PUPPETMASTER

SUMMARY: As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy. Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences.

RATED:T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created.

A/N: A huge thanks to everyone for reading, the reviews, the comments and PMs – I'm incredibly grateful and just thrilled you're enjoying the story. To JustaFan, again, thank you! To my betas, the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. The first big answer to the puzzle lies ahead.

CHAPTER 5

Sam stared at his brother's body.

Dean lay sprawled on the carpet, face down, unmoving, right where he'd dropped after Sam finished choking him.

Still under the spirit's control, Sam couldn't move, couldn't talk. He screamed in silent frustration, fighting to break the hold, his fury building with every second he stood frozen in place, unable to fight back, unable to help Dean. For the second time in his life, he was a prisoner inside his own body.

But this was different from the time he'd been possessed by Meg; his thoughts were still his own even as his body moved at the will of some outside force; even as he strangled his brother.

Movement pulled his gaze from Dean. His eyes darted upwards as the apparition flickered then solidified beside his brother. The man's lank, dark hair and long duster coat each rippled around him, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he took in the prone figure on the floor.

His dark eyes flashed dangerously as he looked up at Sam. "It was just a matter of time before I found the right strings to pull." He moved forward, walking through Dean.

Sam felt a chill as the spirit moved closer but it was rage not cold that made him tremble.

The spirit's smile widened, as if reading his thoughts. "Always fighting me." He nodded slowly. "It's that strength I need. With you, I can finish this."

He lifted his hand, tracing his finger down Sam's face.

Sam's skin crawled at his touch, his heart racing, but his reaction was purely emotional. Physically, he felt nothing.

The spirit scowled. He grabbed for Sam's arm but his fingers passed straight through. He tried again, apparently as shocked as Sam that, in this form, he had no physical powers. "No, this is the next step. I should…"

He studied Sam curiously. "What makes you so different from the others? They were easy – open doors. I just walked right in. But you…it's just one locked door after another."

His image flickered, and Sam felt the hold on him weaken.

The spirit's expression darkened as he leaned forward, his face inches from Sam's. "I like a good fight, Sam..." He glanced down at Dean, "...but all in good time." He turned back to Sam and smiled. "The next one will be even better. Because, through you, the last face they see will be mine."

And then he was gone. All the pent-up energy Sam had been channeling into fighting the hold on him released suddenly and he toppled forward, crashing to the floor, beside his brother.

Heart slamming against his chest, gulping in air as if he'd been drowning, he pushed himself up and knelt beside Dean, again reaching for his neck but this time in search of pulse. He felt sick with relief when he found one.

"Dean?" Sam willed his brother to respond but he didn't move. Dean lay with his head turned away from Sam, the side of his face pressed into the worn carpet. Sam's hand was trembling as it slid down his brother's torso, fingers lightly resting on his rib cage as he waited for Dean's lungs to expand. When light pressure found a slight rise and fall, his own lungs emptied in an audible rush.

"Come on, man. Wake up…please." As Sam rolled his brother onto his back, Dean coughed, his eyes darting rapidly behind closed lids.

"That's it…that's it." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder. "Come on..."

Dean's eyes opened slowly. He stared blearily up at Sam. "What the hell?"

Guilt quickly replaced panic, gnawing at Sam's stomach. "Just take it slow."

Dean screwed his eyes closed. He coughed again, rolled away from Sam onto his side and tried to push himself up but his arms collapsed, refusing to support his weight. "Damn..."

"Easy..."

"No." Dean's face was pressed into the floor. "Carpet stinks. Get me up."

Sam rolled him over, then slid his hands under Dean's shoulders to slowly sit him up. What little color Dean had left drained quickly from his face and he fell limply against Sam. "Whoa. Head rush."

"Breathe through it…" Sam locked his arm around Dean, whose face was now pressed against Sam's chest.

Dean swallowed, then pulled open his eyes and dazedly looked around. He shivered as the air conditioner kicked in, goosebumps rising on his bare arms, legs and chest. He scowled. "Please tell me I'm not naked."

Sam frowned. "Relax. You've got your boxers on."

Dean nodded, his eyes sliding closed. He weakly patted Sam's chest. "Good. Otherwise this would be…awkward." His hand fisted in his brother's shirt. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Me? It's you..." Sam's head was spinning as he replayed the events of the past few minutes. "God, Dean…I'm sorry…I…"

Dean released his hold on his brother's shirt and smacked him in the chest. "Quit it. Wasn't you callin' the shots." Dean pushed himself off Sam. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he sat up, wavering slightly. "That bastard got to you, didn't he?"

Sam sat back on his heels, fighting the urge to throw up. "I…I couldn't stop him. Dean…I-"

"I said I'm fine, Sam." Dean's voice was growing stronger, his eyes clearer. He turned to face his brother, then made a quick grab for Sam as he started to fall over.

Sam tightened his hold again. "Right"

"Okay, maybe fine's a stretch." Dean grimaced. "For starters, I'm more than a little bothered by the fact I'm sitting on the floor, nearly naked, being cuddled like a little girl.' He cleared his throat, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Sam. "You know what you did, right?"

