Simpson's Sky

Chapter IV

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Alistair got bored of his knife, on occasion. Every other couple of years, he would try something different, introduce a new toy in to their games.

And the games that he played with Dean were always about choice. About Dean's lack of choice and about how long he took to realize that the only option he had was to do exactly what Alistair wanted.

Sometimes Alistair wanted him to cry; sometimes he wanted Dean to scream but always, always he wanted him to beg. Sometimes he wanted Dean to beg for him to stop, sometimes to beg for more. It was all part of the same game.

There was no water in Hell. No stringy river, no moisture gathering in rock walls, no tears, no spit, no sweat, no piss. The only liquid that seemed to maintain its form in Hell was blood. Thick and rich and covering every surface in sight. Hell wasn't black and dark as one would guess. Hell was red and brightly lit, bringing every flaw to the forefront, allowing for nothing to be hidden in the shadows.

When Alistair wanted to see someone drown, he used blood. Dean's blood, the blood of other souls, sometimes even his own. The coppery taste of it in his mouth was something that Dean would never forget. He was broken, but he never got the taste for it.

Sometimes Dean would wake, whole once more and once more strapped to the rack and there would be another soul over him. Another soul, trapped in the same nightmare, helpless just like him, body cut and sliced in just the right places to make blood gush and flood over Dean's face. He couldn't breath, he couldn't swallow, he couldn't escape the flow as it soaked him to the point that its presence was the only thing that he was aware. And then Alistair would make him scream, just to see his mouth open and be filled with another person's life. Sometimes Dean was at the bottom; sometimes he was at the top. He feared either position.

It didn't take Dean long to discovered that you can drown quicker in blood than in water.

0o00o0o0o0o0

Sam pushed the Impala's breaks to the floor as soon as he spotted Ruiz' pickup truck. Good thing his brother always kept the damn car in such pristine form, or Sam would've just skidded off the road.

Sam couldn't see anyone around, which didn't exactly mean that there wasn't anyone around. After a quick check of the full clip inside his Taurus 9mm, Sam tucked it into the back of his jeans waistband and exited the car.

The truck's engine was already cold and the doors were locked, which meant that they had been gone for some time and, wherever they were heading, wasn't in plain sight of the car.

Sam walked around the driver's side and looked in to the truck's bed. It was empty and dirty but, fortunately for him, no puddles of blood to tell him that Dean was already dead.

The surrounding area didn't appear to have seen much movement, at least not recently. It was a good half an hour from the gas station where Dean had been taken, on the southern outskirts of Cleveland, but with the inclement weather, Sam figured there wouldn't be many hikers or families strolling about. And yet, there were plenty of fresh marks on the ground. Heavy footprints, scuffle marks, drag marks and even a spot near the truck's rear where a body seemed to have been dumped.

Sam followed the mess of tracks to the tree line and beyond. There were signs of struggle by one of the trees, broken branches and kicked lose dirt. Dropping to one knee to get a closer look, the younger Winchester studied the disturbed terrain carefully.

The glint of white metal resting against the otherwise green and brown floor caught his attention and Sam picked up an empty bullet case. A 9mm copper jacket casing. The metal was still brand new and shiny, not corroded by the elements at all, which meant that, whichever gun had fired that bullet, had done so recently.

A shiver skittered through Sam's body as he looked around, telling himself that he was looking for the bullet and not his brother's dead body. The tree to the left of him had a fresh hole about knee high, splinters gushing out of it like nature's blood.

Sam took out his pocketknife and dug around the hole, feeling when the tip of the blade struck metal. Scrunching around, the hidden bullet came out with a pop. There were no signs of blood on what was left of the bullet, but then again, there wasn't much left for Sam to be sure that the twisted piece of metal in his palm hadn't claimed his brother's life on its path to the tree.

Sam squeezed the mangled bullet in his palm, feeling the jagged edges dig in to his skin. He had to believe that Tigermman and his men wanted something from Dean, something that made them go to an awful lot of trouble to get his brother. They wouldn't just bring him to the middle of the woods and shoot him.

