I can see your expression right now. It's a frown. And see, there, that nervous glance at the calendar to check the day...ha! Gotcha! No, it's not Sunday, you haven't missed half of the week, there are unfortunately a few more days to go til weekend wraps it's warm and soft wings around us...

This one's an exception (so don't you come running now begging for two new chapters each week, ya hear ;-)) and it's dedicated to someone special I wouldn't have found without this story: Halit – this interims chappy is for you! You wished for a chapter posted earlier and as you mean a lot to me I thought it'd be a nice present for you. Thank you for your kind words and your trust!

Enjoy! (Next chapter will be up on Sunday...really)

Chapter 17

Walking through grass wet with dew, Sam's alert eyes scanned name after name engraved in stone, meant to withstand wind and weather for centuries. The morning was unusually chilly, causing him to pull up his collar and snuggle closer into his jacket.

To his own surprise the frustration, the anger he had felt towards Dean had faded soon after he had left the hospital ward. Yes, Sam had felt sore about that quasi dismissal, about Dean preferring Phillip by his side instead of him.

But then, if things were like Sam assumed, those two might have a few things to whisper about.

Pausing his scouting exhibition, Sam stopped and looked around, switching his attention from the gravestones to the graves. It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for.

Turned out he wouldn't have needed a name. One look at the mess a few rows away told him he had been on the right scent.

Sam walked up to the troubled soil and sat back on his haunches, inspecting the lumps of earth and grass spread in front of the gravestone. Whoever had done this was an amateur. No way Dean or him or any other experienced hunter would have left a grave like this.

"Sir!"

For this very reason.

Sam stood and turned, watching an elderly, pudgy man hobbling towards him, huffing and puffing as if he had just ran a marathon.

"Easy", Sam held his hands up, clothing his face in smiles, partly faked, partly real because the sight was just too hilarious, "no need to rush."

The man all but skidded to a halt in front of him, reaching for Sam's hand and shaking it, at the same time waving at the destroyed grave.

"I have to apologize, we noticed it only half an hour ago", he gasped, obviously exasperated and Sam was sure the guy would soon drop dead from a least one heart attack.

"My name is Walker, I'm from the cemetery office. One of our gardeners found this...mess this morning. Are you a relative of Mister McKinley?"

"Yes...a distant relative, yeah", Sam replied, slightly taken by surprise at the sudden attention.

"Once again, I'm truly sorry, we're going to restore everything as soon as possible..."

"Does anybody know who's responsible for this, Mr. Walker?" Why not get every information he could squeeze out while he was at it.

"No, I'm afraid not. We don't think we're dealing with grave desecrators here, we've never had such a case before. We think it might have been an animal..." A dark smirk appeared on Walker's greasy face and he leaned closer, honoring Sam with an odor of sweat and garlic. "But I think it already got what it deserves."

Sam raised his eyebrows, pulling his head back slightly. "That so?"

"Yes. There's a huge puddle of blood outside on the street", Walker hissed, his voice dripping with glee, "I think the wolf or dog ran onto the road an bam! got hit by a car, maybe a truck."

Sam stared at the other man, completely dumbfounded. Floating puzzle pieces suddenly clicked into place, completing a picture he had tried to draw since he had learned of Dean's accident.

Staircase my ass.

"You want to see the spot?" Walker asked eagerly, ready to guide Sam outside, keen on showing him the evidence of the desecrator's cruel fate.

"That's not necessary, thanks", Sam put him off, "what about the body, McKinley, is he still there? In his grave?"

The excitement on Walker's face turned to disgust. "We don't know yet...what do you mean, 'still there'? Do you think someone...that's crazy!"

"You know what, never mind", Sam said. He had heard and seen enough. Right now he needed to talk to his brother.

Turning, leaving Walker standing there with his mouth agape, Sam headed towards the Impala parked outside the giant iron gates of the cemetery.

Unbelievable. It was the first and only word that came Sam to mind to describe the whole scene.

So they had done it. Dean and Phillip. His brother and the nurse. Somehow, god knows how exactly, they had gotten out, Phillip had gotten Dean out for a little salt'n burn. From the way it looked a successful one, with the grave filled in again, although sloppily.

But what had happened then?

Reaching the car, Sam slumped behind the steering wheel with a tired sigh. He didn't want to see it. Had no intention to find a too large amount of Dean's blood outside of his brother's body rather then inside. Again. But curiosity won and Sam straightened and shifted, searching the asphalt through the windshield.

The wave of dread washing over him at the sight of the pretty impressive blood stain a few feet up the road caused him to wince.

What the hell had happened here?

Two possible scenarios: one, Phillip had let Dean go. Just like that. Dean had walked out through the gates and right into a passing car?

Sam doubted it. When all this had happened after a salt'n burn, after a hunt, Dean should have been fully awake and alert. No way would he miss a passing car in such a state.