Sam felt sick all over again. "God, I -"

"You don't, do you?" Dean smacked Sam again to get his full attention. "He didn't take over completely, Sammy. On some level you were still in charge."

Sam looked bewildered. "How the hell was I in charge. He made me strangle you."

Dean shook his head. "Maybe that's he wanted, but that wasn't a chokehold you laid on me. It was a classic sleeper, just like Dad taught us."

Sam's eyes widened. "What?"

Dean locked his gaze on Sam. "You put all the pressure on my carotid – cut off blood flow and knocked me out without ever touching my windpipe or stopping me breathing." He offered a weak grin. "I'm going under thinking, 'Nice move, Sammy. Textbook sleeper.'"

"Don't joke about this." Sam tried to process what Dean was telling him. "I was sure…It felt like…" He replayed the mechanics of the way he'd grabbed Dean, held his neck in the crook of his arm and applied steady pressure. The nausea returned as he thought back to learning the hold and of being forced to use it on his dad. "God, I hated that lesson."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. One of the first times I remember you really losing it with Dad." He pushed away from Sam, this time holding his balance as he sat up. "The language that came out of your mouth impressed the hell out of me. I didn't know you knew those words – let alone could string'em together like that."

Sam shuffled uncomfortably, then pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pull on his injured knee. "Dad deserved every name I called him. What kind of father makes his kid choke him unconscious?"

"A hunter who knows you might need it someday when threatened." Dean shrugged. "I think today was some day – I'm still here thanks to that lesson." His mouth twisted into a tired smirk. "And that ginormous brain of yours that never forgets anything."

"Dean, come on-"

"What?" Dean pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, waving off Sam's attempts to help and stumbled over to the bed, flopping tiredly on the edge. "Bastard wanted me dead, right? Show you who's boss by making you kill me?" He opened his arms wide. "Well, look at me – I ain't dead. And that tells me that, on whatever level counts, you were still calling the shots."

Sam stared at his brother, trying desperately to believe his theory. "I couldn't stop Meg killing Steve Wandell, or beating the crap out of you."

Dean rubbed his temple. "Maybe it's different with spirits."

"I hope you're right." Sam crossed to his duffel, grabbed the first aid-kit and pulled out a bottle of painkillers, offering them to Dean. "Because he's not done. He said he needed me to finish this."

Dean frowned. "Then why let you go?"

Sam shrugged. "To recharge his batteries, I guess. I think it takes a lot of juice to control someone. I felt his hold kind of slipping just before he bailed."

"Well, hopefully that buys us some time." Dean stared at the bottle of painkillers. "Man, we should buy stocks in this company." He dumped out two pills, tossed them in his mouth and dry swallowed them. His voice softened noticeably as he glanced up at his brother. "Seriously, you okay?"

"Yeah." Sam sat down on the bed. "It's weird. He came in all puffed up, all 'I'll show you,' you know, then…"

"Wait. He was here?"

Sam nodded.

Dean scowled. "I don't get it. If he can ping pong all over the place, why the hell does he need you – or any of the others? Why not just take out his targets himself?"

Sam shook his head. "Don't think he could. His apparition didn't seem to have any real power. He tried to grab my arm and…nothing. Looks like the only way he can do any physical harm is by controlling a living person."

"Still doesn't explain how he's bouncing all over the place." Dean rubbed his eyes tiredly. "This case is doing my head in." He squinted at the clock on the bedside table. "I say we grab a couple hours sleep, then hit the road for L.A. Dig up what we can on this second murder and find out who the hell this bastard is."

Sam swallowed. "I can't go through this again, Dean. I won't."

Dean's voice was tight. "Then let's make damn sure you don't."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean's sleep was fitful. Past and present mixed indiscriminately as he dreamed of a possessed Sam trying to strangle him, inky black clouding over hazel eyes as Sam's hands tightened around his throat. He woke, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his chest. He blew out a long, steady breath, needing a conscious effort to slow down his breathing.

He frowned as the hammering continued. His lifted his hand to his chest; his heart was still beating fast, but noticeably slowing down.

As the fog of sleep lifted, Dean realized the thumping was coming from across the room. He rolled over, eyes widening as he caught sight of his brother. Throwing back the covers, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbled, then fell to his knees at the side of Sam's bed.

Light from the parking lot outside spilled in through a crack in the drapes, illuminating the room enough for Dean to see the headboard of his brother's bed rhythmically banging against the wall as Sam was caught in the throes of yet another seizure.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam watched the door to the construction trailer fly open and a heavyset man wearing jeans, a plaid shirt and a hard hat storm out, pausing at the top of the steps and allowing the door to slam behind him. "Goddammit, Phil." He was yelling into his cellphone. "That's the third delay this month. You got any idea how much that's gonna cost me?"

