Chapter 9

The depraved hunter was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had outwitted John's boys, two experienced hunters trained under the master. He'd skillfully disabled both of them, stranding one, drugged in the woods over an hour to the north with little hope of returning until the morning when it would be too late. The other hung helplessly before him from a wooden beam, chained like an animal from his wrists. His shirt barely clung to his body having been shredded by the whippings and "blood lettings" that had carried on throughout the dark hours of the night. If it wasn't for the stickiness of the drying blood on his damaged chest and back, the tattered shirt would have fallen to the basement floor hours earlier. Instead, the pieces appeared glued to the bruised and battered young hunter whose breathing was labored at best.

Denton waited eagerly for his captured "Supernatural" to wake up only so he could torment him and beat him once again. He didn't care to interact with Sam anymore, at least not yet. He just continued to mercilessly punish Sam over and over again. His hatred of those he labeled "supernatural" driving him deeper and deeper into the dark corners of his demented mind. He was a fuse just waiting to be lit and for some reason, Sam was the match.

The aged hunter glanced at the weapons he had collected from his truck as they lay out before him on an old wooden bench that had been left in the dank basement of the old dilapidated house that barely stood above them. The spread out arsenal almost looked like a surgeon's tray during a serious operation. Many of them weapons were smeared with blood, Sam's blood.

Denton hovered over each "tool", caressing it, reminiscing about all the blood it had spilled and been bathed in from the past. His calloused hands delighted in the fact that they were now stained with the liquid life of the "supernatural" who had masqueraded as an innocent, protected as if something human, worthy of love and worth defending. In reality, it was merely a king, righteously captured in a treacherous game of chess masterfully played by the immoral huntsman. In the end, all the prey would be was another notch on the predator's supernatural belt. It would be his 250th kill, one which would long be remembered and clearly celebrated for years to come. Each tool should be allowed to participate one last time, to experience again the living liquid of this "supernatural" for its faithfulness in service over the years in extinguishing the world of evil.

Sam, who had suffered mercilessly at the immoral hand of his captor, drifted in and out of consciousness. For brief moments, he'd awaken, often drawn out from oblivion by the cruel taunting of the demented predator who victimized him relentlessly. He'd be aroused enough to be cognizant of his situation, which played out mostly in pieces before him, only to be mercilessly beaten, punished into unconsciousness shortly after. He was aware of a familiar voice uttering menacing words about freaks and "Supernaturals" before the pain would become unbearable and he would return to the oblivion he had escaped from moments earlier. It was much like his vision, sketchy at best and holding no hope of escape; its ending, dying...alone. Sam would have found comfort in thinking of Dean, but he was never given the chance to think. Only pain and darkness, darkness and pain, and blood, Oh God, a lot of blood.

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

Back to the forest...

Having expelled some of the emotional tension that had momentarily paralyzed him when he had grasped his little brother's desperate situation, Dean took a deep breath. He swept his hand across his tear soaked face and struggled to regain his composure. He knew if he were to be any help to his younger sibling, he needed to be clear minded.

His knees, which had become one with the pine needles crushed beneath them, began to beg for some relief. Obliging, Dean rose to his feet and started pacing, back and forth before the knotted tree he had attacked only moments before. His mind, clearer now, began to try to sort out how the hell they had ended up in this mess.

The forest was a captive audience observing the unusual young man as he carried on a conversation with himself. If one could "read" a tree, you would have sworn that it feared for the safety of its other limbs.

"How the hell did things get so damned screwed up?" Dean shouted angrily picking up a pine cone and hurling it several yards out.

"Denton, ….that evil son of a bitch! He played us all along, slowly, methodically, baiting and reeling us in…… We were freakin hunted by the God damn hunter!"

"Damn it" Dean hollered loudly, his words quickly lost in the denseness of the wooded area he had been so rudely dumped in.

"That screwed up bastard!"

"I knew it! He never intended to let it go, to accept Sam as… 'Sam'".

Dean fisted his hands in his hair as tears threatened to make an appearance. He knew he was Sammy's only hope in this wicked game he and his little brother had been so cruelly forced to play. He felt like he had been a pawn, moved across the board by a master chessman, unable to control his own destiny, and in the end, expendable. He had been discarded as being insignificant…..It was the chessman's ultimate mistake.

"This game is not over yet!" Dean shouted angrily at the hunter wherever he was,"You better pray Sam is alive and well or,so help me God, you will curse the day you were born!"

Dean's warrior heart began to awaken from deep within him. He was a soldier, full of courage and conviction, well trained in both the strategies of a hunt as well as the weaponry, righteous in his endeavors to rid the world of the evil that lurked cruelly preying on those who are innocent, dedicated even unto death should it be required of him. Based on his abilities, Sam had been tried and convicted of being a "Supernatural", a creature Denton had defined as being everything evil, but in reality, Denton, possessing no extraordinary gifts or abilities of his own, was the "Supernatural" . He had become the very thing he detested, the very thing he hunted… evil himself, having mercilessly preyed on the innocent-Sam. He had stalked him, tortured him with fear using his trusting nature against him and was now planning to execute him if his threat were true. Dean faltered for a moment as he considered that it might have already happened, but he forced the thought out of his head; his dad had worked hard to teach the boys how to imprison those fears that paralyze and he regained his strength, his focus.

