A/N: Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin... Congratulations on having made it to the long, long, long exposition chapter. Don't worry, if you make it through this, there are only a couple more chapters to go. You've all done very well. A packet of M&Ms to each and every one of you... Try to stay awake at the back of the class!

Thanks: To everyone who's reviewed so far, and a special thanks to IheartPadalecki for reminding me of something I'd forgotten. I had a very long checklist of things to include in this chapter, but one little thing slipped through the net...which she picked up without even having read it.

Disclaimer: It never hurts to disclaim. And I disclaim everything, but will point out that all opinions expressed in this chapter are probably my own. Don't flame me. I'm a tolerant kinda gal.

Apologies: I suspect a lot of you aren't going to like what happens to Uncle Ian here, but decided to stick to my original plan for him rather than follow some of your many wonderful (and often graphically violent) suggestions of what to do with him...

Chapter Eleven

"I – I'm not scared of you," Sam stammered, trying to pull away from Mr Oliver, but completely unable to move.

"That's good," Mr Oliver said, touching Sam's hair thoughtfully. "Have to do something about this," he muttered, more to himself than Sam. Smiling, he continued, "I don't want you to be afraid. I want you to be happy. Don't you want to be happy, Sam?"

Sam thought about that for a second. "I guess," he replied uncertainly.

"Good," Mr Oliver smiled, back to stroking Sam's cheek as if he were some helpless puppy he'd found in the gutter. "Everyone wants to be happy, Sam. The world would be so much better if everyone could just have their greatest wish come true."

Sam just looked up at him, wondering where Ian had gone and what was happening to Dean.

"What's your greatest wish, Sam?" Mr Oliver asked then. "What would make you truly happy?"

Sam shrugged, foot banging against the side of the bed as it swung backwards and forwards nervously.

"This house?" Mr Oliver asked. "This life? A parent who loves you for yourself, not for what you can do for him?"

Sam frowned at that. "My Daddy loves me for myself," he protested, although he wasn't sure how true that was.

"And you brother?" Mr Oliver continued, fingers moving down over Sam's jaw, tipping his face up towards him. "Do you think you father loves him?"

Sam didn't answer right away. Had he been asked that question yesterday, he wouldn't even have needed time to think about it. But now…knowing what he knew…

Mr Oliver nodded sadly, as if looking right inside Sam's head. "If a man truly loved his son, Sam, would he treat him the way your father has treated your brother?"

Sam frowned. "How do you know – ?"

"Would he yell at him? Scold him? Beat him?"

Sam closed his eyes. Dean, please come get me…

"Do you want your brother, Sam?" Mr Oliver asked, Sam's eyes widening in surprise as the man once again seemed to see straight inside his head… straight inside his heart. "Is that what you want? More than anything? Because he takes care of you, protects you. Takes the pain so that you don't have to. You and him against the world, right Sam? You and him against your father?" Sam tried to turn away then, not wanting to listen any more, but Mr Oliver kept a firm grip on his chin, forcing him to continue looking up at him. "That's what you want most, isn't it, Sam?" he said. "You and your brother. And a big house like this. And a parent who'll love you. A parent who'll never hurt you – either of you. That's what you want, isn't it Sam? That's all you want."

Mr Oliver had both hands on Sam's face now, one on either cheek, forcing him to look up into the darkness where his eyes remained anonymous behind the darkened glasses. "You can still have it all, Sam," he continued. "You just need to want it. You just need to desire it. You just need to need it enough… And then your greatest wish can become a reality. Do you want it, Sam? Do you want your greatest wish to come true?"

Sam looked up into the darkness where Mr Oliver's eyes should have been and said in a small voice, "Yes. Yes I want it."

"Good," Mr Oliver said. "Then it will all be yours." He stroked Sam's cheek again, thoughtfully, before adding, "As soon as you prove it to me…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dad? Dad!" Dean tried to loosen his father's grip on his shirt, the unseeing white eyes looking straight through him as anguish almost unbearable overshadowed his father's dark features.

"Sammy!" he yelled. "Sammy!" as if that was all he could see.

"Dad!" Dean yelped as Dad's other hand suddenly made a grab for his throat.

"Where is he?" Dad demanded, shaking the boy so hard that Dean actually saw stars, something he thought only happened in cartoons. "Where's my son?"

"I'm right here, Dad!" Dean choked, clawing at the big hand clamped around his neck. "Dad! Dad, it's Dean! It's Dean, Dad, I'm right here!"

"Sammy!" Dad screamed again. "Where's my son?"

"Dad?" Dean felt the colour begin to drain from the world, the sounds becoming hollow and far away, as if he'd fallen down a deep well and didn't have the strength to pull himself back out. "Dad," he whispered weakly. "Dad, it's Dean…"

Then it stopped. Dad stopped shaking him, and the grip around his throat loosened.