He pulled off his white hard hat and threw it angrily down the trailer steps, the helmet spinning dizzily in the sloppy mud and glowing eerily in the giant work lights that flooded the site. "No, I can't wait until next week. Concrete's arriving later this morning and I can't pour the goddamn concrete without rebar."

He shook his head, fumbling in his pocket and then pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "No, Phil. This is your last chance. You knew this was a deadline job when you took it. Why the fuck do you think I'm here talking to you in the middle of the goddamned night? Either that rebar, as ordered, is on site at 7 a.m. or you don't do another penny of business with me or any of my trades. Ever."

He slammed the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. Tapping a cigarette from the packet, he jammed it in his mouth, then searched his pockets for his lighter.

"Here." Sam climbed up the steps, pulled out a lighter and flicked it on, the flame flaring brightly. The man leaned forward, dipping his cigarette into the flame, and took a long drag. He stood up straight and nodded. "Thanks."

Sam nodded.

The construction boss took another drag on his cigarette. "You're a little early, aren't you?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not part of your crew."

"Then, sorry, man, but you really shouldn't be here." The foreman pointed to Sam's head and feet. "No hard hat, no steel-toed boots. That's a few thousand in fines for me if the Safety Commission catches you on site."

Sam smiled. "And your hard hat?" He pointed to the white helmet lying upside down in the mud at the bottom of the trailer steps. "What's it protecting down there?"

"Wiseass." The construction boss brushed past Sam and clumped down the rough wooden steps, picking up his hard hat and making a half-hearted attempt to wipe off the dirt with his sleeve. "Just having a disagreement with one of my trades. Jackass threw me some bullshit about a world-wide shortage of rebar, then tried to jack up the price."

Sam chuckled, following him down the steps. "Shortage, huh? Funny, and I found this just lying around."

The construction boss barely had a chance to look puzzled before Sam lifted the iron bar he held and swung it viciously. Sam felt bone shatter as the bar connected with the man's head. He crumpled immediately, too stunned by the first blow to lift his hands to protect himself from further attack. Sam swung the bar again and again, the blows still raining down on his victim long after he stopped moving.

Breathing heavily, Sam dropped the murder weapon in the mud beside his victim. He smiled when he noticed the cigarette on the ground a few feet from the dead man. The end still burned brightly, a thin trail of smoke spiraling upward. He crouched down and was reaching for the cigarette when he heard footsteps behind him.

Sam spun around. A man about six feet tall stood about 10 feet away. A lightweight tan trench coat fell open over his suit underneath. He shook his head disapprovingly as his eyes studied the dead man beside Sam. "You do sloppy work. What if I was a cop?"

Sam's gaze stayed fixed on the man, even as he reached for the bloodied rebar beside him, his fingers curling around the steel bar before he slowly stood up. His mouth twisted into a cold smile. "I do the kind of work that gets noticed by those whose attention I'm trying to get. Guess it worked, didn't it … Connor?"

Connor's cool façade cracked briefly at the use of his name. He stared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as if trying to place his face. He took a step closer. "First the judge, then the lawyer," he motioned with his head toward the body on the ground, "now him. The hit list tells me exactly who's calling the shots."

Sam laughed. "Clever boy. That's why he keeps you around, isn't it? That, and he's too feeble to do his own dirty work these days." He glanced down at the body in the mud, then smiled again at Connor. "I'll give you three guesses who's next."

Connor's face hardened. "I don't need three guesses."

Sam laughed again. "No, don't suppose you do." His smile faded, his expression deadly. "But he should know this. It won't be a stranger who takes him out."

Connor's expression never changed as he pulled a gun from a holster under his left arm, pointed it at Sam and fired.

Sam felt blinding pain as the bullet slammed into his forehead, then nothing.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam startled awake. The room was spinning and two Deans hovered above him. The two Deans became four, circling in a kaleidoscopic haze. His brother's voice sounded tinny and distant, like he was inside a tunnel, and his words were unintelligible.

Sam screwed his eyes closed as pain flared in his back, battling his pounding headache for his attention. He bit back a cry, burying his face in his pillow and wrapping an arm protectively around his middle.

A strong hand suddenly clasped Sam's right biceps. He forced open his eyes and the four Deans slowed their dizzying circle, then blended to become two. The two became one as the haze lifted from Sam's head, the pain in his back faded and his headache ratcheted down to a dull ache.

His brother's voice was now free of distortion. "Sam. Snap out of it."

The room finally stopped spinning but it was too late for Sam's stomach. "Sick …"

Dean grabbed a trash can from under the nightstand and shoved it in front of his brother as Sam rolled to the edge of the bed. Dean grimaced as Sam emptied what little he'd eaten that day into the bin, then continued heaving long after there was nothing left to throw up. When the dry heaves subsided, he collapsed back onto his pillow.

"Nasty." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder reassuringly. "Stay put." He took the trash can and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam heard the toilet flushing, then the bath tap running. His brother reappeared a few moments later, handed him a damp facecloth and replaced the now clean trash can at the side of the bed, "just in case."

Sam nodded, pulling himself up and leaning back against the headboard before scrubbing the damp towel over his face.

