The Illusionist II

Chapter 13 : Seven Devils

Warnings: Torture and language

Slowly, Dean regained consciousness, and damn, if his head wasn't killing him. Being whacked in the skull with a frying pan looked hilarious on TV, but it sure didn't feel all that hilarious now. Though he couldn't touch it, he was pretty sure there was a knot there now, and a whole lot of dried blood, because head wounds always bled like crazy.

And the chore of getting that caked crimson out of his hair wasn't going to be buckets full of fun either.

He took in a deep breath, instantly regretting the action. The odor in the air was almost to the point of being unbearable, and it wasn't long before the bile in his stomach threatened to escape his throat. He was positive that the residents of the house probably hadn't bathed in years, or quite possibly, had never heard of the new found invention called a shower.

No, they couldn't have.

The smell of rotten flesh invaded his nostrils, and he wondered briefly if perhaps poor Fido had never made it out for his last walk.

He could feel his hands, tied behind his back, the fibers of the rope digging into his flesh, making tiny cuts in the pale skin there as he tugged at them and tugged at them, but to no avail.

"Best to open your eyes now, boy. We knows you're awake."

Well, shit.

He had really hoped that his senses were just off and he didn't feel the presence of the entire Leatherhead—no, he told himself—scarily enough, this wasn't some crazy Texas Chainsaw Massacre dream he was trapped in, this was real, and their name was the Benders. On the plus side, he was pretty sure none of them were actually wearing other people's skin, not that he had seen.

Yet.

"You've got two seconds," the old man warned, and it wasn't long before his putrid breath was in Dean's face.

Dean couldn't help but gag at the smell, eyes peering open as spittle and phlegm rattled around in his mouth.

"I've got a toothbrush in my car you can have. Seriously, it's yours," Dean coughed out, trying to get his reflexes under control. It wasn't exactly easy, especially since old man Bender didn't seem to get the picture and move.

He laughed at Dean's remark instead, letting out more of the rancid air that was wheezing between his lips, and as he did so, Dean was gifted with the image of yellow and black rotted teeth, grinning right in his face. The middle Winchester hung his head, desperately trying not to vomit.

"Really, all you gotta do is let me outta these ropes, and I'll get it for you. It's a little used, but I think you're used to that sort of thing," Dean quipped, not prepared for the punch that landed across his jaw. After the white spots disappeared, he lifted his head back up, thankful that the old man had retreated a few steps, but that damned grin was still on his face. "I'll even throw in some mouth wash too," and that offer was also met with another hit from one of the old man's sons. "Fine, I get it, I'll toss in all the floss I've got too. Works wonders for getting rid of pla-" He cut himself off when the old man advanced towards him.

"You sure got a smart mouth on you, don't cha, boy?" he asked, and Dean didn't miss the dangerous gleam that streamed through his eyes when he spoke. "It'd be a shame if that tongue were to go missin'," and the threat was made clear as he held up the gutting knife Dean had seen him using when he'd originally snuck into the house.

Dean clenched his jaw, going into silent mode. He swallowed thickly, and realized just how dry his throat truly was. For the time being, it would probably be best if he didn't speak. He was good at doing that sometimes.

"Now," old man Bender started, licking his lips, "We both know why you're here. Thought you was gonna be some big hero, and come rescue the boy, did ya? Guess that didn't quite work out the way you wanted it to, huh? 'Cause you see, the boy's ours now. Fair and square, and we's gonna hunt him, just like all the others before. You see," he said, and held the bloodied knife up against Dean's cheek, "I bet a lil' young thing like you ain't never killed nobody before." And he slid the blade across Dean's skin, piercing the flesh until there was a mark about an inch long there. Blood pooled at the broken skin and slowly slid down Dean's cheek. He kept his eyes straight ahead, though they were scrunched in pain, and he wondered if somehow, maybe these idiots weren't possessed. But as the old man jerked his head back up and forced their eyes to meet, Dean knew it wasn't true. This family wasn't possessed.