Dean gulped in some badly-needed air, hardly daring to look at his father. "Dad?" he asked tentatively, keeping himself at arm's length just in case. "That you?"

Dad's eyes were closed, and he was swaying, almost as if he was struggling to stay upright.

"Dad?"

This time, the hand grabbed the back of Dean's neck, and when John Winchester opened his eyes, they were their usual inscrutable dark brown. "Dean?" he whispered, actually looking at his son for the first time. His face was pale, lips cracked and parched, the growth of beard on his chin suggesting he'd been here a while. "Am I dreaming?" he asked, his voice a broken whisper.

Dean shook his head, cursing the fact that a tear chose that moment to sneak past his defences and slide down his cheek. "You're not dreaming," he said. "Dad, I'm right here."

Dad's grip on the back of Dean's neck tightened, and he pulled his son towards him gently. "Good boy," he whispered, rough lips gently brushing Dean's forehead. "I knew you'd find me."

Dean gulped down a month's worth of tears, trying to look strong for his Dad, trying not to let him down. "Dad, how long have you been here?" he asked.

Dad frowned then, not really hearing Dean's question, confused mind focussing on something else. "Sammy," he said the name softly. "Dean, where's Sammy?"

Dean glanced behind him, back up the stairs, trying to think of a way to tell his Dad what had happened to his younger son.

But he never got the chance.

Eyes suddenly rolling back in his head, Dad started to sway again, one hand gripping Dean's shoulder while the other continued to hold on to his neck. "Find Sammy, Dean," he gasped, breathing becoming laboured. "Protect him. Protect Sammy. You hear me son? Protect Sammy. Protect…" And then he was falling back against the bed, pulling Dean along with him, hands still holding him fast.

"Dad?" Dean whispered, not daring to move for a second. When his father didn't respond, Dean pressed his ear against Dad's chest, listening intently for a heartbeat. For one agonising moment, he heard nothing but the hammering of his own heart, but then came the strong 'bump-bumping' which told him that, though unconscious, his Dad was at least alive.

Dean let out a long, ragged breath of relief, pushing himself up from his father's prone form and disentangling himself from his big hands and the chains keeping him restrained.

For a long moment, Dean just sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his father's inert body, watching his chest rise and fall. Carefully, he curled his fingers around his Dad's hand, feeling the warmth of him radiate up his arm.

And he smiled then.

Despite the dire circumstances. Despite the fact that Sam was God-knows-where having God-knows-what done to him, Dean smiled.

Because Dad was here. So everything was going to be alright.

But, as with most things in Dean's short life, his moment of happiness was short lived and his smile soon faded when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a key rattling in the padlock securing the door above his head.

Dean squinted upwards into the darkness as the basement door began to creak open. "Dad?" he whispered, shaking his father's unconscious form urgently, eyes never leaving the widening strip of light at the top of the stairs. "Dad, you need to wake up now. Dad?" But Dad didn't stir, and Dean had to fight a sudden wave of panic that seemed to have started in his toes and was rapidly making its way up his body.

A dark silhouette had appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs, back-lit by the light flooding in from the hallway beyond. The door creaked again, the light fading as it was pushed to, and Dean heard the key grinding once more in the padlock.

Which meant, Dean quickly realised, that whoever was standing at the top of the stairs was now locked in down here too.

Heavy footfalls alerted Dean to the fact that the interloper was descending the stairs, but the steps sounded irregular and jerky, almost as if the person was being forced down against their will.

Letting go of Dad's hand, Dean scooted behind the nearest row of shelving, grabbing the heaviest blunt instrument he could find – in this case a half-empty tin of livid green paint.

The figure had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and Dean could see how stiffly he moved, legs barely bending, and although Dean would never have admitted to having seen The Wizard of Oz, he couldn't help thinking of the Tin Man, or maybe one of those bad robot-dancing guys you saw in the park sometimes.

The dark figure turned then, moving jerkily towards where Dad was lying unconscious and unprotected, finally coming to a halt mere inches from where Dean was hiding.

Steeling himself, Dean looked up, knowing deep down what he was going to see, but scared of seeing it all the same.

Ian stood there, gazing at nothing through glazed white eyes.

Fingers tightening on the paint tin, Dean charged, running at Ian full tilt. Determined the guy wasn't going to get the chance to do anything to his Dad, he swung the tin with all his might, aiming it squarely at the guy's head.

But it never made it to its target, Ian suddenly reaching out and grabbing at Dean's wrist before his makeshift weapon could connect, easily turning the object away as he looked down into Dean's frightened hazel eyes.

With hazel eyes of his own.

"Dean?" he said, voice sounding as confused and distant as Dad's had. "What are you doing?"

The paint tin landed with a metallic thud against the concrete floor, and Dean stopped dead, looking back up at Ian with a stunned expression on his face. "You – you're – " he stammered. " – Locked in the basement," he managed lamely, trying to pull his wrist free without a whole lot of success.

