AN: Not for the faint of heart.

Edited for errors and clarity.

* * *

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.

– Ferdinand Foch

as quoted in The 32nd Infantry Division in World War II by Harold Whittle

Dean glared up at the glitzy hotel where he'd finally tracked down Bernice and Matthew. It was shiny and obnoxious and he felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman trying to act like he belonged. Why this hotel? Because it was the best.

Dean was wearing a suit, but his Special Agent Fleetwood, Federal Bureau of Investigation ID wouldn't help him here, he could sense it. The people who worked the desk, the security guard, the freaking doorman all were paid too well to be intimidated by a g-man or to be bribed into looking the other way. So Dean was staking out the darkest, most remote back entrance he could find. Every door had a slot for a key card, so Dean needed to pinch one without being seen – no easy task. A few times, a couple employees had stepped out for a smoke, but never alone.

He had to be patient. Dean hated being patient. Hated being silent, because in the silence he imagined what Sam was going through. It increases exponentially, Christopher had said of the blind bloodlust, too sympathetic to have lied.

Dean had been on a Hunt similar to this before. When he was seventeen, Bobby had been bitten by a nuckelavee saving Dean from the same fate. The only way to save him was to kill the thing before the next full moon. The Winchesters had chased it across the country for eighteen days, sleeping while the others drove (even 13-year-old Sam, out of sheer necessity) and cleaning up with baby wipes in gas station bathrooms until the car smelled so bad they drove with all four windows wide open all the time.

They had finally killed the disgusting creature in a strawberry field in Wisconsin. The horrified but grateful young couple who owned the farm had sent them on their way with Dean's first ever strawberry pie and half a bushel of the fresh fruit. Sam's mouth and fingers had been stained red for two weeks, as he single-handedly ate most of the strawberries.

And Dean really, really needed to stop thinking of Sam with red on his face and hands because all he could see was blood. Cas wouldn't let that happen. Dean had to believe that, or he'd never be able to do his part.

He froze against the wall – it really wasn't dark enough for hiding well – when a car turned into the alley and crept its way in. There wasn't much room for it, and when it stopped, a tall, bleached blonde barely managed to extricate herself from the car without hitting the door against the wall of the hotel. She dug in her minuscule purse as the car backed carefully back out and drove away.

Dean took in her tiny but expensive-looking black dress, black stilettos and heavy but tasteful make-up and knew she was his ticket inside. She started badly when Dean stepped toward her. Her eyes flicked to the badge he held out, going from fear to resignation and confirming that he'd correctly guessed her profession.

"Relax," he said. "I'm not here to bust you. I just need to get in undetected. I don't care what you do if you let me in and keep your mouth shut about it."

"Yeah, okay." She pulled out a key card and put it into the slot, then allowed Dean to hold the door open for her. "What are you investigating?"

Despite the tired look in her eyes, the woman sounded young, and Dean allowed himself a moment of hatred for the way the world worked sometimes. "Pair of serial killers." It was mostly true. Dean stopped a moment. "You aren't going to room 514, are you?"

The woman went so pale Dean thought she might fall right off her stilettos. "Not anymore!" she whispered and pulled out a phone with a gaudy gold case.

"Don't tell anyone why," Dean warned. He would have given her money and told her to take the night off – not that it would change her life or anything – but she was the type who probably made thousands in a single night.

As Dean pulled his sleeve over his hand and pushed the stairway door open, the woman said, "Agent? Uh, thanks."

Dean nodded. With any luck, hers wouldn't be the only life he saved that night. He jogged the flights easily, reassured by the weight of the machete against his back under his coat.

The heavy magnetic lock on the door to the third floor didn't deter Dean either, since years earlier a certain brilliant geek brother had figured out that a zap from a taser would temporarily disable that type of lock, and Dean was packing.

There were only two suites on the whole floor, and nobody was in sight in the ornate hallway, but Dean still stalked like he was sneaking through a dark forest. His blood was up now, the excitement of the Hunt getting him keyed up and the urge to get revenge on the bloodsucking asshats making his fingers twitch around the syringe of Hooch's blood he had in his hand.

