A/N: Wow. Still no requests? Please send me some, I need ideas. Thank you for all the follows and favs, unfortunately, without requests to give me ideas, this fic will progress a little more slowly. Requests = Chapters, people. In the meantime, I am working on another fic, so please go read it! I might have inserted it into this chapter. See if you can find it. I still love you guys! And I would like, once again, to apologize to Sam.

I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

Chapter 5

"I don't believe it."
They had stopped in a town for the night, and Sam was sitting at the motel table looking for a case. Dean walked over, "What?" He looked at the computer screen, "Son of a bitch. Seriously? I thought we gave him a warning last time."
Sam turned back to his laptop, "Yeah, well, apparently it wasn't enouph." Dean started toward the other section of the room, partitioned of with a screen, and a couple of feet lower than the rest of it. There was actually a stair between the two sections. He sat on his bed and took off his shoes, "I guess we know where we're going after this. Go to bed Samantha, we leave in five hours."
Sam sighed and closed his laptop, "Yeah, okay."

Dean pounded on the door. He wasn't in the mood for this. They had enouph going on without more getting dumped on their plate. He was about to pick the lock when the door opened. A man stood on the other side, wearing a bathrobe and looking remarkably like a groveling, submissive dog that wanted to be somewhere else, "Oh, um, hi guys," he noticed the other Winchester, "Sam, uh, wow. So it's true. You really are, uh... you look good."
Sam spoke, "You knew about this?" Chuck scratched the side of his face and looked like he wanted to leave, "Uh, I might have had a vision about it, yeah."
Dean stared at him, "And you didn't think to warn us?"
"Sorry? I'm trying to keep my head down. I'd rather Raphael didn't remember my existence. He might decide a prophet's a tactical advantage."
Dean glared at him, "I thought we said no more books."
"Right. Well um, it's just a prequel."
"I don't care what it is. No more books means no more books. And prequels are embarassing."
"I'm sorry, okay? I need money. The sales from the books already out aren't enouph for me to live."
"Whatever. Fix it."
He looked abjectly miserable, "I can't. Once it's published, it's published. Nothing I can do about it. Why don't you guys come in off my porch?"
They followed him inside. Dean spoke, "Can't you at least fix the title? The Long and Winding Road is stupid."
"You guys want a drink? Sam? Dean? Oh, okay. Well, you don't mind if I do?" Chuck poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and downed it, finishing the entire thing in one go, "Look, like I said guys, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you felt so strongly about it. It isn't like I wrote about you coming back from hell and Sam drinking demon blood. Those books are safely on my laptop, and I swear I won't publish them."
"Hi Sam!" A voice came from the doorway, and the brothers turned to see Becky on her way over. She grabbed Sam in a hug, "So it's true. Oh, you poor baby, let me help! Gabriel's awful to even think about hurting you, my darling. And after everything you've been through. You went to hell for a year! Don't worry, everything is going to be okay. I'll protect you, my baby!" Sam struggled to breath and eyed Dean in desperation, "Uh... Yeah, okay. Um, Becky, can you let go of me now?" She eventually let go and stood back from him, his hands in hers as she looked him over, "Wow. I'm impressed. It's a good look for you. Not as good as before, but it definately could have been worse. You carry it off." She turned, "And Dean! I'm so sorry!" He looked confused, "... for what?"
"I read the new book! It was so sad! John may have been grief-striken, but that was no excuse to treat you the way he did."
"Uh, it's okay, really."
"No it's not! You had to grow up so fast! I'm so sorry you never got to be a child!"
"Right. Anyway Chuck," He said, slowly backing towards the door, "Just don't publish any more books. Last warning."
"Okay. Got it." "Good." They turned and fled, bolting to the car and getting inside.
Dean spoke, "Wow. Is it just me or does she get worse every time we see her?"
Sam looked at him, "No, she's definately worse."

They sat in a motel room, Sam on his laptop, Dean with a book in his hand, "I don't believe this. How could he have thought this was okay to publish? Everything's in here, dude! Us in Lawrence after the fire, Dad meeting Missouri, Bobby, everything. I'm reading about Mom learning to use her ghost mojo! Seriously!"
Sam inclined his head, "Guy's good. Hey, what did he say about high school? Did he include you cheating on every single one of your girlfriends about five times over?"
Dean stared at him, then looked back at the book, "I haven't gotten there yet. You finding anything?"
"Nope. Nothing. Wherever Gabriel is, he's hiding his tracks."
"What about a case?"
"Nothing yet."
"Hey! I have an idea. If Raphael might want a prophet, let's give him one."
"Dean, what-"
"He shows up to grab Chuck, we trap him in some holy oil and gank him. Problem solved!"
"Dean, I think if Raphael wanted Chuck, he would have gotten him already. And we are nowhere even remotely close to ready for a high noon stand-off with an archangel. Also, I'm pretty sure using Chuck as bait is probably really unethical."
Dean sighed, "Fine. Whatever. At least then I wouldn't have to read any more Choose Your own Adventure's, starring us."
"No one ever forced you to read them."
"Yeah, well, I want to know exactly how much of my life is on display."

Sam walked through the parking lot, glad for the fresh air. He loved Dean, but sometimes the close quarters could be somewhat... confining. He stood, staring at the sky, paying very little attention to his surroundings.
Suddunly he felt a sharp pain in his neck, he clapped a hand to it, and felt the tasseled end of a tranquilizer dart. Then everything went black.