They were just plain crazy.

"Depends on what you mean," Dean mumbled through his still clenched jaw, and the man laughed at him once more; his kids too.

"No, I can tell you ain't never killed nobody before, but you see, I have. I've killed and hunted many things; rabbits, deer—even once, I killed a cougar, but the best thing I've ever hunted—was a human."

Dean's blood ran cold at the man's words, and it was then that the thought flashed through his mind that he might not actually make it out of there alive.

Not this time.

"There is nothin'—and I do mean nothin'—that feels as good as when you holdin' a human life in your hands," and now his lips were close, far too close to Dean's ear.

He never thought in a million years that he'd ever wish to be deaf again, but now...he wasn't so sure.

"Now, don't get me wrong, we're fair about it. Give 'em a weapon an' all, but they always lose. Always. And when the light finally goes out in their eyes, and they're filled with darkness, it makes you feel mighty powerful. Powerful and alive."

Dean watched with vigilant eyes as the man took a step back from him, then another until he was standing next to the fire place. "It's sorta like a family tradition, one that I'd like not to break."

The middle Winchester could already feel the sheen of sweat that had broken out across his body even though the place felt as cold as Washington state in winter. Slowly, the droplets slid down his already bloodied forehead as he watched the old man remove an iron poker from its stand. Fear trickled up his spine as he saw the old man hold it in the flames, grin growing wider the longer he held it there. Once it was nice and hot and orange, he turned back towards Dean, eyes agleam.

"Just in case you haven't figured it out yet, we found you're lady friend—the cop. So, my question is this : Are there any more cops coming out here? Anyone else lookin' for you?" And God, did Dean hate the sound of that man's voice. It sounded too eager—too hopeful that he was going to say yes so there'd be more humans for them to hunt.

"Let me think on it, and I'll get back to you," Dean answered, automatically regretting it. One of the younger Benders immediately came to stand beside him, holding him in place where he sat.

"You think this is all a game, don't cha, son? Well, I'll tell ya right now, it's not. You've decided to bring this mess upon my family, and for that, you're gonna have to pay," and with that, Dean watched in horror as the old man brought the hot poker down on the left side of his chest, near his shoulder. The glowing iron burned right through the cotton material of his two shirts, and down to his flesh, and Dean couldn't help but cry out because of the pain. It wasn't long before the smell of his own burning flesh hit his nostrils, and the urge to vomit came back tenfold.

"See, this is what happens when all you've got is a big, fat mouth, and nothing to back it up with. Now, you gonna tell me if someone's comin' for you, or you want some more?" Old man Bender inquired, a hint of the evil grin still tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Go to hell," Dean ground out, squirming as the old man brought the hot poker down on him again; this time on his left side. "Okay! Okay, no, there's no one coming for us! No one even knows we're out here!" he shouted, pain running up and down his side.

"My, my, a pretty lil' one, you are," the old man said, and ran a dirty, calloused hand down his cheek. "Just something about the way you hurt..." and this time, he pressed the iron on the inner side of Dean's thigh. The middle Winchester continued to struggle, involuntary tears welling in his eyes from the white, hot pain. A strained cry escaped his lips, and when it did, the old man chuckled. "I might just like to keep you around for a lil' while," he said, and brought the flaming poker down on his right bicep, holding it there far longer than the three previous times. Dean tried his damnedest not to let the scream befall his lips, but it did anyway. He could feel the blood running down his fingers as the rope cut further and further into his wrists as he tried desperately to pull them apart, though still to no avail.

The older man hooped and hollered at the young hunter's reaction, an expression of what Dean could only call glee forming on the old man's wrinkled face.

"Oh, yes, we gonna have us some fun tonight," Pa Bender chuckled, reaching for the chain around his neck and pulling it off. It had the damned key Dean had been searching for before he'd been caught hanging on it.

No wonder he couldn't find it.