Ian looked about himself at that, face contorting into an angry grimace. "Dammit," he swore, unconsciously tightening his grip on Dean's wrist. "Puppet on a goddamn string…"

Dean sucked a pained gasp in through gritted teeth, but refused to give Ian the satisfaction of his crying out in pain.

Which was when Ian looked down, as if only just remembering Dean was there. "Uh," he stammered. "Sorry," and let the boy go.

Dean just looked up at him, rubbing at his wrist, head tilted slightly to one side as if trying to figure out what just happened.

Ian looked right back at him.

Dean frowned. "So I found my Dad," he said, deciding that would be a good thing to casually drop into the conversation. He nodded to where his father lay sprawled unconscious on the bed. "He was here all the time, huh?"

Ian never took his eyes off Dean. "Pretty much," he admitted shortly.

"So…" Dean paused, unsure of what was supposed to happen next. "Evil Mercedes guy," he continued. "He send you down here to – to – " he tried to remember the word the man had used. "To 'dispose' of me now?"

Ian frowned, finally looking away from Dean and glancing behind him, back up the stairs to the locked door. "I guess not," he said awkwardly. "I'm pretty sure I didn't lock myself in here. So I'm guessing I might actually be in about as much trouble as you and your Dad."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked carefully. "What did you do to piss him off?"

Ian sighed, scratching helplessly at his head. "I was supposed to kill you, remember?"

"Oh," Dean looked down at his feet, shuffling them a little on the concrete floor. "Well. Y'know. Thanks," he said. "For not," he added. "Killing me I mean."

"You're welcome," Ian replied, sounding just as uncertain of Dean as Dean was of him.

"Don't think this means I trust you," Dean added, eyes narrowing still further. "'Cause I don't."

"Noted," Ian replied, uncomfortably shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he didn't know what he was supposed to do now any more than Dean did.

Dean nodded, the reality of Ian's situation suddenly bringing with it a much bigger problem. His eyes snapped back to Ian instantly. "Sam!" he burst out. "You said you wouldn't let that guy hurt Sam! But if you're down here, then he's got Sam by himself, and he could – he could – " the words were too much for Dean to even contemplate, much less say out loud, and before he knew what he was doing, he was charging past Ian towards the stairs as fast as he legs would get him there.

Taking the first three steps in one leap, his upward momentum was curtailed for the second time that day by Ian grabbing hold of him and yanking him off his feet.

"Will you stop doing that?" Dean snapped, once again trying to land a kick that would get Ian to put him down.

"Wait!" Ian urged. "Dean, wait!"

"No!" Dean spat. "I've got to get to Sam… Dad said… I've got to…"

"Wait!" Ian dropped him then, just as the kid managed to elbow him in the stomach. He breathed out heavily, but managed to keep his arms wrapped tightly around Dean's chest, pinning his arms to his sides in an attempt to avoid any further outbreaks of needless violence, while pulling him close and hanging on to him tightly, as if he were a tantruming three-year-old.

"Dean," he said calmly, right in the boy's ear as he continued his futile struggle to free himself. "Just stop for a minute."

"Get off!" Dean insisted, always contrary. "I've got to get to Sam!"

"Dean, Sam'll be here soon," Ian assured him, his words apparently having the desired effect on Dean as the kid stopped trying to kick him like a football for a second.

"Why?" he demanded, turning slightly to better get a look at Ian's eyes. Still hazel. Which was a good thing.

"He has to come down here," Ian explained. "Mr Oliver – the Mercedes guy – won't hurt him. I swear to you, Dean, he won't hurt him."

Dean made another attempt at pulling away, but Ian held him fast. "I don't believe you," he stated. "Why should I believe anything you say? Why would Sam be coming down here?"

Ian leaned his forehead against the side of Dean's temple defeatedly. "For us," he said simply. "Sam has to come here for us." He sighed deeply, and Dean felt the vibration in his bones. "All we can do is wait, Dean. There's no way out of here but through that door, and the only time that's going to open is when they're coming in. All we can do is wait."

He let Dean go then, but rather than haring off up the stairs as Ian half expected him to, the boy just took a breath and turned back to face him, trying to maintain that well-worn Not Scared face when he was obviously scared to death.

"What – what do you mean?" he asked tentatively, eyes widened somewhere between mistrust and panic.

"I think you know, Dean," Ian replied calmly.

Dean just looked at him for a second. "He's going to take Sam over, right?" he hazarded at length, the too-familiar dread gnawing at his insides. "Make his eyes go all white like yours. Like Dad's."

Ian shook his head. "No," he said. "Not like me. What you saw – that's a sign that he's in control, yes. But it's temporary. It just happens when he needs to use us. When you saw me like that, it was when he was wanting to see what effect Sam's nightmares were having on him. You saw you saw your Dad like that too?"

