Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Because the power is out, again, at work (stupid ice), and I was not needed for more than a few hours, I am able to bring to a short though hopefully enjoyable chapter. So...enjoy!

What are you supposed to do? When you have a vision – and those visions are known to come true – about your supposedly dead father killing you. Slashing your throat. Standing over you while you bleed to death on a filthy motel floor.

Vomit.

Try to eke out the words, fine, I'm fine, when your brother inquires, a worried and worn expression on his face.

Vomit again.

And then get to work.

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Room number 10. Easy to recall, yet she still had to make sure it was written down for him. Because sometimes his memory failed. Sometimes he'd be in the middle of a task, whether it be washing dishes or bleeding a man dry, and he would just plain forget what he was doing. And why.

Luckily the things she asked of him were ones he had some experience with, must have anyway, because so much of it came so naturally to him. Hospital corners on the beds, sheets so tight you could bounce a coin off of them. Just like he had done when he was young, and away from home...somewhere.

And sharpening knives. The steady, grating swish of the blade over the whetstone. So familiar, so comforting, soothing even, that he'd get lost in the task.

The sneaking and spying and following, waiting outside for an opportunity to pounce. Picking the lock, moving stealthily across the typically creaky floor.

Killing.

Washing away the blood.

So much of it was an odd sort of sense memory. The motions and rituals being quick and easy. But the feel of it being…wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

And never more so than now.

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In a way they were prepared. Though also not. Because nothing could prepare them for seeing the shadow of their father glide along the wall, wide and dark and always with a purpose. Just how they'd remembered it.

For the both of them, it seemed, coming to grips with the fact that their dad was coming to take out Sam was much easier than realizing, and understanding, that he was not only alive, but about to be standing before them.

He had to focus, that's what Dean kept on telling himself. Just focus. Don't look him in the eye. Don't even look up at his face. Can't handle seeing his face.

And Sam simply lay there, in bed, in the dark, just as he had been when his father arrived in his vision. He closed his eyes and waited. For John to come. For Dean to save him. Even if it meant the unthinkable.

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She told him to be careful, always careful. These people were not…normal. They could do things. Inhuman things. So he had to always remain on guard. Always.

He creeps through the door, an old lock easily picked, never wondering why the chain wasn't on. Never thinking it might be because he's expected. And he rolls on the balls of his feet, heels never planted, body set for constant motion. Smooth, undetectable motion.

The rhythm of his movement, the reasoning behind it, feels like a part of him. So deeply engrained that the methods course through his blood. But there's something about it, every time, that seems almost unnatural. Like he's thinking about it. Like he's reciting his actions as he goes, putting on a lesson for someone. Teaching every subtle nuance, and going over it and over it until it's all just as deeply engrained in him. In them.

He sees the man lying in bed, moonlight reflecting white off his bare forearm, face almost entirely hidden by a dark mop of hair. And he stops, for the briefest of moments, the all too familiar déjà vu sense taking hold of him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand. And he tries to think, to remember, if there is anything about this situation, or this young man, that is worth remembering.

But before the images are able to flow into his consciousness, if there were any to come at all, he's propelled forward, grasping heedlessly at the air in an attempt to find balance.

If he were able to feel anything at all, aside from the new throbbing pain in his leg where it had just been kicked out from under him, he would have been shocked. But the surprise did not register. Only that bizarre sense memory flowed through him, allowing him to catch himself on the table before hitting the floor. And then twist around quickly, flinging his leg into a solid body.

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He thought he got lucky. The man started to tumble, unceremoniously down, his back to Dean the entire time. So he didn't have to see his face. But damn if he didn't catch himself at the last minute and land a swift hard kick to his gut, spurning him back a good foot.

Now he's hitting him, this strange man whose eyes he refuses to meet, whose sweet, leathery, dad smell fills his nostrils. He's hitting him, over and over, harder and harder, pummeling him as his back slides down the wall. And Dean lets him.

"Dad, no!" he hears Sam shout, in a way that almost makes Dean want to laugh. Because it's pretty obvious this guy's not going to listen him. It's pretty obvious he's not really dad. Not anymore.

"Dean," he says next, a soft plea as he holds on tight, his thick arm wrapped around the intruder's neck. The chokehold Dad taught them so long ago. He struggles to hold on as the man elbows him repeatedly, uncannily hanging on to consciousness.

But Sam's nothing if not determined. He doesn't let go. Won't let go.

Dean watches from the floor, the two dark haired men grappling above him. The two men who were, are, everything in his life. He watches, blinking out the blurriness of tear-stained blood, as Sam slowly lowers the finally spent man to the floor.

And then, once the struggle's over, Dean looks into the face of his father.