Something white caught Sam's attention and he pushed a couple of broken branches aside, hesitant as he worked, fearing that the last piece of wood removed would reveal a dead body. But there was no body, only clothes.

Someone had done a sloppy job of hiding a ripped shirt, some shorts, pants and shoes. At first glance, Sam didn't even registered the items as belonging to Dean. Dean didn't wear stripped shirts even when they were working a job and were forced to wear the cheap suits that they had bought. He refused to even consider the thought of wearing them, saying that white stripped shirts made him think of the Dalton's in Lucky Luke and if he was gonna be anybody in that comic book, he was gonna be the cowboy.

There wasn't even a point in telling Dean that the Dalton's wore yellow and black prison clothes and not white.

The realization that he was staring at Dean Smith's clothes sent a chill down Sam's spine. Because before, it could be a coincidence that Ruiz' truck happened to be abandoned in the middle of nowhere; before, there could've been a thousand different motives for that bullet to be there. But now... now Sam could no longer deny it. "Dean?"

A pause, clothes clenched in his hands, every small stain of red making Sam's vision float and swim in unshed tears. "DEAN!"

Sam's shout was met with nothing but silence.

0o00o0o0o0o0o0

Tigermman was getting bored.

The pathetic excuse for a man hanging in front of him had stopped squirming a few seconds ago. When his chest stopped moving, the bag had been removed from his head and the pink mix of water, spit and blood inside it had been disposed of. They had more water, if the need for it arose later on.

Dean wasn't breathing, but that was to be expected. Most of the 'interrogators' that Tigermman had met in his line of business would take it only as far as the brink of unconsciousness and then allow the prisoner a breath. That wasn't as effective as his way.

Tigermman motioned to the redhead to approach and she complied eagerly, grabbing the small case that sat at her feet.

Prior to her husband's death, she'd worked as a nurse. A shapeshifter, wearing her skin, had killed her husband some five years ago. The creature had waited for her to come home and made her watch every minute of the deed, powerless, as the thing wearing her face hacked away, bleeding her husband dry. After that, she had just lost it.

The redhead was giving a hungry, almost feral smile at the thought of finally being allowed to lay her hands on the prisoner. Ever since they had taken him from the gas station, she'd been eyeing him like a candy, a treat to be savored and devoured and now...

Squinting in disgust, Tigermman was watching her work, and though he knew very little about first aid, he was pretty sure that licking and biting the prisoner's lips was not included the normal mouth-to-mouth procedure. "We need him breathing, Isabel... get your kicks later."

The prisoner was turning an ugly shade of purple and Tigermman still hadn't gotten his answers. Isabel threw him a contemptuous and defiant look, but still obeyed, one hand going to Dean's neck to check his pulse.

Giving mouth-to-mouth to a person hanging upside down was kind of tricky, but this wasn't Isabel's first time. She grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and pulled his head back to an angle that looked humanly impossible. Using her other hand to pinch his nose closed, Isabel licked her lips in an unconscious gesture, took a deep breath and covered Dean's mouth with her own.

It was impossible for Tigermman to know if she was just french kissing the guy or actually doing her job. Then, three breathes later, Dean coughed and spit and started breathing on his own.

Isabel seemed disappointed with that, but, after making sure that he would keep on breathing, she picked her case of medical supplies and backed away.

Tigermman looked around, searching for the remaining members of his group. Someone was missing.

Pepe was close by, carefully watching his sister-in-law actions, a hint of jealousy in his dark eyes. When his brother had been killed by the shapeshifter, he had wasted no time in stepping up the plate and keeping Isabel warm at night. It didn't matter much if her mind was working properly or not.

Moe, his to-do man, was a wuss to the point that Tigermman often wondered why he even kept the man in his service. He put on a front, but Tigermman knew how much the younger man stressed over things like this. Moe was also a junky and that reason alone made him very handy to have around. To secure his next fix, Moe would do pretty much anything he was ordered to. A nice fellow to have nearby when the time came for someone to take the fall.

Moe had excused himself ten minutes ago. Tigermman knew exactly what he was doing.

