Author's Note: Warning for murder, not dreadfully graphic, but still existent.

"Check for cameras," Sam ordered, his steely eyes never leaving the terrified face of the motel manager. "Destroy any that you find, and delete everything on the computer. I don't want anyone knowing that we were here, aliases or not. I'd like them to stay clean just a little while longer." He tapped the trigger of his .22 casually, enjoying the look of sheer terror that passed over the paper white face of the motel manager, a slightly overweight man in his forties. Sam wondered if he had a family; he hoped that he did, that the man's family would be called in to identify his bloody, sticky remains when they were done with him. He had nearly forgotten the adrenaline rush that accompanied every kill, every pathetic victim terrified for their lives at the end of his weapon. Had he honestly given this up for college? For the life of him, he could not remember why.

"Outside's clean, I already checked," Dean said, casually looking around the front lobby. "Got one, got two, bang bang," he said with a laugh, pulling up a chair and standing to rip the first camera from the walls. "Hope you weren't expecting any of this to get to the police" he taunted, tossing the manager a charming grin that did not mask the sadistic glee in his eyes. Sam's blood surged at the feral look on his brother's face; were he not so passionate about murder himself, he would wonder how a person could take such delight in such a simple action. He held the gun steady as Dean ripped the cameras from the walls and sauntered over to the front desk. "Say bye-bye to your computer," he laughed, picking the machine up and smashing it to the floor, taking out the stubborn bits with his own gun. "Money from the cash register?" he asked Sam, cocking his head inquisitively.

"Doesn't hurt," Sam replied with a shrug. "We're going to torch the place anyways—might as well not let it go to waste."

"If we're gonna torch the place, we might as well raid the rooms first," Dean said, opening up the drawer and pulling out several stacks of crinkled bills. He snorted in derision. "Cheap place. Man, you'd think a freaking hotel would have more on hand," he said, pocketing the meager pickings."

"You're the one who likes to keep it cheap," Sam said, smiling at the manager. "But yeah, we can hit a few other rooms. How are you on bullets?"

"Pretty good," Dean answered, holstering his gun. "I'll go smear the license plates and you take care of this guy?"

"Oh, you're so nice, leaving me the fun part," Sam practically purred, shooting his brother a sadistic grin. He turned his attention back to the terrified man in front of him. "Now, shall we?"

"No," the man whispered, clutching the countertop with a white-knuckled death grip. "No, please! Please, I have two girls, their mother's a monster, she can't get custody of them, it would—"

"Then it's your lucky day, because you live in a country with a foster care system," Sam said, grinning sadistically. He shot the man once, twice, three times to make sure that he was good and dead, and made his way out to the Impala, enjoying the gleeful rush shooting through his body. Dean was standing at the car next to theirs, having ripped the door to the gas tank off with a crowbar. Oversized turkey baster in hand, he was siphoning gas slowly from the other car into a gas can, methodically squeezing every drop from the vehicle. "That was fast," he said nonchalantly as Sam approached. "Thought you were going to take your time with that one."

"He started begging right away, and his voice was annoying," Sam answered, squatting beside him. "What are you doing anyways?"

"Trying to get enough gas to light this place up," Dean replied, plunging the turkey baster back into the gas tank. "It's gonna take a while though. Go kill things or something."

Sam scowled and opened the Impala's trunk. After a few minutes of digging, he found a long, plastic tube. "Move," he ordered, shoving Dean out of the way and inserting the tube into the gas tank. "Can't believe I know this and you don't, you've spent a lot more time on the road than I have," he muttered, raising the end of the tube to his lips. He took a deep breath and pulled, sucking at the end of the tube until he could feel the gasoline rising, traveling through the cylinder. Before it could touch his mouth, Sam pulled away and pointed the end of the tube at the gas can, watching as liquid flowed from the tube into the canister. "Quit wasting time and go get more," he ordered, well aware that the Impala was stocked with at least three gas cans at all times. "And fill up the car while you're at it," he added, turning to grin at the shocked look on Dean's face.