Dean studied Sam worriedly. "Seizure equals vision, right?"

Sam nodded. "Another murder."

Dean passed Sam a bottle of water, then sat down on the edge of his own bed. "Another lawyer?"

"No." Sam dropped the facecloth on the nightstand, squeezed his eyes closed and raked his fingers through his hair. "Construction worker. Foreman, I think."

Dean canted his head quizzically. "Well that breaks pattern."

Sam nodded, then twisted the lid of the bottle of water and took a long drink. "He wasn't stabbed either. I … the killer … bashed his head in with an iron bar." The nausea returned as the image of the murder played out in a loop in his head.

"Son of a..." Dean's eyes flashed angrily. "Any idea who the victim is?"

"No." Sam closed his eyes as he searched the images in his head for something that might identify the man. "It's a construction site, it's night, it's muddy. But, um….."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Someone else was there."

"Who?"

Sam shook his head. "A man named Connor. He showed up just after the murder, but it's like he was expecting it. Like he knew this construction guy was next on the list."

Dean sat up straighter. "An accomplice?"

Sam shook his head. "No. He didn't know the killer – but said he knew who hired him." He took another drink of water, grimacing at the bitter taste of bile still lingering in his mouth.

Dean leaned toward his brother. "Please tell me he said his name."

"No such luck." Sam put the almost empty bottle of water on the nightstand. "The killer just taunted him, then Connor shot him in the head."

Dean scowled as he glanced from Sam to the trash can. "You felt it, didn't you? The bullet, I mean."

Sam nodded.

"Damn it, Sammy." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "But we've got a lot more pieces of the puzzle now. A few more and we'll know this bastard's name."

"And how to get rid of him."

"Yeah." Dean smiled at his brother, then glanced at the clock, which read 4:48 a.m. "Look, if you're up for it, I say we hit the road. We leave now, we could be in L.A. before lunch."

"I'm up for it." Sam threw off the covers and pulled his legs out of bed. "Let's go."

xxxXXXxxx

Despite Sam's protests that he was fine, he slept through the first three hours of the trip, waking as Dean pulled into a gas station just over the California state line. He turned down Dean's offer of coffee, opting for a bottle of water.

As Dean steered the Impala back onto the road, Sam fired up his laptop, using the satellite connection to tap into the Internet. He then scoured the online pages of the L.A. newspapers, looking for any update on the murder of lawyer T.J. Renton, or any mention of a construction worker being beaten to death.

Dean took a sip of his coffee and glanced over at Sam. "Anything useful?"

Sam shook his head. "No. If these visions are happening in real time, they might not know about it yet."

"How d'you even know where to look?"

Sam sighed. "I don't – really. But the vision hit just before 5 a.m. in Arizona. The security lights of the construction site were still on, meaning, wherever the murder took place, it wasn't daybreak yet…"

Dean nodded, following his train of thought. "And, since most of the country at that time would be in daylight, we're looking at some place in the western U.S., most likely Pacific time zone."

"Yup." Sam's gaze was again locked on the laptop. "And since all leads right now point to L.A., I'm concentrating on central California."

Dean pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, urging the car to go faster. "Okay, recap: Murder No. 1, the judge, was in Scottsdale and the killer, Donald Chapman, was from…?"

"Twin Falls, Idaho."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Murder No. 2, the lawyer, T.J. Renton, was at the golf club in L.A.."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, the Bel-Air Country Club. Second killer, Jack Munroe, is from…" He scanned the article in front of him. "… Eagle Point, Oregon."

Dean's eyes flashed as he glanced at Sam. "That's four people, four states involved. Add to that the cabin and the motels we've stayed in - how the hell is he covering such a wide area?"

Sam shook his head. "Dunno – but I know one place to start asking questions." He tapped a few more keys on his laptop.

"Where?"

Sam pulled out his phone, dialing the number he'd found online. "We make an appointment to see lawyer T.J. Renton's partner."

xxxXXXxxx

The first stop in L.A. was at a gas station to refuel the car and use the restrooms to change into suits for their appointment with Dale Anders.

Anders was the junior partner in T.J. Renton's law firm who acted as point man on cases the semi-retired Renton had continued to take on right up until his death, and the golf partner who'd witnessed his mentor's murder. Since he was a criminal prosecutor, someone who worked regularly with the LAPD, the brothers left their police IDs in the trunk and again posed as insurance investigators, this time representing the Bel Air Country Club where Renton's murder had taken place, tasked with assessing any liability on the club's part.

Sam drew on his law school background while dealing with the lawyer, and Dean had been suitably impressed. Had fate not screwed over their family, his little brother would have made a damn fine lawyer.

Anders had been blunt, Sam calm, conciliatory yet guarded. Dean listened fascinated as each played the game – each offering a little information in the hopes of getting the other to divulge something more. Anders, in his early 40s, had 15 years experience on Sam, but the younger Winchester matched him parry for parry.