Dean tapped on the door, standing off to the side. He didn't hear anyone approach the door – good soundproofing in these expensive places –before Matthew jerked it open. The vamp was on his back with the syringe buried in his chest before he got a word out.

There was a screech worthy of a banshee and a blur of movement to Dean's left. He'd expected the attack and turned toward it so he could roll with the force. Luckily, the syringe of dead man's blood still in his pocket was one of the Men of Letters' receptacles. Those things were nearly unbreakable – seriously, Sam had accidentally stepped on one once and it had been unscathed – so Dean knew it wasn't busted.

Bernice ended up on top as they were halted by an island in a kitchen nearly the size of the bunker's. As small as she was, she was supernaturally strong, and it was all Dean could do to hold her off as she hissed and gnashed her teeth at him. There was no way to get out the second syringe from this position.

Dean kicked off the cupboards so they rolled back the other way, not sad that their legs slammed into Matthew's head on their way past. This time, they were halted by the back of some massive white couch. Bernice was on top again, and as Dean pushed her back, she twisted her neck at an impossible angle to bury her teeth into his forearm. The bite was shallow, hampered by the thick fabric of Dean's suit jacket, and he was grateful that he'd worn his heaviest one, the better to conceal the machete that was digging into his back.

It still hurt and pissed Dean off. He heaved with his legs and sent Bernice crashing backwards into some pansy little decorative table. Dean jumped to his feet, but she was as fast as she was strong and tackled him before he did more than pull out the syringe. It was knocked out of his hand as they crashed backwards into the corner of a wall. Dean used his superior size and essentially threw her over the couch. He dashed for the syringe but drew his machete at the same time. It might be time to just take her head and work on Matthew.

Bernice had strength on her side, and rage. But Dean had rage too. The sight of Bernice's bloody mouth reminded him of her enthusiastically drinking Hooch's lifeblood. And gleefully torturing Sam. She was feral now, hair wild and eyes wilder, all fury and no finesse as she launched herself over the sectional.

In contrast, Dean's fury had made him lethally focused. He stepped back and raised the machete, timed to take her head off in midair. He would have, too, except that Matthew grabbed Dean's ankle with just enough strength to throw off his aim. The machete caught Bernice's upper arm instead, nearly severing the limb. With a scream, she landed on Matthew's chest. Dean kicked Matthew in the head (on purpose this time) to free his foot, then dropped to his knee on Bernice's back. Dean dropped the machete and scooped up the full syringe where it had conveniently rolled just under the couch and buried it in Bernice's leg.

Dean's back was a hot mess and would certainly be covered with bruises sooner rather than later. There was a trickle of hot blood running past his right eye. And of course, Bernice's bite burned on his left forearm, blood making Dean's shirt sleeve tacky. But looking at the two glaring, barely-conscious vampires, Dean felt nothing but vicious triumph.

Dean stood, not caring that his knees dug into his prey as he did. He left them lying there a moment and moved to the door, knowing Matthew could see him. Dean used his fingernail to flick the symbol on the door from Please Knock to Service Room to Do Not Disturb. No flimsy plastic doorknob hangers for a place like this. Just as deliberately, Dean retrieved his machete and dragged two fluffy, armless white chairs into the center of the large sitting area. Then he found the linen closet and pulled out all of the sheets he could find (and there were a ton of them) and dragged first Bernice then Matthew over, giving the latter the rest of his syringe of dead man's blood to further incapacitate him.

The entire time, Dean whistled Coward of the County. He and Sam had watched Kingsman: The Secret Service in an actual theater a few years earlier and had been amused rather than disgusted by the gratuitous (Sam's word) violence. Dean had admired Eggsy's learned maneuver of locking the door before starting a fight to make sure nobody got away, and he was channeling that now. He'd use every weapon at his disposal to get what he needed: psychological warfare, torture, whatever. Dean tested the edge of the machete unnecessarily. He kept it sharp enough to split a hair. Or a neck.

Maybe it was time to use Alistair's lessons for a good cause. Really, this time. Because for Dean, there was no greater cause than saving Sammy.