Tom, the fourth element of his team, was standing on the side, efficient, cold, watching the events taking place. It was the first time that Tigermman brought him along, but the man didn't seem at all disturbed by Tigermman's choices for answers-achievement. Leaning on the shade of a tree, the black man was the picture of calmness, paced and regular puffs of white smoke coming from his mouth and nose as he enjoyed one more cigar.

It had been Tom's wife who'd told them about Dean's 'activities' in Hell. Well, not exactly Tom's wife, but the demon that had been ridding her at the time. None of them could believe their ears as the filthy thing spat out love and admiration for the man who'd ensured that demons would be free to walk the earth.

Dean Winchester. Calling him a man was somewhat of a favor.

Tigermman's source had called his attention to the Winchester's a couple of months ago, pointing out all the weird shit that kept happening around those boys. Warning him that, if no one lifted a finger, the world would come to an end faster than anyone could guess. And that it was up to him to prevent it.

He had dismissed the scrawny little man at first. Gordon had been a capable hunter and a sharp hound, and Tigermman had ignored him too when he first approached him with ideas about the end of the world and Sam Winchester's involvement in it all. His army buddy, and Tigermman had still told him to take a walk.

There was no way he was gonna give any credit to the stranger wearing a trench coat that had come out of no where to warn him. Until the stranger bowed his head and showed him the wings.

When Dean had mentioned an angel, it wasn't the angel part that Tigermman hadn't believe. It wasn't the angel's involvement that he had found so amusing. It was the simple fact that a lousy piece of scum like Dean, who wasn't even worth the presence of one of those heavenly beings, would expect them to believe that he'd been given the special attention that he was boasting about.

No, that sort of attention was reserved for men like him, righteous men who could be entrusted with the fate of Mankind.

Now, Tigermman had no doubt that there were angels out there and that one of them had given him a task -a mission- of stopping this fool from destroying the whole world.

And he intended to fulfill that mission.

"Let's see if he's more open to discussion now."

0o0o0o00o0o0o0o0o0o0

Dean spit a mouthful of water, gagging at the sudden reintroduction of oxygen in to his life. It was like his lungs had forgotten what it felt like to be filled with air, from the way they were burning and aching.

Dean coughed and sputtered, gasping to ease the passage of air through his bruised throat. His nose throbbed with each cough, turning the pressure inside his sinuses to almost blinding levels. His lips felt swollen, with that lingering tingling sensation he always got after being kissed. The 'whys' of him feeling that after drowning was not something that Dean wanted to dwell on just yet.

On the other hand, it really was true what they said about the brain being able to cope with only one major painful stimulus at a time. Almost drowning had done wonders for Dean's broken leg.

He looked down, which was up for the rest of the world, (except for bats, he guessed), and crossed his eyes, trying to focus on something. The sky was impossibly blue, cut on occasion by the fluffiest of white clouds. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen in his brain, or maybe it was shock setting in, but Dean figured that it was possibly the most beautiful sky that he had ever seen. A Simpsons' kind of sky.

The second his favorite TV show came to mind, Dean could not stop the theme music from playing in an endless loop inside his head. Which made hearing what Pepe was telling him a bit difficult.

The Mexican's face moved closer, "Just say the...." the words started to fade, slowly being replaced by the continuous dum dum ta ta dummdum dum ta ta TATATA of the Simpson's intro.

Pepe seemed to guess that he wasn't being able to grab his audience's full attention.

Stopping nauseatingly close to Dean's face, Pepe grabbed Dean's hair in one meaty palm and twisted, forcing Dean to look at him, leaning in until his stubble-covered chin and fetid breath were just inches from Dean's nose. Dean tried to keep his gag reflex in check because otherwise he was going to hurl.

"Look at me when I talk to you, boy!"

No letting him be, then.

"Which word do you prefer?" Dean finally asked, his voice sounding higher and wrong as he tried to talk through the pain and the rush of blood to his head. "I got asshole and fuckwad, all up for gra-…oof!"

Pepe still hadn't tired of using him as a punching bag. Dean would've snorted at the idea of him hanging like a punching bag AND being used as one, but the dizzying round-and-round-and-round motion that Pepe's hit had sent him in, was kind of making him nauseous.