Dean nodded. "Just now," he confirmed. "But he was screaming for Sammy, which didn't make sense…"

"I think when I was upstairs with Sam," Ian explained. "He thought about you. Thought about you being down here. I think that's how Mr Oliver first knew I'd not killed you, when he sensed that from Sam. That's when he turned on me, took me, looked into my head, looked through my eyes and saw that you were still alive. He knew your Dad was down here, so he must have used him like he used me – looked through his eyes to see if you were here, if you were alive; confirm his suspicions."

"Which is why you didn't want Sam to see me," suddenly Dean understood why Ian had been so adamant that he shouldn't see his brother when he first got back here. "You were worried this Oliver dude would see I was alive through him."

Ian nodded. "I knew Sam could put you in danger – whether he knew it or not."

"But why was Dad screaming for Sammy if he was being possessed by Oliver?" Dean asked, frowning.

"It's not possession, exactly," Ian tried to explain. "More like sensory extension…"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sensory…?"

"He sees what I see; hears what I hear. But he's rarely completely in control."

"'Half-white eyes'," Dean muttered, remembering Sam's words from yesterday. Ian frowned, not understanding. "That's how Sam described you," Dean explained. "When he was talking crazy after you made him have those nightmares…"

"I didn't make him have the nightmares," Ian said, not protesting his innocence, just stating fact. "That was him. He used me as a – a conduit, I guess. A way of extending his reach so that he could touch Sam's mind without being physically present. That's something else he can use me for. Extending the range of his own power. I guess Sam was still feeling the after-effects of that presence in his mind when he used those words." His face became grave, pained, a hint of betrayal in his eyes. "That's all I am to Oliver," he said, sitting down heavily on the bottom stair. "A goddamn extension lead. God, why didn't I see it before…?"

"That's how he pushed me in the pool?" Dean broke in on the man's self-pity. "That's how he kept me under?"

Ian nodded. "I saw you go in," he said, eyes minutely examining the concrete beneath his feet rather than make eye contact with Dean. "But he knew what I was thinking. Knew he had to control me then, or I would have – "

"What were you thinking?" Dean interrupted, moving a step closer.

Ian looked up at him then, blinking hard. "That I couldn't let you die," he admitted. "That had never been part of the plan. At least, the plan he shared with me."

Dean didn't have a response to that, the growing hatred he'd been feeling for this guy over the last few days suddenly hitting a brick wall. Could that be true? Had Ian been trying to protect him?

Ian shrugged. "I couldn't move my body," he said. "Couldn't use my voice. It was the first time he'd taken complete control of me, and I didn't know what to do at first – I hadn't even realised he could take complete control of me. So I used the only thing I had left. My mind. And Sam."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sam?"

"Made him hear you yelling for him," Ian explained. "So that he'd find you in the pool and pull you out. I knew Mr Oliver would never let any harm come to him. I knew he'd have to let you go, or Sam would have drowned trying to save you."

Dean frowned. "How did you 'make' Sam hear me calling him?" he asked suspiciously.

Ian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He doesn't choose us at random," he said. "He chooses us because we have – talents – he can use."

Dean wasn't sure why, but he suddenly found himself perching on the step next to Ian. Glancing at him sideways, he asked, "You have a super power?"

Ian laughed hollowly. "Hardly," he replied. Then, looking squarely at Dean, he added, "It's called Hyper-Suggestivity."

Dean's face remained completely blank. "Hyper…?"

"Suggestivity," Ian repeated. "It means I can make people hear things they're not really hearing; see things they're not really seeing; remember things that never happened. Believe things that aren't true."

Dean's brows rose, and he jumped up off the step as if shot. "The mall!" he burst out. "That's what you did to me at the mall!"

Ian nodded apologetically. "I couldn't kill you," he said. "And I knew you'd never let me take Sam. So…"

"You planned the whole thing!" Dean couldn't believe he'd been that stupid. "Me thinking I could get Sam to Pastor Jim. You planned that – to make me think I could end up getting Sammy hurt – that I was a danger to him!"

Ian nodded again. He put a hand against Dean's cheek, and was more than surprised when Dean didn't pull away. "I'm sorry, Dean," he muttered, shaking his head. "It was the only way I could think of. The only way to save your life."

"I heard my Dad," Dean asserted, glancing across at his father. "I heard him ordering me to – to let Sam go with you – with him. I thought you were…" he trailed off, looking up at Ian with wide, confused eyes, before turning his attention back to his father.

Ian followed the direction of Dean's gaze, sadly. "That's why he's still here," he explained. "That's why Oliver needed to keep him alive."

Dean frowned again, resuming his seat next to Ian. "Why?" he asked tentatively.