"Shit, Sammy, who knew you could put your job to so many uses?" Dean breathed, shaking his head and walking over to the trunk of the Impala. Sam snickered and finished filling up the gas can, and then picked up a spare crowbar and the third can, heading over to another car. As quietly as he could, he ripped the door of the gas tank off and began the process of siphoning out the gas again, glad for the ornamental shrubbery that blocked the view of the motel parking lot from the road. When the canister was full, he lugged it back over to the Impala and popped the gas tank's door, filling the tank up with free gas. Why pay when you can steal from the dead?

"So how's it going to be?" Dean asked when they had finished. "Douse the sucker in gasoline and hit a few rooms, then get out and light her up?" He grinned, teeth glinting in the weak sunlight.

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Sam said, looking through the trunk and pulling out a few more guns. He tossed a semi-automatic to Dean, who caught it with the ease of long practice. "I'm gonna say no torture on this one, though. We're walking a fine line with getting caught here."

Dean grunted in agreement. He picked up his gas can and walked towards the motel. Sam followed, admiring the power and excitement barely contained in Dean's muscular frame. Oh, this was just like old times, but perhaps better for the long break he had taken. Sam breathed in deeply, cherishing the smell of the clear air, soon to be filled with smoke and ash.

The majority of the gas went to the motel's check-in room, the place where there were most likely to be traces of the Winchesters. Sam grinned as his brother poured gasoline over the counter, the floor, the body of the manager; he moved to the other rooms contained in the small lobby of the motel, not concerned about saving fuel for the guest's rooms. Those did not need to burn, though it would be beautiful if they did.

The rooms saturated, Sam met Dean at the front of the hotel. "You ready?" he asked, smiling innocently down at his older brother, grinning as he laughed.

"Always ready to kill with you, Sammy," Dean replied, placing a hand possessively on the back of Sam's neck. "Now let's go before anyone comes out and we have to kill witnesses in public, okay?"

Sam smirked, turning and walking away from his brother, leaving Dean to follow him. He passed over the first several rooms, before he spotted one that was clearly occupied. He turned his head to wink at Dean, and kicked the door open, the cheap wood splintering and nearly flying off its hinges.

The elderly couple barely had time to scream before Sam opened fire, shooting the old man three times before taking out his wife. He stood by the door as Dean picked up a towel and used it to carefully, without touching anything, go through the couples' pockets and the lady's purse. "Not much, but it's something," he said with a shrug, looking up at Sam with blood-crazed eyes. Sam wanted nothing more than to throw him down and smear the blood all over his face, but he restrained himself; they were making an effort to not leave DNA at the scene, after all. "Hopefully the next room will have better pickings."

Sam could not bring himself to care about the money. The sight of the couple, beautifully dead and covered in dark, rich blood, his brother crouched amongst their remains—that was worth more than any amount of money to him. Still, hitting more rooms meant more kills, and after his stint at living by the law—well, to a certain degree at least—he was itching to kill again. Four years without a single proper body to add to his count had left Sam wanting more than he could have possibly realized. He nodded, unable to find words, and lead the way out of the crumbling room to the next door that showed signs of habitation. Three rooms later, and he was starting to get itchy; he would love to continue killing, but someone could call the cops any minute.

"We should go, Dean," he said reluctantly, touching his brother's shoulder with a bloody hand. Dean nodded, rising from the pile of bodies—three teenagers and their father, a man who had carried a surprising amount of money for someone who had picked such a run-down motel to stay in—and followed Sam out the door, back to the front of the motel. He tossed the towel into the lobby and backed up, gesturing Sam away from the doors. Sam backed away to stand by the car, watching hungrily as Dean struck a match, backed away, and threw it with all his might. Dean bolted as the match made contact with the gasoline soaked floor, the hotel lighting up faster than Sam would have thought was possible.

"Shit shit shit fuck shit!" Dean shouted, sprinting towards the car. Sam threw himself into the passenger's seat as Dean wrenched the door open and leapt with equal vigor into the driver's seat. "Let's go let's go let's go!" he yelled with a whoop, slamming the car into reverse and pulling out of the parking lot so sharply that Sam's head knocked against the window.

"Man," Sam said, laughing, as they finally pulled safely onto the highway. "That was fantastic. Damn I've missed this! We should do it more often."

Dean chuckled as though amused by his brother's enthusiasm. "You always said that, Sam," he laughed, turning the music up as he sped along several miles over the speed limit. Why bother caring about traffic cops when they died just as easily as everyone else? "Nice to know that some things never change."