Turns out that throwing up when you're hanging upside down is twice as nasty as the regular thing. Short of his stomach lining, Dean had nothing in his stomach to expel but bile and the water he had swallowed, but still his cramping stomach tried its best to spit out a whole three-course meal.

The world dimmed around him and Dean briefly wondered why the night was setting in so fast. He loved that shade of sky. He wanted that shade to be the last thing he saw before dying.

There had been no blue sky to see the last time he'd died, just an ugly ceiling and two uglier and huge hellhounds…

"Wake up!" Pepe shouted, punctuating his words with another sharp slap. Always learning, he had grabbed Dean's head before this time, not wanting to repeat the mad swirl that had send the man in to unconsciousness.

"The questions remain the same, Dean," Tiger finally spoke, nearing Dean with care, not wanting to step on the mess that he had made on the ground beneath him. "Tell me everything that you know about the demons' plans for the apocalypse, tell me how to stop it, and I will kill you quickly."

Dean blinked. His eyeballs hurt from forcing his eyes to look at things from an uncomfortable angle. When Tiger was standing close enough, Dean spat on him, aiming for the face but contenting himself with hitting the man's shirt. "Screw you!"

Tiger looked at the sliding glob of spit and blood on his shirt. He grabbed Dean by his hair, pulling so tightly that half of the wet hairs gripped in his hand came loose. He rubbed Dean's face on the mess he had made until his shirt could pass for clean.

"This is me being nice, Dean," he hissed on the other man's ear, ignoring the pained and gagging look on Dean's face. "You keep on pushing and you won't like not-nice me."

Dean laughed, a raspy sound that hurt both his throat and his sanity. "You brag about… knowing where I spent my summer," he said, trying hard to control his breathing but failing. "You don't know shit!... Try to imagine… being given as a plaything… to creatures that hate everything and… everyone in this Universe, but actually manage to hate you… more than anything else… Try to imagine a place where you can… not die, where days just merge… all in to one big endless string of pain and… humiliation," Dean whispered, his voice losing its strength underneath the memories and the sheer weight of what he was saying. It was more than he had ever been able to tell Sam… maybe being upside down really did help him clear his head…

Dean closed his eyes. He was losing it and he knew it. "Imagine all that and then tell me if… it isn't funny when you open your mouth to threaten me with… any of your pathetic, sadistic… playground tricks."

The other man's only reaction was to let go of Dean's hair, disgustingly wiping his hand on his pants. When he'd deemed his hands clean enough, Tiger pulled another bag from his pocket. "You see… for all that you, all I can hear is a man that has met his limitations and would do anything not to be pushed to that point again," he said, making a show of opening the bag and putting his hand inside to expand it. "What I hear is a man that's been broken and badly glued back together… a man that will break easily again when pushed the right way."

Uriel's words echoed in Dean's memory, saying almost the exact same thing when, not that long ago, the angels had been hunting Anna. Both times they had been right. Only now it wasn't even a matter of breaking; he had already told Tiger what he'd asked for, the truth. It wasn't Dean's fault that the man hadn't liked the answers he gave.

"What more do you want to know?" Dean asked, his teeth distorting the words through all the chattering that had snuck up on him. "I already told you about the angel… I told you what he told me."

"That you're gonna save us all by stopping the apocalypse, the same one that you helped start?" Tiger said in a mocking tone. In a lightning fast move that made Dean jerk back involuntary, Tiger grabbed his face, large, manicured fingers that smelled of gunpowder and oil, closing over Dean's broken lips. Tiger's mouth brushed against Dean's ear, carefully facing away from the other hunters.

"You see, an angel talked to me too, only mine said a couple of different things," he whispered, his words now only for Dean's ears. "He told me about the seals, about how many are broken already… and he told me all about the prophecy… all about how the same man that starts it needs to be the same man to end it."

Dean's green eyes grew impossibly large on his face, realization dropping like a cannon ball inside his mind. He tried to talk, fight back, but Tiger's fingers close more tightly around his face, preventing him from doing anything more than moan.

"He told me all about your brother's place as the leader of the demons' army and the danger we are all in. He told me that, while they can deal with Sam, it is you that I should concern myself with, that you sold yourself downstairs to the highest bidder like some common street whore… he told me all about the burn on your shoulder and that the one who rode you out of Hell was the one putting it there, branding you as his bitch for all to know."

