pair of sightless white eyes.

"Dad?"

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Now even I think that's a nasty cliffie.

Stay tuned for the 'Oh, that's what's going on!' chapter... Coming soon...