Sam snickered, mulling Dean's words over in his head. "Yeah, well, did you expect that to?"

"Honestly? Yes," Dean said, speeding up to pass the car in the lane next to them. "Dad and I figured you'd gone soft. Wanted out because you were done killing and living on the wrong side of the law. He was livid that you'd gone straight after all these years, and honestly, I was pretty disappointed too. Never been so happy to be proven wrong!"

Sam snorted. "I was never done killing," he said, laughing cruelly. "I just figured it would be safer to do it legally. Put everyone I could on death row and laugh as they got executed. It's not the same rush as this, but it seemed like it would be close enough."

Dean's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Well, was it?" he asked finally, voice barely audible over the pounding, encompassing beat of AC/DC.

Sam sighed, loathe to answer. "No," he replied finally, tossing his brother a begrudging look. "No, it wasn't the enough at all. The biggest rush I got wasn't in learning how to get criminals killed, it was killing my customers when they were assholes, and even then, it, how do I put this," he said, grinning at his brother. "It lacked a certain charm. It always does when they're guilty. It's not the same feeling at all."

Dean laughed gleefully. "Dad owes me a grand, when we find him," he said, eyes sparkling with delight. "He bet that you'd gone soft all around. I said that you still had something left in you. Turns out you've still got the whole package, so he's got to pay double stakes!"

"That's good?" Sam replied, slightly perturbed. His Dad had made it perfectly clear, when he tried to kill him, that he had not approved of Sam going to Stanford, but Sam would have never dreamed that his father would ever think that he had lost taste for his old life completely. He supposed he would have to rub it in his Dad's face when they found him. "Speaking of Dad, find any leads?" he asked, determined to change the subject.

Dean shook his head, clearly frustrated. "Nothing that seems like Dad's style," he said regretfully. "A few murders and robberies, but if Dad's done anything recently, it hasn't made the news. Police records have anything?"

Sam hesitated. "Well, there's a Winchester in prison in Kentucky," he said slowly, "trial pending. No first name listed, but it could be Dad. Charges are double homicide and fleeing arrest. If it is Dad, and they link him back to the thing in Seattle, things aren't going to end well." He was reluctant to dash Dean's hopes that their father was still out there, and to be fair, Sam had trouble seeing his father go as far east as Kentucky, but if he was truly worried about being caught for his crimes in Washington, he might have gone that far. "Think we ought to check it out?"

Dean nodded tersely. "Well, it's the closest thing we've got to a lead. Find out who arrested the guy?"

"I can," Sam replied calmly, bloodlust stirring in spite of himself at the look on Dean's face. So strong, so determined, so thirsty for blood and vengeance—he wanted to rip his brother to shreds on the spot. He gripped the edge of his seat, fighting down the urge—not Dean, never Dean, Dean was one of the only people he could never kill.

"Good," Dean replied, eyes still fixed on the road. "Then we'll go to Kentucky and check into this. If it is Dad in prison, we'll bust him out and give those police officers a night they'd never forget, if we were going to let them live through it."

0o0o0o0o0

Dean picked his way through the bloodied remains of the gas station clerk, chuckling at the feral look on his brother's bloodstained face. "Really, Sammy? I leave you alone for ten minutes to fill up the car and you hack our poor dear employee of the month to shreds?" he said teasingly, patting his brother's blood-matted hair. A clump of skin slid off it, onto the sticky floor.

"There's a hose out back," Sam said with a shrug. "I'm not going to mess up your car, so I figured hey, the security cameras are out and no one else is here, what harm could it do?"

Dean chuckled, grabbing his brother's chin and tilting his head, admiring the contrast of the rich, red blood with Sam's tanned, slightly rough skin. "I just can't take you anywhere, can I?" he half-cooed, swiping his hand across the blood on Sam's face. "Okay. Get yourself cleaned up while I liberate the money and replenish our food stock, got it?"