When Dean had raised the possibility of a connection between Renton's murder and Judge Matthews' death, Anders confirmed that the two had known each other, were collectively responsible for thousands of convictions over their lengthy careers and that many of those convicted might still be carrying grudges. However, he also questioned how the murders could be related when the police had told him they could find no traceable ties between the two killers. Ultimately, the brothers left the lawyer's office with little new information.

Dean squinted against the bright sun and loosened his tie as they pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside. "We're no further ahead than when we went in there. What now?"

Like Dean, Sam pulled loose his tie, popped the top button on his shirt, then stuck his hands in his pockets as they walked down the street toward the car. "Gut feeling tells me we're looking for someone Renton and Judge Matthews convicted, someone out for revenge." He mentally sifted through the information they'd collected. "We need to get a list of everyone they put behind bars, pick out the ones who are dead and go from there."

Dean shook his head. "That's gonna be some long-assed list."

Sam nodded. "But I think the construction guy is the key. If we can figure out who he is and how he fits into the puzzle, it'll narrow down the list and, if we're lucky, identify the killer."

Dean screwed up his face. "And that means research, right?"

Sam smiled. "Fraid so."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Let's go find a motel and hit the books. At least we can get out of these monkey suits."

Across the street a pair of keen eyes tracked the brother's movements. Both Winchesters were oblivious to the camera pointed at them, the shutter opening and closing rapidly as it captured their images as they walked by.

xxxXXXxxx

"Keep the change, dude." Dean kicked closed the motel room door, balancing a plastic container of salad and a six-pack of beer on top of the pizza box that had just been delivered.

"Yo, Sam. A little help here before…" He stopped mid-sentence as the tension radiating from his brother hit him. "Sam?"

Sam was sitting at the small table in front of the window, his laptop open in front of him. He clicked his phone closed, putting it slowly down on the table as he stared at the neatly grouped pieces of paper taped to the wall.

The top three were each headed with a murder victim's name, with 'John Doe' substituting for the yet-be-identified construction boss. The bottom three were each headed with the name of the killer, with John Doe's murderer listed only as Killer #3. Each name was followed by a list of bullet-point information – details they knew when they arrived in L.A. and those they had gathered over the course of the afternoon.

Since checking into the motel, they had spent the day scouring the Internet for information and making phone calls to police and family members. Sam had tracked the killers, Dean the victims. Then, with Sam still on the phone with Donald Chapman's wife, Dean had ordered dinner, then called Bobby, filling him in and asking for his help to find something, anything, to protect Sam until they could permanently sever the link with the spirit. He'd hung up only when the pizza arrived, ready to compare notes with his brother.

Sam had been quiet all afternoon, as he often was when in full research mode, but something had changed while Dean was on the phone.

Dean's stomach lurched. "The voices back?"

Sam shook his head but continued to stare at the wall.

Dean dropped the pizza box on the end of the bed, grabbed the six-pack and pulled two cans free of the plastic rings, offering one to Sam. When his brother made no move to take it, he put it on the table next to the laptop. Dean popped the top on his own beer and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me."

Sam's gaze fell from the wall to the floor. "National media picked up on the last murder but we still don't have a name for the victim. Cops are having a hard time finding his family. Won't release his name until they can officially notify next of kin."

Dean studied Sam intently. "You try calling the cop in charge of the case again?"

Sam nodded. "He's still out in the field. Calls to his cell are going straight to voicemail. I've left messages."

Dean took a sip of his beer. "Skip to what's bothering you, Sam."

Sam looked up at his brother. "I got the name of John Doe's killer." He glanced at the open notebook beside his computer. "Harley Newton, 27, of Aspen, Colorado. No known connection to either Judge Matthews or T.J. Renton.

"Newton was a star athlete, seemed destined for the U.S. snowboarding team until he got sick. Kidney failure. He'd been on dialysis for the past couple of years waiting for a transplant. Underwent one three months ago. Family says he was showing real progress then, three days ago, he just disappeared. They filed a missing person report but, like the first guy, the next they heard about him was when he made the national news for killing the construction worker."

Dean stared at Sam. There was a haunted expression in his brother's eyes that set Dean even more on edge. "What aren't you telling me?"

Sam ran both hands through his hair, closing his eyes and breathing out audibly. "The second killer is an unlikely a suspect as Chapman or Newton. Jack Monroe. 35. A teacher in Eagle Point, Oregon. He's an average Joe who's been on sick leave for the past year."

Dean cradled his beer in both hands as he stared at Sam. "Chapman and, uh, Newton had been sick too. What was wrong with this guy?"

"Like Newton, he suffered from kidney failure." Sam looked up at Dean. "Underwent a transplant three months ago. Had been recovering at home since."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Two of the three guys underwent a transplant?"

"No." Sam pointed to the paper bearing Donald Chapman's name. "All three. The cops I spoke to in Idaho glossed over one piece of information. Chapman didn't just have lung cancer surgery – he had a double lung transplant – three months ago."

"All had transplants around the same time?"

Sam shook his head. "Not around the same time: at the same time. Three different states – but all within 24 hours."

