A/N: The reviews are in, and the verdict is: It's a hit!!

Robbie the Phoenix: Thank you, thank you. I'd bow if I wasn;t afraid of wacking my head on my laptop's screen, LOL. You make me feel good. Be prepared for more suspense, horror and drama. It gets a little hairy after this!! In the immortal words on Sam Jackson "Hold onto your butts!"

Disclaimer: Refer back to previous chapters, thank you!! I only own the plot and random characters!!

Dean woke up to the rising of the sun. The rain had stopped hours ago, and the windows were almost dry. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the bed by the door, and saw that Sammy was gone. Assuming he was in the shower, he paid it no never mind. Then he realized he did not hear any water. Checking the clock on top of the tv, it read 6:45. Unless Sam was taking a piss, there was no reason for his baby brother to be up this early. Looking at the bed again, he noticed it had not even been slept in. Trying to remember the last thing Sam had said, when suddenly fear shot through him like a bullet. He had told Dean he was going for coffee, but he never came back. Oh shit!

Jumping up from the bed and slipping into his jeans, he grabbed the car keys. He did not even think about a shirt or a coat. He was too focused on the task at hand to worry about his ensemble. Throwing the door open, he saw something on the outer side of it. It was Sam's driver's license nailed to the door, and it was covered in blood.

XXXXX

John watched Dean open the door from inside his new vehicle. The '69 Charger was the perfect match for the Impala. The driver had been a forty-five-year-old man on the verge of a mid-life crisis. He was an endless talker, loved flower power music, and confessed to having kids in at least five states. Well, at least the meeting hadn't been a total loss for John. It had been bloodier than he would have liked, messed up the leather a bit, but he fixed that right up. Now you'd never know that a babbling narcissist had ever owned it. John grinned, then returned his thoughts to Dean.

He watched Dean punch the door, hard. He could hear quite a few expletives, and a few he was sure Dean had made up on the spot. Then the door slammed shut, and a moment later he came back out fully dressed. He smiled broadly as Dean opened his trunk and took out a .357 Desert Eagle. Slipping the .357 behind him in the band of his jeans, he slammed the lid shut. He stood there, stoical, his eyes glassy and void of life. His brother was hurt, possibly . . . No, he couldn't think like that. He would not lose another family member, and not to a raving psychopath. Turning from the rear of the car, he paused, scanning the lot.

John knew he could not see him. He was still in disguise, his hair now pulled back. He laughed at the thought that, even his own mother wouldn't recognize him. Of course she could not recognize much of anything anymore, seeing as he blinded her when he was merely thirteen.

They had gotten into a huge fight over a boy he was spending too much time with. He had come home way too late one night, apparently drunk, so she grounded him and took away his television set. So he got pissed and he took something from her. That had been the first time he had ever attacked anyone maliciously. After that he acquired a taste for it, and hadn't stopped since.

Dean, for the moment at least, was sure he was safe. He headed for the bar, hoping maybe someone had seen Sam there.

XXXXX

The manager rubbed his partially balding head. The task of cleaning and locking the place up was usually left to his brother David, but he was busy screwing Perry's ex-wife. He was lucky to even be alive, let alone still working at this rat house. Perry had just turned the key in the lock, when an agitated young man rushed up to him, ranting and raving about someone named Sammy. He had enough on his own mind without worrying about some drunk's bullshit. Perry pushed Dean gently out of the way and slid past him to his truck.

Perry had been woken at nearly midnight by that dick-headed brother of his, telling him he wouldn't be in tonight, and could Perry kindly help out. He gave in, as always, and rushed his sorry ass down here in the pouring rain. The weather had been atrocious to say the least, and now his Ford was covered in mud. Putting a hand to the doorhandle, he felt a tug from behind. If that punk had his meat hooks in him, he was going to be a dead sum bitch.

"If you knew what was good far ya kid, you'd let me go, right now!" As he spun around, the young man he was expecting was instead replaced by a man closer to his own age. His black hair was pulled back in a short pony tail and a cigarette dangled from his thin lips. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of a worn bomber jacket, and when he saw the look on Perry's face go from anger to confusion, he pulled out his right hand.

"Really? I think I have something so much better than what you're offering!" John revealed a switchblade in his thick, weathered hand. Perry pushed back against his truck, but knew he was in deep shit. Dean stopped under a streetlight that was just beginning to flicker out in the morning light. As the bulb flashed, he caught the sight transpiring before him. At first he was unsure of what he was seeing. The man he had tried to speak to only moments ago, was talking to another man. They were very close to each other, almost in a threatening manner. Yet the first man seemed to be one that was afraid, even though he was almost twice the other man's size.

As Dean watched this, he saw the second man smile, and his stomach dropped. There was no denying who the aggressor was. John Ryder! Dean turned around, his back slammed against the light. He breathed hard, feeling vulnerable and open. Hoping John had not seen him, he edged his way back toward the bar, just as he heard a gagging sound. Dean shot up, forgetting his head, and saw the man from the bar drop to the ground. Blood pooled around his neck. John was still smiling as he wiped the blade of his knife clean and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. He leaned down in front of his victim and said something Dean could just barely hear, and it made his whole body quiver.

"Thought you could get away with your little drive-by huh? Sometimes the most innocent of incidents can be the ones worth killing over." He stood, then kicked at a small puddle, causing the filthy mixture to rain over the body. John laughed joyously, then headed off in the other direction.

XXXXX

Dean sat in his car, not quite sure how to comprehend what he had just witnessed. John had just taken a life for something as innocent as a puddle to the face. What the fuck would he do to Dean for what he had done? Or Sammy? Dean shook his head, not wanting to even go there. He held Sam's license in his hand, rubbing it absent mindedly. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, but pushing them away, he slammed his fist into the dash. Goddamn it Sam, why'd you have to go? Why couldn't you just stay with me?

Pulling the Desert Eagle from his jeans, he checked it once again for bullets. Satisfied that all ten shots were there, he cocked it, and laid it on the seat beside him. Like his father always said: 'Guns and booze, you could never have too much of both.' With the former at the ready, he removed his flask from his coat and took a pull. The whisky burned, but it was so damn good and helped to clear his head. At least for the time being. He made the move to put it back, but thought better of it and tossed it onto the seat with his gun.

Dean slipped the key into the ignition, but hesitated. This was going to be a hell of a fight, and he knew that either he or John was going down. He had to prepare himself for the fact that he may not make it out alive. The thought danced through his head, sending a pain across his frontal lobe. Gripping his forehead, he wished he had a bottle of Advil handy. Maybe this was how Sammy felt, and as he thought his brother's name, the pain was gone. The synapsis between his hand and brain were firing on two different circuits. The key had been turned before he knew what had happened, and the car roared to life.

As he turned the car onto the highway, another black car blocked his path. Dean eyed it a moment, then caught sight of the driver. The silhouette of John Ryder sat patiently in the front seat of the Dodge, as if waiting for Dean to make the first move. The car revved loudly, irking Dean to no end. He responded by revving right back. The rpms shot up to 20 and fluctuated between 25 and 30. John chuckled to himself at the newfound challenge before him. Then, to Dean's complete surprise, John shut the car off and stepped out. He leaned against the door and lit another cigarette. Dean's anger rose with the rpms. How this man could be so cool and calculated, pissed him off.

Dean took his foot off the brake and slipped the car into drive. He had the bastard right where he wanted him, and he wasn't going to let him get away. Slipping the car into gear, he slammed on the gas and the car lunged forward. John stepped out of the way, to reveal Dean's worst nightmare. Behind John in the car, bound and gagged, was Dean's baby brother.