Chapter Five.

"Put down the gun! Put it down!"

The speaker was a man straight out of the Dukes of Hazzard, complete with grubby baseball cap and lumberjack shirt – not forgetting the rifle, which waved around dangerously in front of Dean's nose threatening to go off at any second, a risk heightened by the unmistakable tremble of old-age in his trigger finger.

Dean held up his hands, gun hanging in one of them. It was not a good time to get killed.

"Open it up," came the next command, accompanied by a gesture towards the driver window with the barrel of the gun. Dean did as he was told, slowly, gun-hand still up out of harm's way. He could not believe he was being held-up by freakin' Uncle Jesse and despite the danger, his first words through the rolled-down window expressed that irritation.

"Go easy will you Grandpa? I'm F.B.I."

That drew a frown and the merest flicker of hesitation before a bark of disbelief,

"You're a fed?" he asked, bushy grey brows knitting together, "Where's your badge?"

Dean fished it out carefully, holding his jacket wide open so as not to suddenly spook the worryingly unsteady trigger-finger and sliding the leather-backed I.D out of his inside pocket into plain view. Shifting the rifle to the crook of his other elbow, the man stepped forward and snatched it quickly, eyes scanning first the details and then the face before him. It seemed to take forever, which was a hell of a lot longer than Dean had.

"Wanna stop waving that thing around in my face now?"

His snapped sentence drew a final look of doubt,

"Where's your suit?"

He was getting fed up with that question. Fast.

"The cleaners," Dean shot back with a narrow-eyed smile, "Satisfied?"

Evidently the man was, for the next second the badge had been thrust back through the window and the rifle propped butt-down on the ground for use as a post as the old-timer propped an elbow against it and leant forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper,

"You come for that woman and her son?" he asked suddenly, eyes twinkling in excitement. Dean frowned, momentarily caught off guard.

"What makes you say that?"

The man shook his head resolutely, swinging it left to right as he answered,

"Not right them two. Not right at all."

"Not right how?" asked Dean carefully, wondering if the guy really could offer him something of use or if he was just the local lunatic. Probably the latter if their typical brand of luck was on his side. The man blew out a long breath and turned towards the little house, pointing, still keeping his voice low.

"See them drapes up there at the top…" he began, indicating a small window in the apex of the building indeed covered by material. Dean nodded, waiting for the rest of the sentence with baited breath as the man swung wide eyes back to him, whetting his lips for the revelation to come, it was going to be big.

"…they ain't never open."

In the silence that followed Dean stared at him long and hard, trying to process what he had heard with the fact that could barely believe it. He cleared his throat and sat forward, incredulity playing across his face,

"That's it?"

Sensing the information had not gone down as well as planned however, the living Uncle Jesse homage hurried to find something else,

"Well, that and them going out all hours of the night in that damn heap of rust of theirs, carrying things into the house – human-size things – and then the…digging…"

Suddenly it felt like maybe they were getting somewhere,

"Digging?"

"Digging," came the affirmative as again the man bent in closer, scared or at the very least cautious of who might hear, "In the basement, in the pitch black of the night. I've heard them."

Dean frowned, reluctant the repeat the word a second time yet knowing he had to,

"Digging what?"

Eyes widened.

"Holes for something…or someone."

Dean let out a long sigh, mentally running through the options in his head. If he were a real F.B.I agent he'd have laughed the guy off the roadside by now, but he wasn't, and the worst part of the whole thing was that the crazy old fool was probably right in his assumptions. Great. Suddenly another question came to him,

"What did you say your name was?"

He hadn't, which was sort of the point. Not that it mattered much as the man wiped a muddy hand down his trousers and extended it through the window.

"Jed, Jed Hamilton. I'm the neighbour, well, nearest one they got anyway."

Dean blinked. Jed Hamilton? It was almost worth looking round for Bo and Luke Duke, which would have been entirely worth while were Daisy tagging along too in those tight little – .

"Any reason you've been watching your neighbours so intently Mr. Hamilton?" he asked in his best answer me, I'm a federal agent tone. Jed's jaw tightened, his eyes suddenly softening,

"Well someone has to. It's only right. I mean I took care of that boy like he was practically my own…"

A flicker of revulsion passed across Dean's face,

"The ginger kid?"