"Who's it gonna be that we hunt tonight, boy? Your lady friend, the cop, or the boy?" Old man Bender asked, hot poker still in hand.

Dread washed over Dean, not liking the choice he was going to be forced to make.

"You got three seconds. One, two," the old man didn't even let himself get to three before he brought the still smoldering hot iron down once more, this time on Dean's collarbone. His body convulsed involuntarily as the man let the weapon stay there until Dean finally screamed out an answer. "The guy! Take the guy!" He knew his little brother could fight those bastards off. If anyone could do it, it'd be Sam.

"Lee," the old man said, handing the key to one of his sons, "You go take care of it. Shoot the boy first, an' leave him in his cage. Then take care of the bitch once you're done with him."

Dean's eyes widened. "But you said you were gonna hunt him, that you were gonna give him a chance!" It felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest with an icepick, the cold feeling slowly beginning to encompass his entire being. This couldn't be happening. He had to find a way to get loose so he could—

His train of thought was cut off as the old man burned him again, this time on his left ear. Pa Bender's face was dark as he leaned back down in front of Dean. "We gotta clean this mess up 'fore anymore nosy cops come runnin' up here."

"But I told you," Dean said, still tugging and pulling at his binds, "There's nobody else coming! No one knows we're even here!" He couldn't fail Sammy again. Not again, dammit!

"You think we're stupid or something, son? 'Ventually, someone's gonna be wonderin' why your lady cop friend ain't reportin' for duty, an' they gonna go lookin' for her. An' I'll tell you what, they ain't gonna find nothin' of hers on my property. That's for sure. Now, where was I? Oh, that's right. Gonna make you hurt real good," he laughed, but instead of scorching Dean's skin again this time, he retrieved the knife he'd used before on Dean's cheek, this time lifting up his shirt and making a slash across the younger hunter's stomach.

"Damn you!" Dean managed through grit teeth, hating that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his hands out of the damned rope that was confining them.

The old man chuckled at him again, slowly dragging the knife up and down Dean's side before letting the blade plunge in a little deeper, opening up the pale layers of flesh there. Dean bucked against the chair, attempting to move away from the crazed man, but his attempts were futile.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot went off and Dean went still.

No! God, no...Sammy...

There was another and then there was silence.

Dean watched as the old man stilled for a moment, before backing away from him and heading towards the open door. "Lee!" he called out, but received no reply. "Lee!" he tried again, but silence was the only reply. "Somethin's wrong," the old man mumbled, backtracking into the house. "Jared, you come with me. Missy, you stay here an' watch him. He makes a move or talks, you know what to do," the old man stated.

The dirty, blonde-haired girl nodded and grinned. "I know, Pa," she said, and damned, if she didn't have the same evil expression as her father, Dean thought. Same dirty, unbrushed teeth as well.

Once the old man and his son had headed outside, Dean realized it was just him and the girl. She couldn't have been more then eleven or twelve at the most, but she had a feral quality about her that made her seem far older than she truly was. He hoped that there was some part of her that he could reason with, but as she came closer and closer to him, bare feet making the rotted, old floorboards creak and that damned crazed grin on her face and squinted eyes sizing him up like he was gonna be her next meal, he knew he was beat.

He'd still try anyway though.

"Missy, right?" he asked, trying his best to look friendly and maybe the slightest bit hopeful. She nodded, dirty, greasy hair barely moving as she did so. "Missy, untie me and I can get you out of here. Get you away from these nutjobs, and help you get a new home. Somewhere where humans aren't considered a meal," he added, swallowing thickly at the thought.

She took a few more steps towards him, head tilted at an angle, hair hanging limply in her face. Dean almost felt bad for her until he saw the knife tightly clutched in her right hand.