"You should've killed me and not let dear old dad pull the Bond villain schtick," he informed his captives in a voice that was supposed to sound conversational, because being calm while acting in a violent way always freaks people out, but instead came out hard.

Dean propped each vamp in their own chair, facing each other with enough space between that he could stand in the middle and still be out of kicking reach. He wrapped both to their chairs with rolled up sheets wound around and around them so they were covered from collarbone to ankles.

He'd like to see anyone break through a dozen of the 800 thread-count sheets, especially with no leverage.

"My brother didn't turn me, obviously," Dean said once he was satisfied that the couple was arranged to his satisfaction. "And I didn't kill him. See, that cure is a real thing. I should know – I was a bloodsucker for a little while. I heard the call of Big Papa Alpha and it pissed me off enough that I killed my maker. And the rest of his nest, too. And Sammy cured me." He wasn't going to get into the whole soulless Sam and evil grandpa thing, and it was true enough.

"So, Bonnie and Clyde, you two are gonna tell me whose blood was used to turn Sam and where Baako is, and I'll be on my way."

Dean pulled the stupid little table that Bernice had knocked down earlier close enough for both vamps to see it. It stood well enough on its remaining three legs. Next, Dean dumped the mints out of a flattish glass bowl shaped like a leaf and poured yet more dead man's blood into it, remembering how powerful scent memory could be. After all, he'd been Alistair's prize pupil.

Dean set the machete down on the table as a visual reminder that he could kill them at any time and instead pulled out his boot knife and dragged it through the blood, making sure both edges were covered. Then he held it up and watched it drip back into the bowl. "Who wants to go first?"

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The "interrogation" was both easier and harder than Dean expected. It was harder in that it took a really long time, far longer than he'd hoped or expected. Easier in that he still was good, even excellent, at finding and exploiting weaknesses, a thought that he'd have to drown in good vodka or bad tequila at least a few times after all of this was done (after Sammy was fine) and Dean had time to breathe and brood about it all.

Matthew was the weaker link, more attached to Bernice than vice versa, but that neither cared about the other enough to not be grateful when Dean's attention was on the other.

Enough hours had passed that Dean no longer knew if it was day or night, thanks to the black-out curtains in the place. His eyes were gritty, and he could barely remember sleeping back in the stupid little town where he'd found Christopher or how long it had taken him to find this place. But none of that really mattered. Because every minute Dean failed to figure this out was another minute that Sam was suffering.

Dean really wanted to call Cas and find out what was going on in that stinking basement. Was Sam coherent? Was he in pain? Naturally, though, Dean's backup phone had been crushed in the fight with Bernice, he couldn't risk using the room phone or one of the vamps' phones, and he couldn't leave them alone to find another way. Maybe it was time to actually consider those bullet-proof phone cases that Sam was so in love with. If your phone breaks while in our case, we'll buy you a new one, the ads promised. Dean wondered if "destroyed by an angry vampire" was covered.

He pushed his foot a little harder yet, needing to put his attention on the here-and-now. His instincts told him that Matthew was about to break. Dean's foot was against the vamp's knees. When he pushed back, it tipped the chair back onto its two back legs and pulled on the Bowie knife that was embedded into the floor through Matthew's right foot.

"You looking, Matty?" Dean asked, gesturing tiredly at Bernice's still-scowling head on the floor next to the chair. She'd never stopped spitting out threats until Dean gave up on her and beheaded her. He hadn't bothered to move her head or body or clean his knife. "She's the lucky one, right?"

Dean was sitting on the floor with his back against the oversized couch, afraid that if he sat on it he might actually fall asleep mid-torture. Every time Matthew got lippy, Dean would go through this. He'd tip back the chair, pulling on the knife in Matthew's foot, until the vamp gave in and looked over at his lover's head.

"Bet you wish I'd just kill you too." Dean made a whistling sound. "Just like that. Done. No more pain. No more daddy issues. That's what you want, isn't it? Answer two little questions and it'll be all over. I swear. I haven't lied to you yet."

Matthew made a little sound and Dean thought that's it. He knew, could feel, that the next words out of the vamp's mouth would be what he wanted to hear and it was about damn time. He'd cut and twisted and taunted and tormented far beyond what he'd ever thought the preppy looking bloodsucker would endure. But after Dean had killed Bernice, Matthew had finally seemed to realize that Baako wasn't going to burst in and save them. He'd begun to crumple after that.