"What?" abruptly Jed snapped back into reality, his expression mirroring Dean's distaste, "No! Not that idiot! That's Isaac. I'm talking about Jake. Bright boy he was, sharp as a tack. Still miss him you know, not the same round here since he left us."

As Jed continued to wax lyrical beside him, Dean's eyes were caught by the sight of the woman and her son emerging out from the barn and into the house, casting round warily, clutching their groceries and entirely capturing his full focus.

"Yeah, well," he muttered off-hand to Jed, sitting forward to push the handgun behind his jacket and into the back of his jeans, "They all gotta fly the nest sometime."

Jed frowned, stepping back as the Impala door swung open,

"No. Boy that's not – ,"

"Excuse me,"

He stepped back again as Dean climbed out, aware that he was no longer being listened to, sensing that ever fibre of Dean's body was poised ready for action. Something was about to go down. Hastily he bent to collect up his rifle.

"Need me to cover your back?" he asked eagerly, drawing a half-interested headshake,

"No thanks Jed, not this time."

The older man nodded, trying not to let his boyish disappointment show,

"Well," he replied uncertainly, "All right, if you say so. But, err, listen," stretching out a hand, he caught Dean by the sleeve of his jacket, turning him gently until the younger man was looking directly at him, if only for a second, "Give'em hell huh?"

Dean's expression rose as he found himself momentarily surprised, but as the sentiments sunk in his eyes narrowed and he grinned over a wolfish smile before bending low and heading for the tree line,

"Oh, don't worry," he replied darkly, "I intend to."

The half-run, half-crouch towards the barn was fairly easily accomplished, helped by both trees and an untidy collection of broken farm-equipment scattered liberally around the property. Every few metres Dean was able to duck behind something and survey his next step, and with every movement he drew closer to the little house that seemed to be causing everyone so many problems. Well, if not everyone then at least him and the neighbour. And certainly Sam.

He paused momentarily as a noise hit his ears, low and humming, a buzz that was so consistent he almost had to question whether he was hearing it at all. He tapped his ear once in irritation, and then put it to the back of his mind.

The yard was empty, the woman and her son safely tucked away inside somewhere, probably unpacking whatever type of groceries it was that crazed hillbilly kidnappers tended to buy. Not that it mattered much to Dean as he skirted along the edge of the barn and swiftly let himself in through the big double doors, having decided to start his search for clues in the place that had held the first. The truck, which, if possible, looked even more battered and rusted up close than it had on the road. One big lump of scratches, dents, erosion and a final item stashed in the back that made Dean's stomach turn over. A syringe. Empty. Used.

He grit his teeth together in anger.

"Damn it!"

So that was how they'd got Sam. It made sense, after all, in the year or whatever it was that Sam had been back on the road with him he'd pretty quickly gotten back into the swing of self-defence. Certainly to the point where seemingly being abducted by an old lady and her ape man son had had Dean puzzled to the point of disbelief. Drugging him seemed both horrific and a relief. It also explained why his things had been dumped without a struggle, although of course there was no way to tell what they'd injected him with, why, or what affect it had had on him. More unknowns.

The barn told him little else, which meant only thing. It was time to hit the house, a thought that filled him with both anticipation and dread. The truth was, although he'd been hunting for years, and often alone, he'd gotten used to Sam watching his back, a shared little nod before an all-out assault, the knowledge that someone else was there if it all went wrong. After all that, doing it alone felt…strange. But then again, he wasn't the only one alone right now, and Sam was counting on him.

Slotting the clip of the gun back into place once more, relishing the heavy click it made, Dean smiled.

There was no way he was about to let him down.

He left the barn through the doors at the back, skirting the entire length of the building before crouching at its perimeter and staring hard towards the house. It seemed deserted although he knew it wasn't, sitting dark and quiet beyond a dusty patch of open yard, littered with old bicycles and water butts. His eyes slid up to the windows, watching for flickers of movement, shadows, life. There were none, nothing but that constant hum in the background.

Wrapping his fingers more firmly around the handle of the gun he took his chance, sprinting half-bent across the space and slamming backwards against the wooden beams of the raised porch, breathing as steadily as he could manage against the rising adrenaline and keeping one ear open for movement. Still nothing. It was starting to be something of a theme. Where in the hell was everyone?