Dean began searching for his cell phone. It wasn't long before he realized Denton must have taken it. While panic would have easily overtaken the average person lost in the woods, Dean became even more focused. The hunter in him began listening, taking in all the sounds that dared to express themselves around him, searching for anything that seemed out of place.

In a matter of minutes, he was able to make out the soft swoosh of a car passing by on a distant road. He was surprised he hadn't noticed the sound earlier. Whether his dispair had kept him inwardly focused earlier causing him to miss the almost imperceptible sound, or whether a vehicle hadn't yet passed by this remote area that he had found himself in, it really didn't matter. A car, moving at that speed, meant there was a road nearby, probably paved by the sound of the tires as they rolled across its surface. If there was a road, there was a place it could take you to, a place to find help.

Dean made his first move as he entered back into the chess game he had been so violently forced to play. Yes, the king was in check, as the creepy hunter had made clear moments before Dean had lost consciousness, but there was still a key player on the board-Dean.

He immediately headed off in the direction of the road. He began planning his next move as he hiked through the peaceful woodland. No longer did it scare him, instead it offered a tranquility that helped him focus even more. First he would get his car to find Sam and get him help if he needed it and then … he would hunt down Denton and kill the son of a bitch.

It wasn't long before Dean reached the single lane highway that offered no information to help him get his bearings. It was dark, really dark and it was unlikely that anyone would be traveling this road so late at night or early in the morning. Dean glanced up and down the road with moonlight as his only source of illumination. He had two choices… to wait by the roadside until a car came which would strand Sam with Denton for much longer than was tolerable or to choose a direction and hoof it. Dean chose the later and using the moon to give him his bearings, he headed south.

Within an hour, a vehicle could be heard rumbling in the distance. It was coming from behind him which meant it was heading in a southerly direction. A perky trucker, looking for some light conversation, spotted the weary runner, and, when he turned to hitch a ride, obliged.

Despair attempted to worm its way back into Dean's heart when he discovered, much to his dismay, that he was at least an hour north of the decrepit farmhouse that had been such a death trap. The over-caffeinated trucker, sensing his passenger's anguish, offered to get him within a few miles of his target and Dean gratefully accepted the assistance.

Once seated in the truck, Dean attempted to small talk with his energetic chauffer who had obviously been alone in his truck for far too long, chugging down coffee like it was water, but his mind was elsewhere. He decided to close his eyes and pretend to sleep. The trucker, though disappointed that he'd lost his audience, allowed his weary traveler the quiet that he needed.

All Dean could think about as the truck glided along the seeming unending highway was the conversation he and Sam had shared regarding his vision and his dying alone. It began to replay in his mind……..

"Wanna talk about it?

"Denton?"

"I was thinking of the vision."

"It was a bit interrupted, Dean, but it was weird."

"Weird, how?"

"I was in it."

"Well, that's new. What were you doing?"

"Dying…"

"Was I with you or were you alone?'

"Alone"

Alone ... The word just hung in Dean's mind as he remembered his little brother's voice when he spoke it. It had sounded frightened, but also sad. He could still see Sam's gentle eyes looking at him, searching for some sort of comfort, reassurance that it would never happen, that somehow, his big brother would keep him safe, that he wouldn't die alone.

Guilt began to rise from somewhere in his stomach, passing through his chest, squeezing behind his heart as it chocked the air from his lungs. Sam's vision had always been about Denton and he hated himself for not realizing it sooner. Sam was his responsibility; he always looked after the kid. How could he have let this happen?

He should have killed Denton the first night at the warehouse when he had clearly declared war on Sam. But that was Denton's way, not Dean's. Dad had taught him the value of human life, all human life, something Denton had clearly no comprehension of. Dean had given the man the benefit of the doubt, lived by the values instilled in him, but this time those very values, guidelines if you will, had not applied and his brother's life might be the price.

Dean couldn't help but wonder if the path Denton had taken was inevitable in their line of work. Can anyone really stay sane doing what they do their whole lives. Dad did. The thought comforted Dean a bit. Dad hadn't gotten lost in the abyss of insanity. Sure he was dedicated, sometimes, overly so to get the damn demon that had taken his wife and continued to be a threat to his youngest son, but he never crossed the line that Denton had. Denton was clearly demented and Sam? Sam was probably dying at the hand of the deranged hunter at that very moment. Dean had seen what the hunter was capable of and he knew that Sam was suffering at the hands of a madman.

The drizzle of the rain on the oversized windshield of the truck seemed to mock him; its slow rhythm reminding him, minute by minute, of just how long it was taking to get back to his little brother, back to Sammy.