Sam nodded, face deceptively innocent, beautiful while streaked in blood. It was a shame that Sam had to clean up; were it not for the possibility of running into the authorities on the road, Dean would have thought about putting down a tarp and ordering his brother to ride alongside him while smeared in the remains of his kill. It was impractical, though. Reluctantly, Dean let his hands fall away from Sam's face and turned to the cash register, pocketing the contents and wiping down the machine with a paper towel, which he then pocketed. Taking a few more towels with him, he wandered the aisles, stuffing food and water and alcohol into a plastic bag from behind the counter. They would be set for a while now, and all without having to drop a penny. It had not been Dean's plan, but he appreciated Sam's initiative in the matter almost as much as he appreciated the sight of his brother smeared with gore.

Sam was clean and waiting for him in the car by the time he walked outside. Dean made a brief stop at the hose to wash away the blood from his hands and the soles of his boots; he carefully burned the paper towels that he had used to touch the contents of the store, and strode back over to the car, feeling drunk on power and delight in his little brother. "Nice going back there, Sammy," he chuckled, settling into the driver's seat. "Now, where to from here? We're about a day's drive from the edge of Kentucky, unless my map is completely off. Want to keep going, or crash somewhere?"

Sam blinked at him. "It's been a while since I dismembered anyone," he said, smiling contentedly. "I'm tired. Let's drive until we hit a motel a decent ways away and get a room."

Dean laughed. "Okay, we'll do that then. We're going to drive around town a while before that though—have us check in at a time that would have us far away from this place at the time of the killing, just in case." Ordinarily, that tactic would have been obvious to Sam, but considering how long the boy had been away from the family, Dean did not trust that he still remembered to cover all the details in his killings. Best to ensure that he remembered them now, in case Dean was ever in a position where he could not take charge of the cover-up situation.

"I haven't been gone for that long, Dean," Sam said, yawning until his jaw cracked with the strain. "Now shut your cake-hole and drive."

Dean grinned. "Good to know, Sammy. Good to know." He drove until the beginnings of exhaustion began to creep through his body, making him feel dangerously close to nodding off. That in itself was an adrenaline rush, but Dean had driven exhausted enough times to know that the charm wore off when he lost the ability to tell how far in front of him the other cars were. He turned the car around, glad for the empty road—it made the whole operation so much simpler—and retraced his route, stopping at a motel an hour away from the point where he had started to feel impaired.

Sam woke just long enough for Dean to get them checked in, this time under the alias James Hendricks. They did not speak when they reached the room, but rather collapsed onto their separate beds, drained and ready for sleep before continuing their search.

Dean was glad that Sam was still asleep when he woke up, nearly ten hours later. He loved his brother and would never begrudge him the joys of killing, but he was itching to get on the road without having to take the time to clean up after another murder. "Wake up, Sam," he called, tossing his pillow at his sleeping brother. The pillow missed, falling dejectedly to the floor, and Sam stirred but did not wake. Shaking his head, Dean rose and walked the few feet to his brother's bed, shoving him roughly. "You cannot possibly be more tired than me. You slept in the car!" he shouted, by way of a greeting.

Sam groaned and slapped out instinctively with his arm. Dean did not even bother dodging the weak blow. "Come on, princess, rise and shine," he called, ripping the blankets away to expose his brother, still fully clothed down to his shoes. "Got a Winchester to track down and possibly some heads to smash."

Sam grumbled and sat up, blinking wearily. "You couldn't have waited one more hour?" he demanded, rubbing his eyes. "Fuck you, man. I hope someone in the prison takes a liking to you and kidnaps your ass."

"More likely to happen to you than me, pretty boy," Dean chortled, slapping his brother on the back. Sam shot him a dirty look and half-tumbled out of bed, disheveled and clearly still sleepy. Dean loved teasing his brother—it was all too easy, really. The man took offense at so many things!

They were silent through the car ride until they stopped for lunch at a cheap, greasy diner. Dean shook his head in derision at Sam's chicken salad, wolfing down a gloriously rare and juicy cheeseburger himself. The pie could use some work, he mused, gnawing on the dry, crumbly crust, but he'd had worse—this one wasn't bad enough for him to murder the chef, at least.

Finishing his food, he swallowed hard, grinning unabashed at Sam, who had been tapping his fingers impatiently for the better part of ten minutes. "What's eating you, Sammy boy?" he asked boisterously, leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh.