"Okay, okay," Matthew gasped, just the motion of talking breaking open one of the older cuts on his cheek again. After the first couple of hours, his healing had seriously slowed down, hindered by his hunger and the dead man's blood that was in every cut.

Dean eased his foot back until the chair Matthew was tied to was back on its four legs. He stood and stretched his back. "Whose blood and where is Baako?"

"It was Father's blood – I think." Matthew's voice shook, his eyes and tone dull. There was nothing left of the cocky hothead who'd wanted to tear Dean's head off. He was well and truly broken, and Dean knew he wouldn't lie. "He keeps some blood of all of us for tracking spells, so no one can ever leave him. The blood that was given to your brother was not fresh; he had it in a container inside his coat, so I am not certain. I cannot distinguish whose blood by smell. Family all smells the same to me."

Dean swore, but he knew there was nothing else to gain here. He picked up the machete and Matthew didn't even flinch. A swish and a thud, both too familiar.

Dean stood for one minute and looked down at his handiwork. He didn't feel disgusted or triumphant or any of the emotions he'd expected or dreaded. He felt nothing but a weariness and the drag of fear that he'd be too slow, too late, and that Sam would suffer for it.

Bernice had laughed in Dean's face. "He's already gone," she'd sneered with too much glee to be lying. "No newly turned can survive this long without blood. Even if he couldn't get to food, he'd tear himself apart and drink his own blood until he died from his wounds. Or simply go mad. That's what happens to starving vampires– they turn into mindless animals. You should have killed him." That was when Dean had taken her head, even knowing that she was goading him on purpose.

Dean sighed, knowing that his numbness was a coping mechanism, and that everything would hit him harder than usual once he could finally relax. There was at least one silently-screaming, heaving, panting, barely-able-to-breathe panic attack in his future.

As long as that future included Sammy, it didn't matter.

He'd do what he had to. So Dean collected some of Matthew's blood and picked up his weapons. He rolled down his sleeves and pulled on his discarded coat and shoes. He washed his hands and his weapons and wiped down anything that he could conceivably have touched. He'd already used Matthew's phone to pay for three more nights. With the Do Not Disturb, it might buy him some time before discovery. It might not. It didn't matter much; there were no cameras in the back staircase or alley, probably to help the rich keep their assignations quiet. The gory crime scene would be all over the news eventually, but that couldn't be helped. He could neither start a fire here nor sneak two bloody bodies out. Hopefully, the prostitute never talked to the cops.

Dean had checked his appearance and knew his jacket hid any bloodstains, so he left the hotel the same way he'd come in and walked casually back to the Impala. It was dawn now, and something about the purple-gray hue of the sky and the creeping of the light across the city made Dean feel the first stirrings of real fear. It was going on forty hours since Sam had been turned, and he had no idea where to find Baako. The guy's ego was such that he'd probably used his own blood on Sam, needing to be "father" to the Winchester vampire, so Dean had to find him.

Sitting in the front seat of Baby, knowing he needed to put miles between himself and the corpses he'd left behind, Dean instead watched the corners and alleys around him rise from darkness, pretending that the predators of the night were gone and the world was safe. He shook himself and pulled yet another phone out of the glove box and called Cas. The angel answered on the first ring, sounding breathless.

"Dean?"

Dean swallowed a sarcastic retort of 'who else would be calling from my phone?' and decided to just be grateful the call went through. "Yeah. How's Sam?"

"He found some information on some papers that, er, Hooch had hidden on his body. Sam believes they are coordinates." Cas was talking really fast, and even over a weak connection and this bloody tired, Dean knew all of his friend's tells.

"Text them to this phone. And let me talk to Sam."

"Dean, to call you, I had to walk to the edge of town – "

"You left Sam alone?!" Dean knew he was yelling, even knew that he sounded like a very pissed-off John Winchester, but he couldn't stop it.