Ian shrugged. "One of the – uh – benefits of working for Oliver. He enhances the abilities you already have by occasionally letting you use his power too. He made me able to see into people thoughts, see their emotions, their memories. Your Dad's memories. Episodes from his past. I used his memories to – to make you think that…"

Dean was staring off into the middle distance thoughtfully. "Dad never tried to drown me, did he?"

Ian shook his head. "No," he said simply.

Dean looked up at him, voice faltering. "But I remember – "

"You remember being cold and wet," Ian said. "You remember your Dad pulling you out of the bathtub and telling you how sorry he was."

Dean shuddered slightly at the thought of Ian's being able to see into his head like that.

"Your Dad's memory of the same event is one of the strongest he has from the time after your Mom died," Ian continued. "It just jumped out at me. That's why I used it."

Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to his next question, but he pressed on regardless. "So what really happened?"

Ian sighed, very gently pushing a strand of hair out of Dean's eyes. "He found you like that," he explained. "Under the water."

Dean didn't get it. "What was I doing?" he asked.

Ian looked away, as if ashamed at having trespassed on such a painful moment in John Winchester's life, and even more ashamed at betraying his pain to the man's son. "When he pulled you out," he explained. "When he asked you what you were doing… It was the first time you'd really said much of anything after the fire. And you – you told him you were looking for your Mom."

Now Dean looked really confused. "In the tub?" he asked.

Ian shook his head. "No," he said. "You told him that you thought if you stopped breathing you'd go to the place where your Mom had gone, and you'd be able to see her again."

Dean didn't move, just held Ian's gaze evenly. He swallowed, trying to stop his voice from trembling. "I – I tried to drown myself?"

Ian shrugged. "I don't know if you knew that's what you were doing," he replied. "I'm not sure what a four-year-old's concept of life and death would be…"

Dean nodded carefully, suddenly feeling brittle, like he might break if he moved too quickly. "And that's when he told me he was sorry? That part really happened?"

Ian nodded.

Dean thought about that for a minute. "So you saw all that inside Dad's head? In my head?"

Ian nodded again.

"And you used that to persuade me and Sammy that Dad was a little – you know – nuts?"

Ian continued nodding.

"Wow," Dean whistled. "That's some super power you got there."

Ian shrugged again. "It has its uses," he said. He smiled lopsidedly then. "Like making people see things. That can come in real handy."

Dean raised an eyebrow, glad to change the subject. God, he must have been a dorky four-year-old… "Oh yeah?" he said. "What kind of things."

Ian smiled a crooked smile. "Your Dad's car," he said, almost as if he was pulling a rabbit out of a magician's hat.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Dude, I saw that car…" he insisted.

Ian nodded. "Yes, you did."

Dean seemed taken aback by the admission. "I – did?" he stumbled.

"Yes," Ian confirmed. "Twice."

"Huh?" Dean said. "No, I only saw it the one time. When I came back with Sam, it was gone…"

"No," Ian corrected.

"Yes," Dean insisted. "Where did you move it? How did you move it? I know you were in the house…"

"I didn't move it," Ian said. "It's still there. Where you saw it."

Dean looked even more confused. "No way," he said. "It was gone, dude! I know the difference between a Chevy and a Ford – "

"Yes you do," Ian said. "And I saw that you did. So when you and Sam came back to the shed and I showed you your Dad's Chevy, you saw a rusty old Ford."

"No way!" Dean whispered breathlessly. "That was Dad's Impala?"

"Exactly where you saw it the first time."

"But you made me think I was looking at a Ford?" Ian grinned lopsidedly, like a magician revealing his secrets, and Dean just whistled. "Man, you must really like it inside my head to keep going back in there!"

Ian smiled. "Always did have a thing for big empty spaces."

Dean surprised Ian then by laughing. A real laugh, the first Ian had heard from the kid. "That's just the kind of thing Sam would say," he observed, his smile fading as his thoughts drifted back to Sam. He glanced involuntarily up at the ceiling, wondering what was going on up there.

Ian sighed, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Don't forget," he said. "I've been in Sam's head too."

Dean faltered again, almost not asking, but unable to help himself. "And what's going on in there?" he asked. "What's in his head?"

Ian's face was serious now too. "This," he said shortly. "This house. This life. Normality. Family. School. College. Kids. I don't know. The American Dream, I guess."

Dean wasn't sure he understood completely. "So is that how you got us to come with you?" he asked. "By putting the whammy on us – convincing us you were our Uncle and could give us a better life? That life Sam wants so bad?" he held Ian's gaze then. "Because you're not our Uncle, are you?"

Ian smiled sadly, and Dean could see that this particular truth truly hurt him. "No," he said, not looking away. "I'm not your Uncle."

Dean nodded. Knew it. Dammit, I knew it. And he couldn't understand why the truth suddenly hurt him too.

Blinking hard, he added, "So that's how you did it? That's how you got us here? That Hyper – Hyper thing?" Because somehow, that would make it easier…

Ian's sad smile never faltered. "No," he said. "No. I didn't need to do much of anything. You came with me because, deep down, you and Sam wanted what I was telling you to be true."