Dean's answer was muffled by his sealed lips, coming out as nothing more than desperate sounds. His eyes searched the other hunters, pleading them to realize what was happening, to get a clue on what was really going on here and just how delusional and insane their boss really was. They didn't mind his silent communication, too busy snickering and enjoying the show.

The mark on his shoulder was a sign of ownership? Even Castiel would find the humor in that, given the lengths he'd already endured to get Dean to do anything he wanted.

"So, you see, I already know your part in this," Tiger went on, "but if you don't start yapping all the vile things that you've been doing to get those seals broken... if you don't start telling me just who the evil sons of bitches are that you've been renting your sorry ass to and how I stop them… I'll just ask your brother when I see him."

Dean felt impotent rage boil at his core at the mention of Sam. Beneath Tiger's fingers, he released a rabid snarl so loud Tiger's grip faltered. It was just enough, and Dean parted his lips, teeth grabbing flesh and biting down, as hard as he could.

Dean had managed to get out of Hell without acquiring a taste for blood, but now, for a couple of seconds, Tiger's blood in his mouth was the sweetest thing he'd ever savored.

Tiger howled in pain, his finger trapped in Dean's teeth, blood flowing from between Dean's lips. Blind with rage, Tiger threw a punch to the first place in Dean's body that he could reach.

Dean gasped, out of breath, as Tiger's fist hit his throat, involuntarily releasing the bitten finger. Tiger stumbled away, holding his bleeding hand, fighting to regain control over the pain and his growing anger. He lost.

Wheeling around on his prisoner, Tiger pulled the gun from his waistband, cocking the trigger in the same fluent movement. "You shitface mother fucker!"

Dean met the black barrel in front of his face with the calmness of a man who had nothing more to lose.

"Go ahead... you kill me and you might as well kill yourself… you, everyone of those fuckers behind you, and… the whole wide world as you're at it," Dean said, spitting out blood that, for once, wasn't his.

He had a pretty good hunch that the rest of Tiger's goons weren't in on the information that had been whispered in his ear and he would bet that these were not a bunch that liked to be tricked. "Tell them what the angel told you... about me, about the prophecy… because you know… there's a 50-50 chance that I might be the one to bring on the apocalypse… as it is of me being the only who can stop it from happening."

Tiger froze, not daring to turn around and see the reactions in the others faces.

Mustache was first to understand what Dean was implying. "What's he talking about, man? You didn't tell us anything about no angels or prophecies!"

"He's lying," Tiger said, gun never wavering from Dean's face. "His playing with your minds, just like every other demon we've met does… you of all people should know that, Tom."

Tom was unconvinced. "The only facts that I have are that my wife is dead and what the bastard ridding her said about having met this Winchester guy in Hell! All the rest of this stuff was fed to us by you and your mysterious contact… So, now you're seeing angels too? Fuck this, man!... For all I know, he could be telling the truth and you're just two crazy motherfuckers!"

Tiger stilled and glared at Dean accusingly. Suddenly, he shifted his gun away and fired.

Tom looked in surprise at the red hole in his shirt, a quick butterfly pattern growing in alarming speed down his chest. He was dead even before his body hit the ground.

"What the hell?!" Pepe shouted, looking in confusion between his boss and the dead man on the floor. "Usted es loco! Tom… Tom es morto – Yu lo han matado, coño! Por qué?"

Tigermman watched quietly as Ruiz grew from confused, to angry, to vengeful. He had no trouble ending a partnership that had lasted for over ten years, with a bullet between Ruiz's wrathful eyes.

He had no time to explain his point of view to those who would never understand it. He was doing God's work here. He could do no wrong.

Isabel's shrill scream filled the air, quickly followed by a third gunshot.

The silence that followed was filled with silent screams and broken promises.