"Missy, please," he pleaded, fruitlessly pulling at his binds, "Instead of using that knife to carve me like a pumpkin, why don't you just undo these ropes, and-"

"You want me to cut you out?" she asked, voice lingering just on the shrill side. Dean stared at her wide-eyed, not liking her tone. "You want me to let you go? I don't think I can do that...but," she murmured, coming to stand behind him. "I might be able to get you out of these binds...let me see," and Dean had never been so terrified of a little girl before in his life. It was less than three seconds later that he felt the blade of the knife sink into the knuckles on his left hand, crisscrossing each one as she went from one end to the other. Dean cried out in pain, and she laughed—giggled—at the sound. "Pa said this hurts the worst, so tell me—" and she went for his right hand, digging the blade in deeper, "Does it?" When he felt the metal hit bone, he couldn't choke back the scream that parted his lips. She continued to laugh until she hit the last knuckle, obviously proud of her handiwork. "I hope you stay with us forever. Pa was right, it is fun to make you hurt." She stepped back around to the front of him, lips curved up big and wide into that damned devilish smile, more giggles threatening to pour from her lips.

"Maybe I could keep you in my room, an' practice on you. Make Pa proud of me," she wondered aloud, thumb inching up and down the handle of the blade, itching to get more of Dean's blood on it.

"Look kid, I'm gonna tell you something, the moment I get out of here, I'm gonna-" and before he could even finish his sentence, Missy stabbed him in the thigh, the smile still on her face.

"You ain't allowed to talk, remember?" she asked, and turned the knife, pushing it even farther into the wound.

Dean bucked against the chair, pain shooting up and down his leg, electrocuting the limb. A silent cry parted his lips, and he watched in horror as she slowly pulled the weapon out of his flesh, a millimeter at a time. Vomit teased his throat once more as she licked his blood off the knife, the crimson staining her lips and pale skin.

Dean hung his head, the dread that he had felt earlier coming back again.

Once again, another hunt gone wrong, and it was all his fault. When was Sam going to listen to him?

One minute, they were in the Kugel Keg and his little brother was complaining about how they needed to get back to the motel so they could get an early start, and Dean had reluctantly agreed before claiming the need to use the bathroom. Naturally, the middle Winchester never would've thought in a million years that while he was in there puking up the beer and fries he'd eaten earlier that Sam would've gotten snatched away from him.

If he just would've went outside with him...

Dean was snapped from his reverie by the sound of the front screen door creaking open, and Sam appearing in the doorway. "Dean!" he shouted, completely ignoring Missy and her bloody blade.

"Sammy!" the name burst from his throat. He'd never been so happy to see his little brother, and once again, was reminded that without Sam there, he would've been toast.

Literally.

"Sammy, watch out! She's trouble!" Dean warned, but Sam had already managed to disarm the girl, knocking the knife easily from her dirt-caked fingers and onto the floor. She lunged herself at him, but he picked her up, pinning her hands down in front of her. "There's a closet, back over there," Dean stated, nodding towards a hallway. Sam wordlessly followed his instructions, then after securing the girl in the closet, came back into the living room.

"Are you okay?" were the first words out of Dean's mouth. He was already checking over his brother, looking over every bit of skin that was visible (he had to make sure), just in case. When he didn't see any sign of a wound, he relaxed a little.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam answered quietly. "Can't say the same for you." And there was a hint of sadness in his voice, and Dean could help but detect what sounded like disappointment as well.

Great, Sam finally realized it. Now he saw what a fuck-up Dean truly was.

"Do they hurt?" Sam's tone was gentle; worried.

"What?" Dean asked, surprised. He was so damned glad to see his little brother that he'd managed to forget about his own wounds. Until he was completely free of his binds and on his feet, that is. He stumbled a bit, and naturally, Sam caught him, worry creasing every single line in his forehead. "Got a frying pan to the back of the head, but I feel just fine," he stated, fake, reassuring smile in place, and they both knew it.

"You might have a concussion, Dean," and there was Sam's motherly tone starting to shine through. Dean quickly ignored it and found his jacket, hurriedly sliding it on before Sam could lay eyes on all the burn holes in his clothes.