Dean sat up straighter. "So their donor organs..."

Sam nodded. "Likely came from the same donor."

Dean pushed himself to his feet and began pacing as the horrific implications of what they were dealing with sank in. "So the donor is the real killer?" Dean put down his beer and kneaded the back of his neck. "You're telling me we're looking for a pissed-off spirit who possesses the recipients of his donor organs? Dude, that is sick on so many levels."

Sam looked like he was about to throw up.

Dean's frown deepened. "There's more?"

Sam traced his finger distractedly around the rim of his unopened can of beer and Dean could see his hand was shaking.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallowed and lifted his eyes to meet Dean's. His voice was steady but barely audible. "My surgery was three months ago, Dean."

Dean started. "What? But…Oh God…"

All the puzzle pieces that Sam had laid out suddenly clicked together. His visions, his connection to the killer – everything suddenly made sense.

After Sam had torn the ligaments in his knee, he had been offered two options for surgical repair. The first was a graft using part of the tendon from his own leg. Given the extent of injury, however, his surgeon had recommended against it, saying it could further weaken and destabilize the knee they were trying to strengthen.

Instead he recommended an allograft or use of donor tissue. Dr. Tynan had patiently and exhaustively explained all the benefits and risks of using cadaver tissue. After a long discussion with Dean and Doc, weighing both medical and supernatural implications, Sam had agreed the allograft was the best option.

"No…no, no, no." Dean shook his head, trying to figure out how the Winchesters had drawn fate's short straw yet again. "We took precautions. Doc found out who the donor was – some poor schlub from the suburbs who died of a brain aneurysm. About as vanilla as they come. And then she carried the graft into the OR, read the incantation Bobby gave us to purify it. No way is that what's tying you to the killer."

Sam looked up at his brother. "So all four of us had transplants at the same time, all four of us are tied to this killer, and that's just a coincidence?" The sarcasm couldn't hide the fear.

"It…" Dean stared incredulously at his brother. Sam was right. And that meant the graft that had saved his brother's knee and his ability to walk normally now bound him permanently to a murderous spirit.

Dean felt helpless. Fucking helpless. To get rid of an angry spirit, you salted and burned the physical remains. But how was he supposed to do that when part of the physical remains were now part of his brother? Part of all the other recipients. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, shock taking his legs out from under him. "What the hell did we miss?"

Sam stared unseeing at the notes taped to the wall, his right hand resting on his knee, clawing at the denim of his jeans as if subconsciously trying to dig out the graft that linked him to the killer. He jumped when Dean's hand covered his.

"We'll figure this out, Sammy. I promise you that."

"How?" Fear and frustration ignited an anger simmering just beneath the surface, and Sam lashed out. "How the hell are we gonna fix this? Something went wrong… and now it's part of me. He's part of me."

Sam's eyes shifted from hazel to deep green, as if the intensity of his emotions deepened the color. Dean leaned forward, closing his hand over his brother's. He could feel Sam's hand tremble under his, sense the anger his brother was fighting so hard to contain.

He lifted his hand and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt. "You're pissed, you're scared, I get that. But you can't let this bastard get to you, man. Throw something if it makes you feel better. Hell, take a swing at me." He pulled Sam closer. "You're stronger than he is. You've already proved that by saving my sorry ass. Just hang on to that while we figure this out."

Abruptly, Sam pulled free of Dean's hold, grabbed his unopened beer from the table and threw it hard. It flew across the room, smashing into the end wall and exploding in a shower of foam across the faded wallpaper.

He stared at Dean, wild-eyed, his chest heaving from the physical release of pent-up fear and anger.

Dean held his gaze. "Better?"

Sam said nothing, just nodded curtly.

"Good." Dean pushed himself to his feet, squeezing Sam's shoulder as he walked past him. He frowned at the large wet patch on the wall, the beer still trickling down toward the floor. "Otherwise that was a waste of a perfectly good beer."

There was no eyeroll or smartass comeback like Dean had hoped but there was a spark of determination in Sam's eyes that had been missing moments earlier.

Sam raked both hands through his hair. He stared down at his knee. "I need to call Doc…find out what happened, get her to schedule surgery so-"

"Whoa, Sam. Surgery? No." Surgery. The word ripped Dean in two, his need to sever the connection between his brother and this spirit in a tug of war with the vivid memories of Sam fighting his way through rehab. "There's gotta be another way."

"How?" Sam's eyes blazed angrily as he pushed himself up to face Dean. "How the hell are we gonna stop him, Dean? This bastard lives on through every donor recipient out there. I'm one of the lucky ones. They can cut this out of me. What the hell can the heart recipient do?" How we gonna protect him or her?"

Dean felt sick. God, how many other innocent people were now tied to this killer? How many potential puppets were there in his quest for vengeance? He swallowed and shook his head. "No. I'm not buying it. We're missing something. Doc's too damn careful…no way did she give us the wrong name."