Two, Dean had escaped, maybe had knocked Phillip out, a tad too timid. Phillip had come to in time to see him run onto the street. And had shot him? No, there weren't any gunshot wounds mentioned, and no one would have believed the staircase story.

The run-over-by-a-car-theory was close. Dean's injuries looked like it – the road burns on his face and hands, the cuts and bruises. So Phillip had either pushed him in front of a passing car or had driven the car himself.

And now the guy was tip-toeing around them, looking like a picture of misery – a good actor or truly sorry, who knew.

Sam clenched his jaw, his left hand tightening on the steering wheel while he turned the key with his white-knuckled right, the Impala roaring to life.

There were some answers to get. And no matter who was going to cross his path first, Dean or Phillip, he was going to get them.

God, he hurt.

Resting his head against the window pane, Dean gazed into space, relishing the coolness it offered.

The friendly suggestion to leave the bed and spend an hour in the recreation room had turned into an order from Salinger himself, and although Dean was normally the first to flee any hospital bed he would have preferred to stay there, bound with those freakin' leather belts for his sake.

At least there he would have had some kind of peace. He could lie down. He could tell the arrogant little nurse down there to just untwist the pain medication already, could hope for all the pain that currently rushed through him to be dulled by one tiny turn of a switch.

Instead, he sat in the farthest corner of the fun and happy chamber of horrors, wanted nothing more then to pull his knees up close as some kind of shield but unable to do so because of the length of his legs and the small seating surface of the hard plastic chair.

His head was killing him, the half of his face was burning like fire. The bandaged wrist throbbed in tune with his heart that seemed to have taken pleasure in racing lately. And he was bone tired. Which was hardly surprising after last night's events.

Problem was that he couldn't close his eyes.

The moment his heavy eyelids drooped, the second the world went blissfully dark, they were there. As if they had never been somewhere else. The faces. Familiar. Suppressed. Distorted grimaces screaming at him, accusing him, souls rueing the day he had been sent downstairs, had been reborn as a child of hell.

Voices, singing, laughing, crying, howling, a constant buzzing of turmoil and pain was his companion since he had woken up in that hospital ward. Quiet and barely audible at first, it's volume increasing with every hour, threatening to erode his sanity like salt water eroded a sunken ship.

Right now he had the feeling he was truly going insane.

Blinking sluggishly, Dean looked around, took in the hustle and bustle in the room. The flower lady was back – or maybe she had never left – this time drawing huge purple circles on a big silk cloth, all the time humming 'Praise to Joy'. A few feet to the left an elderly man walked around a table. Round and round, concentrated in counting his steps aloud. When he reached number 421 he began to cry. Only a couple of seconds before he stopped and started to count again, beginning with 1.

This room was like a freakin' ant hill. A freakin' hurry-scurry of limbs and sounds and frames of minds. Damnit, how long? For how long was he going to be here? How long before Phillip would come and get him out? Before Sam or Bobby would find a way?

Scanning the room once more he froze when he noticed the evil-looking kid sitting at a table. Staring at him, of course. Killing him with his eyes.

The demon.

Dean didn't hesitate. He knew it was a bad idea, knew this was everything but advised and smart. But somehow he just couldn't care less. Pushing himself up on shaky legs he met the demon's glare and held it, answered it with one of his own nasty looks. He watched the kid cock his head and stand, too, challenging him.

The hunter in him warned him. Not the place to take a demon on. Not the condition. No weapons at hand. The reasonable Winchester in him wagged a finger. He was going to slide only deeper into this mess.

But Dean was angry. He had it up to here. With everything. Drugs he didn't want to take, but couldn't get through the day without because of headaches and fucking insomnia and all that crap. Pale people dressed in white. Even paler people dressed in pajamas. Voices of lost souls bugging him. Damn dead Mike being his shadow the whole time, teasing him, mocking him, driving him crazy. A brother who was too occupied banging a demon chick to find a way to help him.

Damn you Sam. Damn you Cas. Damn you all.

Dean didn't remember how he got from his table to the middle of the room. If he had stomped or walked or flown. It didn't matter. What did matter though was the fact that the demon-kid was right in front of him, withing 'smashing-his-innocent-face-in' range, and for the first time since this crappy day had started Dean felt something resembling joy.

He balled his hands to fists, ignored the burning sensation on his grazed knuckles. The kid had to look up at him, which didn't make his glare less scary, a look only deadly enemies would exchange.

"What's on your mind, torture master?" he spat, taking a menacing step closer, intruding Dean's personal space, "Are you bored? Didn't find a cockroach to tear it's legs off?"

"What's your problem, princess?" Dean replied, not even flinching once, "Lost contact to your hive? Missed the order to kill me already?"

A tiny flicker of confusion flew over the kid's face, being immediately cloaked by a frosty smile. "I don't know what you're talking about Dean, but death is far too generous for you, for what you did."

From the corner of his eye Dean noticed someone approaching them.

"Dean. Julian. What seems to be the problem here?" That understanding tone again. The misshapen sandcastle chime.