Dean shook his head. "Sam, maybe," he said. "He loves all that Apple Pie crap – "

"No," Ian said. "You wanted it too. You came just – almost – as willingly as Sam. I didn't have to do much at all. I just used your Dad's memories to convince you I was who I said I was – your Dad's code when I knocked on the door; things he remembered after the fire; things about your Mom. Neither of you took a whole lot of convincing."

Dean didn't know what to make of that. And he wasn't sure he really wanted to think too hard on it right now. It was Sam who wanted all that stuff – Planet Normal. Not Dean. All Dean wanted was Dad and Sammy. That was enough for him. What did he need with a big house? What did he need with a – a…home?

Home. Just the word made him hurt deep inside.

Needed to change the subject now…

"And what about you?" Dean asked. "How do you fit into all this?"

Ian traced his finger over the concrete step. "Mr Oliver?" he said. "He looks into us and sees what we want, what we need: our desires, our hopes, our dreams. The things we want most in life. And that's how he gets his power over us. Makes us think that he can give us what we want most in the whole world. Takes our deepest desires, and alters them. Changes what it is we think we want so badly. Makes us think that what he wants is what we want. Uses that to control us. To feed off us. To make us do his bidding."

Ian looked into Dean's eyes then, and could see that the boy understood what he was saying to some extent.

"And what did you want?" Dean asked.

Again, that sad little smile. "I wanted to help kids in trouble," he said. "I wasn't lying about that. That's all I ever wanted." He looked away, back at the finger tracing invisible patterns in the concrete. "He showed me two little boys whose father had abandoned them; mistreated them; taken away their childhoods and filled their every waking moment with nightmares."

Dean didn't try to protest his Dad's innocence in all this. There was no point: Ian had been in Dad's head. He knew.

"And it was the same with Daniel and Jamie?"

Another sad little nod of the head. "That's how Mr Oliver found me initially," he said. "Through them. He'd been interested in Jamie for a while – like he's been interested in Sam for a while. I was their mother's attorney. She was a junkie – " he paused, catching Dean's eye. Sometimes he forgot he was talking to a kid when he was talking to Dean. "You know what that means?" When Dean nodded, he continued. "The State wanted to take her boys away – put them in Care."

Dean shuddered, vividly remembering that night he and Sammy had spent at the foster home.

"Oliver needed to get Jamie away from his Mom, but a foster home just wouldn't have worked for him – he needed better access than that. And that's when he noticed me. Saw what I could do and what I wanted. Persuaded me that I could use my – my gift – get the Courts to grant me temporary custody of the boys while their Mom cleaned herself up, got herself back together. And it worked." He looked away, back at the pattern his finger was tracing on the step. "And for a while, we were like a real family. They came to live here. Like they were my real kids. And it was – it was…" he broke off, shaking his head.

For some reason, Dean put his hand on Ian's then. Almost as if to show he understood. Which he did. Much more than Ian could ever know.

Ian looked back up at him then, smiling slightly before the memory could take his smile away again. "But then the time came. The time when Mr Oliver wanted – well, he wanted Jamie. By then, against all the odds, their Mom had actually straightened herself out and wanted them back. Oliver said I couldn't let that happen. Said I had to kill her. Said I had to kill Daniel."

"Why Daniel?" Dean asked.

"Too protective of Jamie," Ian replied bitterly. "Oliver said Jamie would never be his as long as Daniel was breathing."

Dean nodded, recognising a kindred spirit in Daniel. "But you couldn't kill them?" he said. "You let them go?"

Ian nodded. "I was supposed to do it when their Mom came to collect them," he explained. "But I couldn't. I got Jamie out. Got them all out. Helped them disappear…"

Dean got that. "So your greatest wish…?"

Ian looked up at him. "Family," he said at length. "Kids. Someone to rattle around in this big expensive house besides me. What's the point in having all this stuff if I don't have anyone to share it with?"

Dean gave Ian that grin of his. "Okay," he said. "So my Dad did the whole 'birds and the bees' thing with me when I was, like, nine or something," he said. "I'm pretty sure it would be a hell of a lot easier if you just go out and find yourself a nice girl."

Ian smiled enigmatically at that. "Dean," he said awkwardly, looking away again for a second. "Would you know what I meant if I said I wasn't – uh – into girls?"

Dean held his gaze, seemingly unfazed. "So go find yourself a nice guy," he said, not missing a beat. "Plenty of kids out there could use a Dad – Dads," he corrected himself.

Ian raised an eyebrow, obviously not expecting a kid as brash as Dean to come out with a comment as enlightened as that. "I – " he stammered. "I don't know whether they'd let us…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're a lawyer, right?" he said. "Make them let you!" He scratched his head thoughtfully. "There's enough evil stuff out there without inventing more." He glanced over at the unconscious form of his Dad then. "But me and Sam?" he said, looking back at Ian. "We're already spoken for."

