"Good morning, John."

John covered his eyes with his arm as bright fluorescent lights blared on above him, illuminating his modestly furnished room. At least they saw fit to give me the basics, he thought to himself as he arose from his cot and saw a sink, toilet stall, wooden foot locker and a small window on the adjacent wall.

On the opposite wall was the door to the room, in which now stood a small man of about 60, with silver hair and glasses resting partway down his long-sloped nose. Dressed in a well-tailored dark suit with a blue/small yellow-polka-dotted tie, he held a silver cane with an eagle head top in his right hand, though it seemed to be more of an accessory than a walking tool.

"I hope you are well-rested. You have a busy day ahead of you. Shall we?" said the man in a rather heavy accent – Russian or Hungarian, perhaps – as he motioned behind him, implying John should follow him out of the room.

"What, no breakfast?" John said with a smirk, taking notice that the old man appeared to be alone and gauging his best first, second and third options for escape.

"But of course, John," said the man amiably. "You don't think I would send you off to work without a hearty meal?"

"Guess not," replied John, rising from the cot and pulling on his flannel overshirt. "Think I could have the courtesy of knowing your name?" he asked, mimicking the man's hoity-civilized tone with just a hint of Winchester snark.

"I am Victor Sobcynski." With that, Victor turned to walk down the unseen hallway. John paused for a moment, and, seeing no one follow, he stepped out, bracing himself for opportunity number one to present itself. It wasn't a surprise, though, when just behind the opened door stood Fitzpatrick with a cattle-prod like instrument in his hand. John smirked at him and followed after Victor, who entered another room at the end of the hall.

As John entered the room, he felt as though he had stepped into another world. The stark, cold concrete corridor left behind, he found himself within a warm, classic study filled top to bottom with books, art and collectibles. A fire raged in the corner hearth and a large table was set in the middle of the room, complete with an impressive array of fruits, danishes and other breakfast items.

"Please, sit, eat," instructed Victor, who took a seat at one end of the table, leaving the empty seat at the other the obvious choice for John. John noticed two other henchmen standing nearby, also armed, so he went and took the offered seat, taking in the contents of the room to see what if anything could be useful to him.

"Tell me about yourself, John."

"What would you like to know, Vic? Or should I say, what don't you already know?"

"Very good," Victor chuckled, and turned to address his men. "You see? This is why I have chosen as I have. Indeed I know a great deal about you, John. You were born March 13, 1954 in Olathe, Kansas and moved to Lawrence with your family when you were seven. You met your wife, Mary, in high school and proposed to her just after graduation, right before you joined the U.S. Marine Corp, in which you served two tours, though fortunately not in Vietnam. Your skills as a mechanic were judged to be more valuable on the homefront, yes? After your service you returned to your beloved Mary and married. A few years later came the birth of your first son Dean on January 24, 1979, followed by the birth of your second son Samuel on May 2, 1983. Six months later your wife was killed by your demon and you've been hunting for it and everything else ever since."

Keeping his best game face on, John sat and listened as Victor clinically, emotionlessly rattled off beloved moments of his life. He'd be damned if he'd give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him react, but secretly he was wincing inside. "Well, seems to me you do know a hell of a lot."

"I do, yes, but these are merely facts. Empty. No heart, no substance. To truly know you, John Winchester, to know the man I have brought here to sit before me, I wish to know what is…underneath. For instance, what was your wife' favorite scent?"

Play along, Winchester, John thought, game face firm. "Arabian jasmine."

"And your first car?"

"1967 Chevy Impala."

"Same car you drive to this day. Clearly you are a talented mechanic. What was your son Dean's first word?"

"Ball."

"And when did you first tell Samuel about the evil in the world?"

John couldn't help but flinch slightly at this question. "I didn't. Dean did."

"You did not take the responsibility to tell him yourself?"

John balled his hands into fists under the table. He learned that Dean had told Sam the truth about their family about a month following one Christmas when he'd been off on a hunt. Sam had tried to conceal that he knew but the kid was never good at keeping his emotions in check. John hadn't been happy that Dean had told him, but Sam had come to his brother's defense and said he'd found the journal and figured it out for himself. He just made Dean confirm it. John knew the time to tell Sam had been coming for a while and hoped he had a little while longer, but it was not to be. "My boys have a special relationship. It was easier for Sam to hear it from Dean, since Dean had been through learning the truth himself."

"Yes, they are truly remarkable young men, your sons. I very much look forward to meeting them both."

Game face gone. John was convinced Victor held no interest in Sam and Dean since he had left them behind in the woods. How could he be so blind? "You leave them alone. You want to watch a hunter in action, fine, then watch me. Test me, put up against your worst. But leave my sons the hell alone," he said in his darkest, most murderous tone.

"Oh, but John, they are sure to come after you, no? They would not just leave their father to an unknown fate. And you've trained them so thoroughly I would imagine they are well on their way here to finding you." Victor purposefully left out letting John know about Vinnie and his little "message." More entertaining that way.

"You sonofabitch!" John growled, pushing up from his chair, knocking it over, and lurching for Victor, only to be stopped by Fitzpatrick and his handy cattle-prod. As John lay on the ground, flattened by the electric jolt, Victor casually rose from his seat, wiped the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin, straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

"It would seem our hunter is ready to get to work. Prepare the first. As soon as John has collected himself, we'll shall begin."

As John breathed through the tremors the electric shock induced on his body, he called out mentally to his sons: Be alert, boys. Be ready. Watch your backs. He knows. He knows…