He crept up onto the porch itself, still ducking low under the window-line before dropping to his haunches by the backdoor and pulling against the handle gently. It inched open unlocked, making the sort of metallic-creak he'd come to expect from the movies – the movies Sam usually spent a good deal of time ridiculing. Although, Dean had to admit, if ever the TV-movie suits needed a good set, then the little house had to be almost perfect, even the kitchen he slunk into from the doorway seemed to have been designed with creepy and unwelcoming in mind. Dimly lit, damp and dusty. Why was it exactly that the homicidally insane never kept up with their renovations? Dean was going to have to ask someone. Only not today, because as he ducked behind the solid wooden table in the centre of the room, the reason for his foray into the unknown – and bizarre – breezed casually into the room.

The sight made Dean's heart catch in his throat, a bubble of joy threatening to spill out at any moment. Sam was alive, he was unhurt and, more importantly, he was standing not three feet in front of him. Quickly Dean straightened up, standing in plain view although keeping his voice a frantic whisper. The last thing they needed was an all-out showdown before Dean knew what they were dealing with.

"Sam."

It did the trick. Instantly and clearly startled, Sam spun on his heel staring wide-eyed across the space between them. In his haste to give his brother at least a verbal once-over, Dean didn't instantly sense the danger playing in the other man's eyes.

"Sam," he began, his tone a rush of relief, "You ok? They hurt you?"

It wasn't until he stepped towards him however that Dean realised his mistake. Sam took a step back.

"Sammy?"

It still didn't quite click, and then crushingly it did as Sam stepped back once more, fear in his eyes and a cry for someone other than his brother loud on his lips.

"Ma!"

Ma? Dean held up his hands, confusion playing readily across his face as he tried to placate whatever fears his younger brother had.

"Hold on Sam I just – ,"

"Jacob?"

He was interrupted by another voice, sharp, shrill and worried as the woman stepped into the room beside them, eyes falling questioning upon Sam and then taking in Dean with a gasp of shock. It doubled as Dean drew his gun, confusion replaced squarely by anger as the reason for the whole mess and days of anxiety wandered into view – although Dean couldn't fail to notice the horror that lit up in Sam's eyes at the sight of the gun's aim. He tried to ignore it.

"What did you do to him?" he asked instead, voice a low growl with undertones of murderous, "What have you done to my brother?!"

At the fierce accusation, Sam visibly flinched and suddenly he seemed five again, cowering as their father had yelled at Dean over something trivial as he had done from time to time when the stresses of single parenthood and an unorthodox life on the road had combined to tip him over the edge. The sight instantly made the hardness in Dean's eyes melt clean away and although it was only a momentary flicker, the woman saw it and held a hand out to her side, cold stare never leaving the intruder.

"Come and stand by me son, it's all right, he won't hurt you."

Sam complied, hesitantly at first, but then quickly, as if looking for comfort, even taking the gnarled old hand with an eagerness that turned Dean's stomach and transformed his voice from one full of hatred to one brimming with emotion.

"No. No, Sammy she's not your mother. Our mom was Mary, okay? Mary Winchester," he choked the words out, willing his eyes not to well up in his mixture of grief and frustration. Now who was five? "And she was not some bitter old hag. You hear me Sam?"

He did, but not with the sort of awareness Dean had hoped to trigger, instead his rising tone was met with yet more fear and wide-eyed confusion.

"You remember her damn it!"

Quickly the anger returned and as Dean's face hardened once more, he stepped towards them both, cocking the gun and pointing it dead centre at the woman's heart.

"Whatever you did to him bitch. I'm putting it right."

Although he never actually had the chance because at the last moment, and for the second time that day, he was caught unawares, this time across the back of the head. Hard. And suddenly everything went black.

Crap.

Leaving him with one final thought.

What is that buzzing?

Ok, so maybe Dean's not really paying much attention – but he's a wee bit upset right now. Anyway, there's another chapter for you. I hope it satisfied, and, as always thank you SO very, very much to all my 'alerters' and especially those reviewers who take, not only the time to give me feedback, but also leave such encouraging and detailed support. You're all fabulous!