"It's all these people," Sam murmured, glancing quickly around the diner. "We could take them out. I want to take them out, Dean. It's driving me crazy—they're such sloppy, lazy, easy pickings. Can we—"

"No," Dean said firmly, cutting off the question before it could finish leaving his brother's mouth. "Absolutely not. A, daylight. B, not enough ammo right now. C, we're getting pretty close to Kentucky, where if you recall, we're going to have to get into a prison without being questioned. That's not going to happen if our faces are all over the five-o' clock news for shooting up an unsecured location." He reached across the table to pat his clearly frustrated brother on the hand. "Cheer up, Hannibal, we'll hit some place after we figure out if this Winchester is Dad, okay?"

Sam shot him a glare. "I don't eat the people I kill," he retorted softly, un-amused by Dean's references. "I suppose I could give it a try, but it seems pretty unsanitary to me. People are disgusting."

"Got that one right," Dean replied cheerfully, pleased by his brother's comeback. "Come on, let's hit the road again. The sooner we check out this prison, the sooner you can get your rocks off over some dead bodies."

Sam smirked. "That's a great way of putting it Dean. Really classy," he said, pushing himself away from the table with a sigh. He hesitated, and then slapped some money down on the table, mouth twisting in a reluctant grimace. "Guess if we're trying to be inconspicuous we'd better pay our tab," he muttered, looking almost sadly at the money.

"Eh, we'll make it all back," Dean said cheerfully, clapping Sam on the shoulder and steering him out to the car to continue their journey.

0o0o0o0o0

Several tables away from where the two men had been sitting, a trench-coat clad man with piercing blue eyes and messy black hair pulled his cell phone unobtrusively out of his pocket. He knew that the two men had not expected to be overheard, but Jimmy Novak had always had fantastic hearing, or had at least for as long as he could remember, which, granted, only spanned five years. Still, five years of memory, and three years in the FBI left him with a clear grasp of the situation. He waited a few minutes until he could be sure that the men were safely gone—he was off the clock, and not supposed to tail suspects without backup—before he stepped outside and half-ran to his car, dialing his partner along the way. "Henriksen," he panted as his partner picked up.

"Novak?" Henriksen sounded surprised—Jimmy rarely called when he was off the clock. "Something happen?"

"Overheard two men at a diner. They were talking about murders and possibly shooting up the place." Jimmy strapped himself into his seat, reversing the car and taking the wheel with one hand, holding the phone flat to his ear with the other. "They're headed to Kentucky, to sneak into a prison. We should alert the cops in the area, tell them to keep an eye out for something fishy."

Henriksen exhaled loudly. "Novak, we can't arrest them without proof of wrongdoing, you know," he reminded his young, overeager partner.

"I know," Jimmy replied, speeding down the highway towards his partner's house. "I still think it would be a good idea to put the cops on alert for these two. Something in the way they talked about it made me think they're serious about killing people."

"Well, there has been a record increase in murders following a similar MO across the mid-west over the past decade, but Kentucky seems a little far east to fit the profile." There was a slight scuffing sound over the phone. "Still, these might be our guys. Got a description?"

"Not much of one," Jimmy admitted. "Didn't want to attract attention to myself by staring. Both men, both tall, the taller one had brown hair and I think the shorter one was blond."

"Not much to go on, Novak," Henriksen said, though there was no real exasperation in his voice. "Hey. You did good in calling me. I'll put the word out to all the districts in Kentucky that have prisons, see what shows up. Meet me at headquarters as soon as you can get there, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Jimmy said, hanging up without a good-bye. Their last investigation had had them both in Ohio, working out of a temporary headquarters in Henriksen's basement—they were lucky that his partner had a house in the area, considering that the local police force was a pain in the ass about giving out room space, even though the force had been the ones to call them in. It was even luckier now—they did not have a reason to use the police force's building for a potential crime, not even something with proof or a body count, outside of the district, and Jimmy did not trust his hotel room to be secure enough for a meeting of this nature.

He parked a block away from the house and walked, unlocking the door with the spare key Henriksen had made for him. He locked the door behind him and headed down to the basement, where his partner waited with a computer and a tape recorder. "Can you remember everything they said?"

"Yes," Jimmy replied. Perhaps it was the amnesia that kept him from remembering everything before the last five years, but since then, he had developed a knack for remembering everything, down to the most minute of details, that happened around him. He sat, and began his work repeating everything he had heard, the keys clacking away as his partner typed out the evidence.