He pushed himself up, grabbing his phone and handing it to Sam. "Use my phone to call, Doc, get her to look into this; find out what happened. I'll use your phone, call Bobby again, and talk to the cop if he calls back with an ID on the latest victim. We get that name, hopefully we see how all this fits together."

Sam stopped dialing and looked up at his brother. "What the hell are we gonna do, Dean?"

Dean forced his best reassuring smile. "Take it one step at a time, Sammy. Just like rehab."

xxxXXXxxx

The old man stared down at the contracts laid out on the desk in front of him. The words blurred and he pulled off his reading glasses in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as he screwed his eyes closed.

He hated getting old. As much as he tried to deny it, his body was slowing down, weakening. He slid open his desk drawer and curled his fingers around the Desert Eagle it held. His anger deepened as he stared at the gnarled hand holding the gun. It pissed him off that a weapon he once used simply to instill fear or cause pain was now his chief means of protection. Age had robbed him of his weapon of choice, his fists. Once beefy arms had grown flabby; his stomach, once taut, toned and capable of taking a punch and barely winding him, had become soft and doughy.

Golden years, my ass, he thought bitterly, slamming the drawer closed.

His annoyance deepened at the soft knocking on his office door. "What?"

The ornate pewter knob twisted as the heavy oak door was pushed open. The kid, Danny, was standing there. Barely 25, he'd been brought into the company a year ago. He was a volatile mix of brawn and brains with a temper quicker than the old man's own in his prime; all valuable assets given what they asked him to do to earn his pay. But part of him couldn't help resenting the kid because he was, well, a kid. He had youth, strength, stamina – all things age had taken from him.

Danny's visit also meant bad news. Connor always sent the kid to deliver the message when things weren't going well.

Danny held up the envelope he was carrying. "You should see these."

The old man's graying eyebrows peaked inquisitively. He motioned for the younger man to come forward. "Hurry up. Show me."

Danny moved forward, pulling a large photograph from the envelope and laying it down on the desk in front of his employer. "This was taken two days ago in front of the judge's home in Scottsdale. Do you recognize either of these men?"

The old man tilted up the photograph to get a better look. The two men in the photo were young, no more than thirty he would guess. The shorter of the two, his sandy hair cut short and spiky, carried himself in a way that told the old man he could handle himself in the face of trouble. The black eye and bruised forehead confirmed that he and trouble were well acquainted. The taller one seemed less cocky but there was still something dangerous about him, something he couldn't quite place. He shook his head. "Never seen them before. Who are they?"

Danny swallowed. "We're not sure. A lot of information we're getting doesn't add up. We're looking into it but…." He reached into the envelope and withdrew a second photograph, again placing it in front of his boss, to the right of the first photo. "This was taken in L.A. this morning." The photo showed a busy city street, the sidewalk full of people, but a red, grease pencil circle framed the same two men. "They left Renton's law firm just before noon."

The older man sat up straighter. "If they're the hired guns we're looking for, why would they meet with Renton's partners?"

Danny shrugged curtly. "Like I said, a few things don't add up. But they're no cops – instinct tells me that."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Find them. And do it fast. I want answers."

"Yes, sir." Danny turned on his heel and quickly left the room.

The old man stared again at the photos, his finger tracing around the grease pencil ring that encircled the two men.

He smiled and his eyes glittered dangerously. "Sorry, Elias. I'm one step ahead of you as always. This is another fight you're destined to lose."

xxxXXXxxx

Doc had been devastated by Sam's news.

"Oh God. That can't be. Everything's coded by numbers. I double checked. I tripled checked…" Her voice caught. "But if I transposed one somewhere…I'll never forgive myself if-"

"Doc, there's no blame here." The initial shock had worn off and Sam was focused solely on identifying the killer. "Right now, we just need to find out what happened…who all the transplant recipients are connected to. If you could just-"

"I'll get right back to you the second I find out anything." Her voice softened. "You hang in there, you hear me."

"I will. Thanks." Sam hung up the phone, placed it on the table and rubbed his chest subconsciously. It wasn't the first time he'd asked Doc for help with the organ registry. When Dean was electrocuted and his doctor had said his heart was irreparably damaged, that there was no hope, Doc had gotten Dean's name added to the heart transplant registry. She'd worked diligently behind the scenes to get him bumped up the list, even as Sam took Dean to Nebraska to see faith healer Roy LeGrange.

Sam dragged his hand absently over his injured knee, then froze as a sudden memory hit. He sat up straight, turned to his computer and began rapidly tapping keys.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean was wrapping things up with the cop when he saw Sam turn quickly to his computer. He knew the look. His brother had just had a brainwave about something.

Dean turned his attention back to the police officer on the other end of the line. "You've been a huge help, Dan. Thanks to you, I might actually put a dent in this case and see my wife before the weekend. Take care."

He clicked shut his phone and moved toward Sam, whose eyes were still glued to his laptop. "What did you just figure out, Sammy? I could see the lightbulb over your head from the other side of the room."