"Well, that'd be nothing new, now would it?" Dean joked, forcing the grin wider but Sam wasn't having it.

"Dean, I'm serious. How badly does it hurt?" Sam asked, and suddenly there was a gentle hand steady on the side of Dean's head. Dean immediately tried to brush his brother off, only for Sam to grab his hand, blue eyes going wide. "Shit!" Sam gasped as he held onto Dean's hand, eyes full of questions and shock. "They did this to you?" he asked, staring at the X's that were carved into his knuckles. It was then Dean saw the anger starting to surge through his little brother's jawline. The muscles underneath his skin started to clench, and Dean could see his teeth grit, so he quickly changed the subject.

"We gotta get out of here, Sammy. Before the cavalry comes," he added, handing Sam his jacket. Sam took it, worried, dangerous eyes still fixed on his brother. "Is Kathleen..."

"She was fine, last I could tell," Sam stated, following Dean as he hurried out of the house.

"Good, that's good," Dean muttered, wanting to take the steps two at a time, but deciding against it. He couldn't help it; he really wanted to get out of there. The place made his skin crawl, and he knew that if they really had gotten to Sam—well, he was pretty sure none of them would've been left standing, the girl included.

"Hey." It was Kathleen's voice. Dean jerked his head up and out of the endless train of thoughts his mind was keen to stay on.

"Hey, you okay?" he inquired, noting the gash on her forehead.

"Yeah, yeah, fine as I'll ever be," she replied, voice beginning to waver.

"Where's-"

"Dead," she replied instantly. "He tried to escape, so I shot him." They exchanged glances with one another before she added, "State police and the FBI are going to be here within the hour, and they're going to want to talk, so if I were you, I'd be long gone by then." She had tears in her eyes, and a pained smile on her face, and Dean automatically knew that she'd gotten the answer she'd came there for : Her brother was dead, another one of those monsters' victims.

"Thanks. For helping me," Dean said, a bit awkwardly. "And, I-I'm sorry about your brother."

She smiled grimly and looked away. "At least I know the truth now. I thought it would feel better knowing, but...it doesn't." She sniffled and put on her best about face. "Best to get going. Duck if you see a squad car."

Dean nodded, and walked away; Sam following in tow.

"No more disappearing on me," Dean stated, once they were a little ways from the house. He was walking in front of his little brother, one hand pressed against his side where the crazed bastard had cut him. The wound wasn't all that deep, but it hurt like a bitch. Hell, all of him was hurting like a bitch at the moment.

Sam scoffed, coming to walk next to him. "It's not like I planned it or anything," he replied, hands at his sides, tense and eager, like he was just waiting for his older brother to be in need of his help.

"Still," Dean continued on, "Just...don't let it happen again." And as much as he'd tried to make his tone teasing, it came out deflated and sad.

Dean had been abandoned three times in his life. The first, when his mother was consumed by the flames of their burning house. She didn't come back.

The second, when his father left him alone and confused in a motel room in the middle of nowhere with keys to the Impala and freshly wrapped bandages on wounds that had been gaping for far too long. He wondered now if he'd ever see the man again.

The third—the third had been nearly twenty-four hours previous; luckily for him, Sam didn't go anywhere. Or rather, he had, but Dean had been lucky enough to find him.

"Dean," Sam started, walking in front of his brother and blocking his path. "Can you hold on a minute? You know, you never did even let me look at your head."

Dean tensed up the moment Sam tried to put his hands anywhere near him. He didn't need to be taken care of. Didn't deserve it. "I'm fine, Sammy. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be walking. Besides, 's not like you can see a thing out here in the dark anyway," he added, eyes dropping down to the ground.

"If you so much as stumble, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Dean inquired sharply, eyes darting up to meet his brother's. "Throw me over your shoulder and carry me back to the car? Not gonna happen, little brother. I'm just fine, so now that we've come to that conclusion, you can kindly move the hell out of my way, and we can get on with our merry journey."