Dean barely had time to register that the first gunshot hadn't been aimed at him before three other bodies lay dead on the chilly ground beneath the bridge. "What the fu-"

Pepe had landed right under him, feet twisted awkwardly, eyes open and unseeing, third eye black and angry looking in between the two brown ones. Nearer to the trees, Mustache's cigarette was still lit in between his slack lips, blood seeping sluggishly from the ugly looking hole in his chest. And Red-Hair… Red-Hair's throat was gone, ripped open by the point blank shot.

"This is all your fault, you know?" Tiger said, gun right back where it had started, pointing at Dean's head. "They didn't have to die, but you started filling their heads with doubts and I promised… I promised the angel that I would not fail in my task... my task, not theirs. They were not called to the mission like I was."

Dean tried to swallow but his dry mouth couldn't come up with anything for him to push past his throat. There was nothing more terrifying than a crazy man on a mission. A mission from God, apparently.

Whoever had gotten in touch with Tiger clearly had different ideas about Dean's usefulness to Heaven. Uriel, apparently, wasn't alone in his distaste for the Winchesters or in his willingness of putting them out of their misery.

"You were fooled, man" Dean tried to reason, straining his neck and forcing his eyes to focus on Tiger's face rather than the gun holding hand. "Who ever talked to you didn't give you all the facts… he's just using you."

Tiger chuckled without a trace of humor. "It was an angel… they don't go around tricking people and telling lies," he said, a look of wonder and awe in his face. "It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, with wings of pure light and its voice… nothing you say will convince me that that being was anything but an emissary of the Lord."

Dean let his neck hang lose, exhausted from the forced position. Sam had been in awe of the angels too, until he met Uriel. Nothing like a big ol'asshole to get all that fan-girling out of the way.

"Not all of them can be trusted, man… and a couple are most certainly not… emissaries of the Lord… they're just as confused and lost as the rest of us."

"And all of a sudden, the demon's boy-toy is an expert in angels… just say your prays to whichever god you put your faith in and prepare to meet your fate, Dean Winchester."

Dean closed his eyes, exhausted. There was no convincing Tiger to give up now. The man had just shot his whole team, just because he believed that he was doing the right thing and they didn't. Wars had started for less. Beliefs were always a dangerous, messy and bloody thing.

There was no point in hoping for divine intervention on this one either. If no angel had arrived to rescue him until now, Dean doubted that any would be hiding in the bushes, just waiting to make some dramatic entrance. Sam would be looking for him too, but they were out in the middle of nowhere and Dean's ass didn't have a GPS on it for tracking.

When the shot rang out, Dean wondered why it hadn't hurt at all.

0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0

The best way that his father had come up with to teach Sam how to follow a track was to dump him in the middle of a forest and let him fend for himself, find his way back alone just by tracking John's footprints and clues. He had been eleven and Dean fifteen. It had been a complete disaster.

Sam had gotten utterly lost and ended up almost dying in that forest and Dean, who was supposed to have stayed in bed nursing his mono-induced fever of 103, had ended up in the forest, at night, tracking Sam. John Winchester was not impressed with his younger son's tracking skills and even less impressed with Dean's willingness to shelter and protect his brother from life. The fact that they had both ended up in the hospital robbed John of the lecture that he had no doubt prepared for the both of them. Instead, it was John getting the dressing down from the doctor assigned to their cases. Sam hadn't been around to listen when it happened, but he was later told that it had been epic.

Sam's tracking skills still sucked though. But, fortunately for him, these guys were no John Winchester and he certainly wasn't a scrawny eleven year old anymore.

After some scouting he was able to discern about five sets of shoe prints. Three were wearing army boots, two were wearing regular shoes, one of them possibly a woman's', given the small size of the print. One of the army boots' prints had left a mark so deeply indented on the ground that Sam figured that it had too belong to either a really, really fat guy or someone carrying an extra weight… like a body.

Those set of tracks eased up a couple of yards ahead, after a disarrayed area of leaves and branches where the extra weight being carried had actually been dumped. If Sam crossed his eyes and looked really hard, he could even see a handprint, faintly marked on the ground, where the dumped person had most likely pushed to get up. Where Dean had most likely pushed to get up.

From there on, there was one more set of imprints to track, the unmistakably marks of bare feet on the loose dirt. These could only belong to his brother.