Ian just stared at Dean for a long moment, a look of wonder on his face. "I thought Sam was supposed to be the smart one?" he said eventually.

Dean shrugged. "Smart's over-rated," he declared. "If you look good and drive a cool car, you'll do just fine."

Ian actually laughed at that. "Who told you that?" he asked.

Dean grinned slyly. "My Dad's friend Bobby," he replied. "I was getting annoyed because Sammy could do the Latin thing and I couldn't get the words."

Ian nodded. "Bobby sounds like a wise man," he observed.

"Damn straight," Dean insisted. He paused, gazing up at Ian for a minute, still trying to work him out. "So," he said slowly. "If you couldn't kill Daniel and his Mom, what made you think you'd be able to kill me?"

Ian rubbed at his hands uncomfortably. "That wasn't part of the deal at first," he said. "Oliver said – well, Oliver said I could keep you. Promised me I wouldn't have to hurt you. He just wanted Sam, and you'd be mine."

"And you would have just gone along pretending to be my Uncle?" Dean asked. "Just having to put the whammy on us every now and then if we stopped believing you?"

Ian nodded.

"So what went wrong?"

"That nightmare he gave Sam?" Ian said. "It was kind of a test. To see how Sam would react to – to certain situations. Identify his strengths; his weaknesses…"

"And I'm his weakness, huh?" Dean asked.

Ian shook his head, a serious expression on his face. "No," he said. "No, you're his strength. What Sam feels for you? What you feel for each other? Oliver knew he didn't stand a chance against it. Knew he'd never be able to – to use Sam as long as you were around. That's when he said I had to kill you. He'd got my head so turned around. I'd already resigned myself to having to kill your Dad. He'd 'helped' me see some of your Dad's memories a little differently to the reality – gave me a taste of my own medicine I guess. Like his trying to drown you. He convinced me that by killing him, I'd be saving you…"

"Saving me from what?" Dean asked, not quite understanding.

Ian sighed. "From him," he said. "From your Dad. Dean, you have to understand Oliver's kind. They lie. About everything. And they use what's already in your head to convince you it's the truth. He – he convinced me your father was beating you – "

"What!" Dean was on his feet again, eyes flashing bloody murder and jaw set in indignant fury. "Dad's never – never­ – hit me! Even when I deserved it!"

"I know," Ian said. "I know that now. Since I saw into your memories. Your Dad might have screwed you guys up – and I wasn't kidding about how much therapy you're both going to need – but I could see he never hurt you. Not physically anyway. Not intentionally." Ian was struck by how differently Dean took this slur against their father than Sam had. Somehow, Sam had seemed a lot more willing to believe it.

Dean bit his lip, trying to rein in some of his anger. "So – so you decided not to kill me…"

"Tried to just get rid of you…"

"Like I said," Dean pointed out. "Bad penny."

"And that's when Oliver realised maybe I wasn't playing on his team any more," Ian continued. "Decided to make me part of Sam's 'initiation test', I guess. You too…"

Now they'd come round to it. What Dean really needed to know, but really didn't want to know…

"So what, exactly, does Oliver want with Sam?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Ian patted the stair next to him, motioning for Dean to sit back down. Dean acquiesced reluctantly. "You're not going to like this," he said.

"Yeah, I pretty much figured," Dean replied.

Ian took a deep breath. "Okay, so Mr Oliver. He doesn't have a physical form – "

"Like a spirit?" Dean put in.

"Something like that," Ian agreed. "He's kind of a form of energy, pure power. He has a consciousness, but in our reality he has no physical dimension, no body," Ian paused to make sure Dean was following, which he certainly seemed to be. "So in our world, he has no real physical presence. He can affect the physical world – like when he pushed you into the pool – but he can only manifest for short periods of time, and only then when he's using someone like me as a conduit. Or when he's close to his power centre."

"Power…?"

"To stay in our reality," Ian explained. "He needs an anchor, a physical object in which to dwell, something to bind him to this world."

"And that can be anything?" Dean asked. "Like a Big Mac? Or a Barbie? Or…"

"It can be something inanimate like that," Ian agreed, cutting Dean off before his imagination got too out of control. "Although he tends to go for religious artefacts – statues, crucifixes, that kind of thing."

"Why?" Dean asked.

Ian shrugged. "Satisfying his inner drama queen maybe?" he hazarded. "But when he's occupying an inanimate object, he's limited in what he can do in our world."

That knot of fear started tightening in Dean's chest again. "And he can do more if he's inside a – a person?" he asked slowly. "A person like Sam?"

Ian nodded. "It's supposed to be a voluntary joining," he said. "At least, that's how he sold it to me. He said Sam would be his 'vessel', but he'd still be Sam, still be a kid. My kid. That's what he said. That's what he promised me."