"Dean-"

"What?!" And the word came just a little too sharply from his lips. He could see the hurt that infiltrated Sam's visage, and instantly regretted the action.

"Nothing. Never mind," and suddenly, Sam was five paces ahead of him and the distance between them was only growing farther and farther until Sam had all but disappeared amongst the trees.

"Dammit," Dean spat, forcing his legs to become mobile once more. The faster he moved, the worse his left leg felt; the burn on his thigh continuously brushing up against the material of his jeans with each step. It also didn't help that there was a stab wound just inches below the burn either. He grit his teeth as his exhausted and battered body pushed forward. His hands were killing him, and he couldn't help but keep his left arm close as the burn mark there felt raw, pain radiating up through his nerves and throughout his entire body.

He couldn't even bring himself to think about the other wounds—the other places he was burned and bleeding—because he knew that would just make it worse. However, he was pretty damned good at making things worse.

He wasn't quite sure how far they'd gone when he realized he was limping, and as he glanced down at his injured limb, he saw the blood stain that was spreading on his jeans. "Shit," he muttered, and it was then that the numbness from the cold wore off temporarily and he could feel the blood sliding down his leg. The damned thing had never even stopped bleeding, and he'd been too irritated to care. He glanced up only to see that Sam wasn't even in his line of sight anymore, and that fact made his heart thump a little too loudly in his chest.

Instead of calling out for him like he knew he should have (because there was a tiny part of him that whined quietly in his ear that it was actually okay to get a little help every now and then, but then again, maybe he'd just been listening to way too much Joe Cocker lately), he decided to rip a piece of his t-shirt off (thankfully it was thin enough, because he wasn't as strong as he used to be) and wrap it around the wound. Once he was satisfied that it was tight enough, he soldiered on, boots dragging over cracked and dead leaves laying on the forest floor.

When his vision began to blur, even doubling every minute or so, he tried to shake it off, but it continued to grow worse until almost every inch of his sight had turned to shadows and darkness. He could just barely make out his breath spiraling before him when the dizziness overtook him, sending him down to his knees. Pain raced through his knuckles as he tried to keep himself upright, the skin pulling tight and gaping as he spread them flat across the earth's leafy floor.

God, he was pathetic.

"Sam!" he tried to yell, but it came out weak and barely audible. His head was spinning dangerously now, and he was freezing, his whole body shaking as he attempted to push himself up, only to fall back down again, face first. He groaned, pain shooting through his hipbones as they made contact with the hard dirt. He laid there for a moment, telling himself that he just needed to rest for a minute or so, then he'd get up, but as one minute became two, and two became three, he could feel his eyes wanting to stay shut.

Just as he was about to give in and allow sleep to claim him, he heard the crunching of leaves as the sound of footsteps grew closer. "Took you long enough," he muttered, cracking open an eye, but instead of finding Sam above him, he found his father instead. "Dad?" he asked, the exhaustion starting to fade as his heartbeat began to speed up.

"Get up," the command came from his lips, and Dean's heart sank. There wasn't even the slightest hint that his father was even going to try and help him up.

Go figure.

"Dad?" he repeated, blurry vision focusing on the man standing above him, dark eyes appearing almost black in the cover of moonlight. "How'd you—I mean—what-"

"Get up," John commanded more forcefully this time, and added a kick to Dean's side for emphasis.

It honestly wouldn't have hurt that badly except for the fact that it landed right on the wound old man Bender had given him. Dean immediately curled up on his side, bloodied hands shooting to the cut.

"You haven't changed a goddamned bit. Get up now," John ordered, grasping a handful of Dean's hair in his hand and pulling him up off the ground.

The action only caused more pain to electrocute Dean's nerve endings and wounds, and he hung limply in his father's grasp, only managing to bring a trembling hand up to rest on his father's arm. "I'm—I'm sorry, sir," he ground out, voice teetering on the edge of pained. He tried so hard to sound okay, but he wasn't. He was a mess. A black and blue and bloodied mess.