He woke up on a table of some sort, strapped down with wires attached to various parts of his anatomy. He couldn't quite tell where he was and he struggled to turn his head. He heard a voice, "Uh-uh. Now don't try anything," It called to someone else in the room, "Tamara, I think our visitor here is awake." A pair of heads appeared above him. The one who had spoken first was a balding, middle-aged, avarage-looking white man with a head shaped remarkably like an egg. Looking at him more closely, Sam became unsure that he was even middle-aged, the premature balding merely giving that effect. In reality, he didn't seem much older than Dean.
The other individual was less noticable for her beauty then the incredible malice and hatred in her eyes. A very lovely young black woman, she wore a jogging outfit, a strange juxtaposition with the pair's current activity. Which raised another question. What was their current activity?
"What are you going to do with me?"
Egg-Head spoke, "Me? Nothing. Tamara here's going to talk to you, ask you some questions, and she had better like the answers."
"Oh. An interrogation... fun..."
Tamara looked at Egg-Head, "Greg, you might want to go watch our backs," She gripped his arm as he turned to leave, "Don't worry, baby. Your turn's coming. We'll deal with your father next."
'Greg' smiled, "I know. You'll help me avenge him. Now you have fun. This one's yours after all." They kissed above the table, which Sam found relatively sickening, then he heard Greg leave the room. Tamara smiled down at him, "Well now. At last. Just you and me, baby. Let's get started."
She walked over to a large machine and leaned against it, her hand resting on a swich, "Ok, now I'm going to give you a little jolt, just to let you know I mean buisiness, then we'll talk." She threw the swich and Sam arched, electricity surging through him, the pain to intense to even scream. It lasted for a few seconds, then she turned it off, "Okay, now, what are the demons planning?"
"Oh no, not more of you guys. Look, I don't know. I wish I did. But I don't and that's the end of it."
She shook her head, "You're disappointing me Sammy. You honestly expect me to believe that? You don't know anything?"
"I don't!"
"Sure. Hell's little blood-drinking, demon-screwing bitch-boy that jump-started the apocalypse doesn't know a thing. Oh well." She flipped the swich again, leaving it on as she talked, "How stupid do you think I am? Just tell the truth, Sammy, it'll make things a whole lot easier for you." A few more seconds, and the pain ended. He breathed heavily, "Please. Don't you think... if I knew anything... I'd have told you by now?"
"I don't know. You could hold out for hours, or days for all I know, but there's plenty more juice in this thing, and I've got all the time in the world."
"Just... Please... Mercy." That seemed to infuriate her. She flipped it back on, "What? Like you showed my brother? Why should I?"
Off "What? What... did I do?"
"Oh that's right. Demon spawn don't keep track of their kills, do they. My brother, Tyrell. He was a good boy, sweet, kind, and you killed him like it was nothing, like you were swatting a fly."
"Who... was he?"
"A contestant in Azazal's Hunger Games. He didn't ask to be a phycic. He had a life, college, a girlfriend, then the headaches started, a few months before he turned twenty-two. It got worse, he could read minds, he said. Everyone thought he was crazy, but I believed him. After all, he tried it on me and was right every time, but it kept going, kept getting worse. Finally, he refused to leave his room. He was hearing everyone's thoughts, all the time. Then it happened."
"What?" He desperately wanted her to keep talking. If she was talking, she wasn't hurting him.
She continued, "I came home one day to find my family dead, throughts cut, a window open. Tyrell was missing, and the police said he did it, but he didn't. I knew my brother, and he wasn't capable of something like that. I tracked him down, learned Azazal's plan, found the town, but it was too late. It was over. But I knew it had been a fight to the death, last kid standing gets the purse, so I knew how to find his killer. The last blood phycic. And it turns out, it's you."
On Off He relaxed, trying to recover from the pain, "Look, I swear, I was there, but I didn't kill anyone. Not everyone was in that town at the same time. I never even met your brother. Please... let me go!"
She smiled, "Look, buddy, at this point, I don't really much care. Magic killed my brother. You're magical, you're the last phycic, so his death comes out of your ass."
On.

Dean was starting to get worried. Sam should have been back by now. He walked out into the parking lot, "Sam?" he called.
No response.
He walked around, checking more throughly, "Sammy?"
His heart raced. Something was wrong. He ran back inside and grabbed his phone, scrolling through the contact list until he found Sam's name. He dialed, putting it up to his ear. It rang, then he heard, "Hi. This is Sam Winchester. Leave your message at the beep."
He was getting really frightened, "Sam! Answer your phone, dammit!" He hang up and concidered. He was now thoroughly convinced Sam was in trouble. An image of that awful motel room came into his mind, Sam seizing on the floor, his head full of Hell. What if the wall had broken, and he was all alone? He pushed the image out of his mind. No. He wasn't going to concider that possibility. An idea came into his head, and he hurredly dialed another number, "Hey, Chuck?"
"Hi, Dean, what is it?"
"Do you know where Sam is?"
Chuck sounded confused, "What?"
"What have you seen about today?"
"I don't understand. W-what are you asking me? I haven't seen anything about today. What's wrong, Dean?"
"Sam's missing."
"Oh, um, wow. Well, I'm sorry. I just don't know."
"Yeah, thanks." He hung up and tossed the phone on the table. He had to find him.

A/N: Wow, that came out a lot darker than I expected. So, uh, yeah, Crossover Alert! Basically, it annoyed me in OUAT how we never got Tamara's backstory, especially as she seemed to be the more vicious of the two hunters. So I came up with this headcanon. I promise I will try not to go this dark ever again. Anyway, this is what happens when you leave me to come up with my own plotlines.