"A family?" Dean was beginning to understand Ian now. Dean was beginning to understand him totally.

Ian continued to nod. "But I began to realise he was lying when I first looked into your memories and realised your Dad never hurt you. Oliver had changed my perception of what your Dad remembered just like I changed your perception of what you remembered. I don't know how he did it. All I know is I only got his version of the truth, not your Dad's. I didn't see the truth until I saw your memories, and by then it was too late. You were already here. Your Dad was already here."

"How did you get my Dad?" Dean asked, figuring Ian was the next best source seeing as Dad was in no position to tell him.

Ian shrugged. "Same way I got you," he said. "He got a phone call from his friend Jim Murphy. Said you'd called to tell him you were going to stay with your Uncle in Kansas – gave him this address."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "But Pastor Jim never called him, right?" he said. "That was you?"

Ian nodded. "I'd been watching your Dad for a few days. Knew where he was staying. Knew how to contact him there. Of course, he knew you guys didn't have an Uncle and came straight here, like a bat out of hell…"

"Right into the trap you'd set for him?"

Ian nodded. "When he got here, he found the house conveniently empty… All he heard was the sound of his kids screaming for him from the basement."

Dean's newfound tolerance of Ian began to ebb a little at that revelation. "And once you got him down here…?"

Ian read the unasked question haunting Dean's eyes. "He's alright," he reassured the boy. "Just sleeping. I don't need him to be conscious to see into his head. He's been this way since he got here."

"Can you wake him up?" Dean asked hopefully.

Ian shook his head. "I'm not the one keeping him unconscious," he replied.

Dean's eyes flitted to his father, disappointment obvious on his face. Then, as if pulling himself out from under the mountain of fear threatening to suffocate him, he asked, "How did this Oliver dude get his sights set on Sam anyway?"

"A teacher at a school you went to once," he explained. "She's kind of a scout for Oliver. Noticed Sam a couple of years ago."

Dean frowned. "What's so special about Sam?" he asked.

Ian just looked at him, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again and shrugged.

Dean wasn't sure he liked the look of that. "So why the urgency now?" he persevered. "Why come for Sam now?"

Ian rubbed at his chin. "Oliver's current host – the guy in the expensive suit?"

Dean nodded.

"Found out he was sick a few months ago."

"So he needs a new body?"

"Yeah," Ian confirmed. "It was pretty urgent then, when he tried to get his hands on Jamie. But it became downright dire a week ago."

Dean frowned. "What happened a week ago?" he asked.

"He died."

Dean's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "He – what?" he stammered.

"Oliver's host died a week ago," Ian reiterated.

"Wait a second…" Dean tried to figure this out. "Then how's he walking – talking – how…?"

"You know what a life support machine does?" Ian asked.

Dean nodded. "When someone's real sick," he answered, "and their body's not working any more, they get hooked up to a life support machine and it keeps them breathing. Keeps their heart beating."

"That's right," Ian agreed. "Even when their brain is no longer capable of doing that for them. Well that's what Oliver is doing for his current host."

Dean had seen dead people before. And he'd seen possessed people. But he'd never seen a possessed dead guy. "Eeeew…" he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah," Ian agreed. "So you can see why the urgency once he lost Jamie. Mr Oliver can't keep the guy ticking over forever."

"Yeah," Dean pointed out. "'Cause he's gonna start to stink pretty soon…"

"So when we picked up your Dad's trail again," Ian continued. "When we found out you were in Missouri, Oliver knew it had to be Sam."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, eyes drifting once again to his father. "I'm going to lose him, aren't I?" he said quietly, gaze returning to Ian. "Sam. I'm going to lose him."

Ian bit his lip. Dean was a tough little kid, he knew that. He'd seen it. But he wondered how much he'd be able to handle before the reality of it all became too much.

He sighed, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder and meeting his frightened gaze evenly. "Yes," he said honestly, aching at the way Dean flinched at the word. "Unless Sam puts up a fight. Unless we help Sam put up a fight."

Dean looked hopeful at this. "You'll help?" he asked. "We can help him?"

Ian smiled encouragingly. "We can try," he said. "You're Sam's strength, remember? No way he'd let anything happen to you…"

Dean looked nervous at that. "Why?" he asked cautiously. "What – what's going to happen?"

Ian opened his mouth as if to answer, just as a key turned in the padlock upstairs.

Dean and Ian both turned their attention upwards, as the crack of light on the landing began to widen.

Ian's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened.

"I think we're about to find out."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope that wasn't too painful! And that you're all still awake. Don't worry, I'll see about trying to kill everyone next chapter...

Reviews still very much appreciated... And now that I've topped my original dream total of 100, I'm going to be greedy and see if I can make 200! (Although I might have to add a few chapters to get there, so maybe not...!)