Sam shuddered at the thought of Dean, without the protection of clothes and footwear, strutting ahead through the foliage and elements. He was going to kill these hunters… slowly… messily… permanently.

After a while, the ground became progressively more uneven and the rocks became excessively more abundant, with less and less soft dirt in between. Less dirt meant less prints, and less prints meant less signs to spot. Back tracking became a necessity as each print or broken branch got further and further apart and the trail just got harder and harder to follow. Panic started rising up in Sam's chest at the rapidly vanishing signs, his link to his brother growing thinner and thinner. Confidence waning at the prospect of not being able to find his brother left Sam sweating in the cooling air, breathing harder, fear coiling in his gut.

The loud sound of a gun going off broke the silence of the forest like a heavy stone breaking the quiet surface of a lake, waves of repercussions and disturbance rippling and expanding until everything in their path was changed.

The sound hadn't come from anywhere near the track that Sam had been following. His trail was leading him to higher ground, but the shot had clearly came from bellow.

Sam knew that he had been following the right track. It took him longer, but with his brother's unmistakable footprints to follow, Sam knew that he was heading in the right direction. He also knew that Dean had something to do with that gunshot.

By the time the second shot was heard, Sam could no longer tell which was running faster: his feet or his heart.

0o0o0o0o0o

In his life, Dean had already been shot more times than he cared to list. But, much like sex, the first time was the one that you never forget.

He'd been maybe sixteen at the time, close to seventeen, and his first time had been an accident. Dad had said for him to go right, so that they could circle the beast from both sides, and Dean had simply lost track of the number of turns he'd made around the bigger trees and had ended up standing directly in the line of fire between John and the black dog that they'd been hunting at the time.

He had been shot in the ass. By his father.

If it weren't for the guilt and shame present in John's face every time he looked at his oldest for the next couple of weeks, Dean would've written that one off as one of the funniest wounds he'd ever gotten. Still hurt like a bitch, though.

Now, he couldn't feel that same sort of hot and wet pain as he had felt then and every other time when he'd been shot. Dean couldn't tell if that was really good, or really, really bad.

Dean opened his eyes, vision blurry and unfocused as he tried to check his body for new holes. He couldn't see any.

Tiger, on the other hand, had lost his face. And not in that fancy, oriental-honor way. His face was literally a crater.

"I can think of a couple ways you can say thank you," the BottleRed, the DEAD BottleRed offered saucily, the smoking gun dropping to the ground. Nearing the confused, hanging man a grin slid hungrily across her face. "I found your lips extremely tasty before… maybe we can expand the menu to other… meatier parts."

If the gaping wound in the woman's throat wasn't clue enough, the quickly spreading blackness that suddenly took over her green eyes was a dead give away… no pun intended.

"Why should I thank you, skank?" Dean spat, hating the fact that, when her hands reached for his face, he could do nothing to get away.

"Besides the fact that I just saved your life, you mean?"

Dean refused to rise to her bait. It was bad enough that she was right about the saving his ass bit, he wasn't about to commend her for that.

"Well, they did warn me that you were an ungrateful little bitch," the demon went on. She seemed about to say more, but something got her attention somewhere in the woods behind them. She looked back at the hunter and smiled, a grotesque snarl on her lips that looked more ugly than the hole in her throat. "Lilith sends her regards," she whispered. Before Dean could understand what was happening, her hands were gripping his cheeks tight and the demon's mouth was on his, pushing her tongue inside.

And then she was gone, black smoke escaping the mouth that had just kissed him and BottleRed was back to dead, falling in a crumpled heap on top of Pepe.

Dean did a quick body count, contorting his body as far a he could hold the pain without screaming out. There weren't enough bodies... there was one missing. He couldn't remember which on, but his gut was telling him that the body count was one short.

The sound of running feet coming from the tree line distracted Dean's line of though before he could remember who was missing. The last thought to pass through Dean's mind before his body gave out and the world faded away yet again was that he'd just wasted his chance to get away.

0o0o0o0o0o0

AN: Thank you to all you wonderful people that reviewed last chapter and therefore, according to my demands, saved Dean in this one *g*

Next chapter will be the last one, so, have fun and keep on being wonderful!