"I should've gotten rid of you when I had the chance," John spat right into his face. "Maybe I should now." And Dean could hear how truly serious he sounded.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Dean breathed out, lungs burning with exertion from the action. "I've been trying to be better...for Sammy. I've been trying..."

"Obviously not hard enough," John reprimanded angrily in his ear. He started to drag Dean then, and as much as Dean tried to fight it, his father was far stronger than he would ever be, and he knew it. He gave up, letting the man haul him like a rag doll through the woods. He wanted to plead, and beg for the man's forgiveness for letting him down, letting Sammy down, but he just couldn't find the energy to even bother to speak anymore. He just followed along with his father's action, trying to walk but stumbling rather badly instead. "Gonna do what I should've done along time ago," his father's muffled voice came from somewhere near his left ear. "Drown you like the pathetic, useless dog that you are," and Dean managed to open his eyes just long enough to see the black lake that gleamed like dark ice standing in front of him.

"Dad?" and suddenly he managed to find his voice, and there was most definitely fear in it now because there was no way in hell his father was actually going to do this, was there? "Dad, wait!" he pleaded, latching onto his father's jacket, digging what little nails he had into the material. "I can hear again! I'm not deaf anymore. I can be a better hunter, just give me the chance!" he shouted, green eyes large and afraid. "Dad, please, I'm your son!"

"Not anymore," the man standing above him answered, and just before his father shoved him into the lake, he saw that his eyes were black. Just like a fucking demon's.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He awoke to the sound of shouting, and at first, he thought he was dreaming, but then, he realized he wasn't.

"You think I don't know what you did?! You honestly think I don't know how you treated him? You abused him! And you think that that's alright? That just because you're sorry, it's okay and you can come back? Just like that? Well, you're sorely mistaken." It was Sam...his little brother was shouting at someone.

God, his head fucking hurt.

"A lot happened while you were gone, Sam. More than you claim you know." Dean's blood ran cold at that voice, because that voice belonged to their father.

Their father that had just tried to drown him in a lake.

He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't even want to believe that this was real, but he knew it was. Oh, God, he knew it was. His clothes—hell, his whole body—was still wet. He could feel his jeans and jacket, clinging to his skin, and all the wounds he had retained at the Benders house, from the knot on the back of his head, to the X's across his hands, and all the rest of the cuts and burns he'd been on the receiving end of—this was all fucking real.

Well, shit.

"More than I know? Oh, trust me, I can believe that." And Dean could hear just how dangerous his brother sounded. He sounded ready to kill.

"Sam-"

"Don't Sam me!" the youngest Winchester exclaimed. "You think I'm just going to let you come back here and act like everything's okay because you saved him? How fucking stupid do I look to you?"

Saved him? Dean's fingers clenched the sheets, his heartbeat pounding ferociously in his ears as he tried so hard to keep still and quiet. His father hadn't saved him. His father had tried to kill him!

"That kid was going to kill him, Sam!"

"What, like you hadn't tried the same thing before? After all the beatings you gave him? You didn't think it was possible that someone other than yourself would try it? Shit, he couldn't even tell you were possessed because you acted like a fucking demon before it even happened! What does that tell you?" Sam yelled, and Dean knew they had to be in each other's faces by now.

"Look, I wouldn't have come here if I didn't need your help," John stated, and Dean honestly wished he could just fall back asleep and pretend none of this was happening.

"Help? Help you what?" Sam scoffed.

"Catch the thing that killed your mother."

Well, shit.

A/N : Once again, apologies for the slow update. Working on tons of things right now, aside from my actual day job, so time has been trying. HUGE THANKS to those that reviewed last chap : MysteryMadChen, Akira, kissacazador, dandy44, Wunjo, and AgildedCage. I truly appreciate the support, and eventually, I will finish this story. Thank you all again, and yeah, it's about to get crazy. ;)