Back off, sister.

"We're perfectly fine here, Mrs. Fowler", the kid the demon replied in a sickly sweet voice, never leaving Dean out of his sight, "just talkin'."

"Yes Julian, I can see that. But how about the both of you sit down and have that talk in a, let's say more friendly demeanor? You two seem a bit displeased to me."

Another figure appeared in Dean's periphery, hovering beside him.

You, too. Back off.

When the person touched his shoulder, pushing him back softly, he almost lashed out.

"Come on now", Mrs. Fowler said, pushing the kid backwards into the other direction, building up some distance between him and Dean, "let's take a walk, Julian."

"You deserve to be on that rack again", Julian yelled suddenly at Dean, baring his teeth, causing Mrs. Fowler to jump with fright, "you deserve to suffer, to burn, to die over and over again, to wake up only to know that it won't stop as long as the world keeps on turning, you masochistic son of a bitch!"

For a moment no one said a word. A few whimpers were heard. Someone was chuckling. The flower lady was still humming. Dean felt eyes on him. Poking him like little searing hot needles. Accusing him. Faces, familiar. Distorted grimaces screaming at him. Souls rueing the day he had been sent downstairs.

And he snapped.

With a growl, forming as a low rumble deep down in his throat, then increasing it's volume and intensity to an outcry of blind rage Dean lunged forward, throwing his whole body weight against the lanky Julian. Both men landed on the table in a tangled heap, breaking it, the sound of bursting wood accompanied by Julian's surprised grunt and the agitated hues and cries of the other patients.

Dean was caught in a frenzy. He knew it and he welcomed it with every fiber of his body. Screw reason. Screw everything. If everybody figured him for a nut job, to hell with it, here he was. Every blow he sent down onto the demon's face, every pained gasp and whimper reaching Dean's ears was a gift, a satisfying, edifying driblet of oil into the fire that was his unbalanced mind.

"I've been there", Dean hissed, straddling the kid, pummeling on and on, ignoring the voices around him, the hands grabbing at him, "I've been there longer than anyone can imagine, I held on longer than humanly possible, I know all kinds of pain and agony, trust me, I do."

Someone slung a pair of arms around his chest, tried to pull him away. Without hesitation Dean threw his head back forcefully, felt his skull connecting with something. A surprised squeal later the arms vanished and he had once again room to move.

Bending down, he gripped Julian's bloody collar, yanking him up, shaking him, the kid's hands clawing weakly at his own.

"What I did was horrible and I pay for it every damn single day, every time I look in the mirror, every time I lay me down to sleep...the things I've done are haunting me and god knows I want to apologize, I want to undo what I've done, but I can't I just can't."

Dean felt tears streaming down his cheeks, his voice wavering. But he was bubbling with wrath.

"I don't know what you guys want from me, I just can't wrap my messed up brain around this whole stalking and staring crap but in between all those things that are a complete mystery to me I know one thing for sure..." He slammed the demon's head onto the floor once, relished it's anguished howl and pulled it's head close to his face.

"Go to hell..." Dean spat into Julian's grimace, contorted with pain, before he started to chant an exorcism, looking straight into the demon's eyes, pronouncing every latin word loud and clear.

But with every word he spoke, the feeling that something was just not right grew stronger and stronger. Through his haze Dean noticed Julian had begun to cry as well, thick tear drops running down his temples, glassy orbs staring up at him. His bloody lips were moving, whimpers and begging creeping through Dean's chanting.

Since when did demons cry? Since when did they beg?

Dean broke off, searched Julian's battered features wide eyed. "Christo...?" he whispered, dreadful realization dawning. Nothing happened. No flinch. No outcry. No swearing. Nothing. Julian just kept on staring, raised trembling hands in a protective manner.

A sardonic laughter rang out and Dean jerked his head up, startled when he found Mike standing there, leaning casually against another table with his arms crossed. No one else seemed to have noticed his appearance, no one regarded him.

Big mistake, kiddo he piped and chuckled on.

Dean shook his head in disbelief, darting his eyes back to Julian who let out a small gasp before his eyes rolled back and he went completely limp.

"Oh god", Dean whispered, lowering the unmoving figure to the ground carefully before he pulled his blood-smeared hands close, inspecting them, stricken with terror.

What had he done? Oh god, what had he done?

You see,you can domesticate a tiger, can make it jump through burning hoops, but it's still a predator. Within the blink of an eye Mike was right in Dean's face. It's matter of time before the true instincts break through.

Dean recoiled, slamming into something behind him. At the same time the arms were back, multiplied, grabbing him, holding him tight. And while one part of him was too tired and defeated for any resistance, even welcomed whatever or whoever held him back from doing any more harm, the other part still fought back, causing him to buck and kick out.

He found himself in a stranglehold. Felt a sting at his neck. A warm, excruciating sensation spreading from the spot.

His limbs disobeyed and his world turned black.

To be continued...