Sam's eyes remained on the computer. "After talking with Doc, I was thinking about Roy LeGrange and then it suddenly clicked why that strange language the spirit uses is familiar."

Dean's eyebrows quirked. "I think you skipped a few steps 'cause I'm not following."

Sam turned to face Dean. "Remember that ancient book I found in Roy's library? The one Sue Anne was using, written by the priest who went dark side?"

Dean nodded. "The one she used to bind the reaper, yeah. What about it?"

"The incantations this spirit is using, they're in the language referenced in that book." Sam shook his head. "It's black magic, Dean. But where Sue Anne bound the reaper to her, forced it to do her bidding, this guy bound his spirit to his organs so he could take control of the recipients. He must have planned this all out before he died."

Dean scowled. "So, what? He knew he was going to kick the bucket so he set up this whole 'revenge from the other side' plan?"

Sam shrugged. "I think it's more likely he knew someone was gonna kick the bucket out from under him and wanted a back-up plan in place."

"Oh man, that's twisted." Dean sat down on the bed. "He knows he's got a target on his back, so he signs his donor card and then, if someone takes him out..."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "And it wouldn't matter who got the organs, or where the recipients were – he has a physical link to them so he'd be able to take control. Explains why the hitmen are from all over the place – the organs went to the highest priority, best match, wherever they were."

"This is one sick son of bitch we're dealing with." Dean frowned. "But how'd you know about the language? I thought we burned Sue Anne's book with the rest of her dark arts crap."

Sam nodded. "We did. But Bobby has a copy. It came up in a conversation a while back and I borrowed it for a bit, copied some passages into my journal for future reference. I just didn't put two and two together until I was thinking about the donor registry."

Dean rolled his eyes. "The mind of geek is a scary place." He stared at his brother who had now turned back to his computer. "So any idea what he's saying?"

Sam shook his head. "Not specifically – I think he keeps trying different incantations to try to take full control. If one doesn't work, he tries another. I remember certain words, some phrases that he used repeatedly. Maybe if I figure out exactly what he's saying…" He swallowed. "…I'll figure out a way to stop him taking control over me like he did with the others." He stopped typing and turned back to Dean. "What about the cop? Do we have a name yet for the construction worker?"

"Yeah." Dean grabbed the notebook he'd been scribbling in while talking to the police officer investigating the case. "Construction dude's name is Thomas Gibson of Brentwood, California. He was overseeing a mall project north of San Francisco and that's where he was killed. His wife and kids are on vacation in the Grand Canyon, hence the difficulty reaching them and the delay releasing his name."

Sam nodded. "I'll cross-reference his name with the lawyer and the judge, see what the computer spits out. You talk to Bobby again?"

Dean passed him his notebook. "Yeah, but I had to hang up on him when the cop came through on call waiting. I'll call him back now, fill him in. You keep doin'…," he waved his hand at the computer, "whatever it is you're doin'."

Bobby answered on the second ring. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Bobby." Dean quickly filled him in on the latest developments.

"How's Sam holdin' up?"

"Okay." Dean glanced again at his brother, at the rigid way he sat hunched over his computer. "For now anyway." Dean's jaw clenched. "Damn it, Bobby, this shouldn't be happening. I thought we covered our asses with that ritual you gave Doc. That was supposed to purify the graft, right? That should've worked no matter who the donor was."

"It should, but now that we know dark magic is likely in play, it's a bit like bolting the barn door shut when the horse is already in the next county." Bobby sighed. "But I think on some level it is protecting Sam – maybe it's part of the reason this spirit hasn't been able to take him over the way it did with the others."

"But it's not enough." Dean was pacing at the base of the beds. "It's kicking the crap out of him, mentally and physically. We need to shut the son of a bitch out until we can figure out a permanent solution."

"I'm gonna re-read my copy of that book Sam mentioned, see if that offers anything."

"And 'til then?"

There was long pause on the other end of the phone as Bobby weighed their options. "Well, salt circles won't work, cause the spirit would be inside it with Sam; anti-possession charms are no good 'cause they're meant to hold off demons..."

"Bobby …"

"I know." Bobby cleared his throat. "Leave it with me. I'll get back to you as soon as I've got something. Tell Sam to hang tight – and look out for your brother."

"Always do." Dean clicked off the phone and dropped it on the bed. He frowned when he realized that Sam seemed frozen in place, staring at the computer screen. "Sam?" Icy fingers worked their way up his spine. "What the hell is it now?"

Sam didn't move.

"Sam!"

The younger Winchester jumped at Dean's raised voice.

Dean moved quickly beside his brother. "I know that look and it's not good. What is it now?"

Sam swallowed. "I've got an ID on the, um, apparition."

Dean's eyebrows peaked. "That's a good thing, right?"

Sam looked up at his brother. "Yeah. There's just one major glitch with our theory – he's not dead."

To Be Continued………

A/N: I'm biting my nails over this chapter so I'd love to know what you think. I'm also busy tweaking the next chapter so, fingers crossed, it'll be up Monday or Tuesday. Thanks again for reading.