Cas hesitated. "Sam insisted. He – we – knew this was your best lead." The next words fell like lead out of the phone, breaking open on the ground like overripe melons and spilling out the festering fear that Dean had been denying for so long. "I handcuffed him inside the cage."

Dean didn't throw up or hyperventilate or scream, but it was a near thing. Instead, he ground out, "Get back to him" in a voice he didn't recognize. Then he hung up, looked up the coordinates as they came through and headed for the closest one that wasn't in Gordes itself. It was surprisingly close. On the way, he stopped at a gas station Sam would have called "skeevy" and bought half a dozen energy drinks, dodged the clerk's sympathetic gaze, and drove out again, faster than was wise. Any thought of grabbing an hour of shut-eye was long gone. He'd survive.

He was headed for his showdown with Baako, and he was going to kill the son of a bitch. And then he was going to save his brother. Period.

* * *

AN: There are a ton of references here. Ignore if you like!

Pretty Woman is a 1990 film. In it, Richard Gere's character is a wealthy man who falls in love with Julia Roberts' character – a prostitute who is overwhelmed by the glitz and glamour of the world of the rich. Gere's character famously explains that he lives in a penthouse despite being afraid of heights "because it's the best."

Maybe I don't need to say it, but the Agent Fleetwood ID is my little tribute to the band Fleetwood Mac.

A nuckelavee is a truly horrific cryptid from Scottish and Nordic mythology. It's a like a horse and rider combined as one and it's skinless. Yeech.

I'm pretty sure I saw the taser to disable a magnetic lock trick on MacGyver (the original) a million years ago. Would it really work? I have no idea.

Coward of the County is a Kenny Rogers song about a guy named Tommy who refuses to fight because his father's dying wish was that he "not do the things I done" and end up in prison. At the end of the song, some guys brutalized Tommy's wife, so he tracked them down to the bar and "stopped to lock the door." Naturally, he beat the crap out of them in true country song-style justice.

Kingsman: The Secret Service is the first movie in the Kingsman franchise. I wasn't kidding when I said it's violent. The main character learns to fight from an old colleague of his late father; unknown to Eggsy, both were spies. At the end of the movie, Eggsy goes back to his old stomping grounds, locks the door, and finally gets his revenge on the bullies who've tormented him. Sound familiar?

Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were outlaws and lovers in the 1930's whose flight and manhunt were greatly romanticized. They were ultimately ambushed and killer by the police.

Christine: Yeah, it's not good! I hope the torture in this chapter isn't too over the top. And thank you!

muffinroo: Sam is really at good at negotiating! I had to chuckle that you're looking forward to the fallout when Dean finds out how exactly how Sam was left. Troublemaker! LOL I'm thrilled that you found Cas in character...I was worried.

Shazza: Thank you. :-) No, Dean isn't thrilled, and I'm sure that there will be more fallout to come. I wonder what you thought of this chapter...more torture than fighting...I hope that was okay.

Guest: Thank you! I'm so glad you're reading.

Timelady66: That's really insightful about Dean and advice! Yes, he'd be the one to channel most of all about how to take care of Sammy.

sfaulkenberry: Yeah, I never tell people what they should or shouldn't like, but Twilight wasn't really my thing either. I find Sam so fascinating too, so maybe I'm a sadist right along with you! Ha! And even though he's complicated, it makes him easier to write. I agree that it's far better that Cas stayed behind...more on that soon. Do I ever answer your questions? Not really...

radpinapple: Wow, thank you! I'm happy that you found the chapter both "wholesome and angsty," two of my favorite things. I didn't exactly write a fix-it for the finale, but I did write my guess about how the show might end before it was done. It's called Sisyphus Rests. It's only okay. I also did a small post finale that might be considered a fix-it if you tilt your head and squint. That's called Five Conversations.

Kathy: Did you like the way I snuck I'm brotherly feels even when Sam and Dean aren't together? And WWDD is a great strategy for figuring out how to take care of Sam. Distraction too. The question about vamps and shaving bugged me, so like usual, I had Sam verbalize it! Heh. And I'm glad you liked Cas' compassion about Sam's addiction to demon blood. Better late than never, right? I always have multiple stories and ideas in my brain. I can't help it! Thanks for your words.