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: More answers to big questions lie ahead, but seasoned with a new wrinkle or two. :) A huge thanks to everyone for reading, for your comments and guesses – I'm incredibly grateful. To my betas, the Always 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.

CHAPTER 6

Dean stared at his brother in disbelief. "You wanna repeat that."

"The spirit I've been seeing, the voice I've been hearing…" Sam's hand curled into a fist at the side of his computer. "According to what I just found, his name is Elias Gaston – and he's alive."

"How the hell is that possible?"

"I…" Sam sat staring at the computer in shock.

Dean sank down into the chair opposite his brother. "Walk me through what you just found out."

Sam cleared his throat and frowned at the computer screen. "The L.A. newspapers and TV archives have thousands of entries for cases involving both Judge Matthews and T.J. Renton, but when I add the construction foreman's name into the mix, the list gets a whole lot shorter."

Dean leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "What'd he do? Bury someone in concrete under one of his buildings?"

Sam shook his head. "He was the jury foreman in a murder trial 15 years ago – a trial with Abner Matthews on the bench and T.J. Renton prosecuting."

Dean mentally sorted through those facts. "So, since all three have been wiped out and are tied together by your visions, I'm guessing that a) they got a conviction and b) this Gaston was the one on the hot seat?"

Sam nodded. "Gaston and a Michael Durrell were partners in a cargo shipping firm. Each was charged with first-degree murder, accused of killing a third partner – a guy named Sonny Smith. It's pretty grim stuff. Smith starting doing business under the table, keeping the profits for himself, until the other two found out about it. He disappeared, then washed ashore a few days later.

"There was barely enough left to identify but the coroner was able to determine that he'd been beaten, shot and then dumped in the water – while he was still alive. Official cause of death was drowning."

"Ouch." Dean sat back in his seat. "This case would make a lot more sense if Smith was our pissed-off spirit. He sure as hell had good reason to seek revenge."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Trust me – so does Gaston."

Dean's eyebrow peaked inquisitively. "Because…"

"Because he took the fall solo. Durrell walked on a technicality; didn't serve a day behind bars." Sam turned his laptop around so Dean could see the screen. "I also found this old news footage of Gaston going into court during his trial. He's definitely the apparition – or whatever he is – I've been seeing." He shuddered as he hit the play button for the video. "I'd recognize that face, and that voice, anywhere."

Dean stared at the video. Gaston was tall with lank, dark hair that featured a distinctive silver streak over his right eye. His face was expressionless as he pushed his way through a crowd of reporters to climb the steps to the courthouse. He smiled coldly when a reporter asked, "The evidence is piling up against you, Mr. Gaston. Any plans to change your plea to guilty?"

Gaston paused for a moment, turning to face the journalist who'd posed the question, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Only a guilty man should admit guilt. I've done nothing wrong."

Dean snorted. "I notice he didn't say he didn't do it." He turned back to Sam. "And this guy is still alive?"

Sam nodded. "He got a life sentence for the murder and he's been in Pelican Bay maximum security prison in northern California since 1992."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Then how the hell is he haunting you, not to mention making others kill, if he's not dead?"

Sam sat back, raking his fingers through his hair. "We know dark magic's involved. Best guess – some kind of astral projection, some kind of spell work. But, whatever it is, he can't be the organ donor."

Dean looked over at Sam. "And if that means you're not physically tied to that son of a bitch, that's the best news I've had since this whole nightmare started."

Sam ran his fingers over his knee. "Yeah, but the three killers and me, we all received donor organs or tissue, likely from the same person. No way is that just a coincidence."

"No." Dean scowled. "You sure Gaston's still alive?"

Sam shrugged. "I need to call the prison and get a verbal confirmation but, from the prisoner rolls I tapped into – yeah. As of yesterday, he was still in Pelican Bay."

"Just freaking great," Dean muttered. "We're back to square one."

"Not quite." Sam closed the news footage file and then turned back to Dean. "His former partner Durrell has to be high on Gaston's hit list. We can at least warn him, stop Gaston from committing another murder."

Dean snorted. "Durrell sounds like he's just as big a scumbag as Gaston. Getting rid of him might be doing the world a favor. The only part I don't like is letting Gaston use some innocent schmuck to do his dirty work." His eyes blazed as he made eye contact with Sam. "And, just so we're clear, that innocent schmuck sure as hell won't be you."

That raised a small smile.

The phone in Dean's hand started ringing. He glanced down at the caller ID to see Doc's name displayed and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey Doc."

"Dean?" Doc was in full worry mode. "Sam okay?"

Dean realized he was using his brother's cell. "Hanging in there. I just grabbed his phone."

"Oh." Doc sounded relieved. "Well, I don't know what's going on, big picture, but there was no mistake as far as the identity of the donor. The man's name was Nick Haskell. He was 37, a civil engineer, left a wife and two kids. He died of a brain aneurism. He-"

"Doc." Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Sam ID'd the apparition he's been seeing. It's not this Haskell dude; it's a guy named Elias Gaston, a con serving a life sentence for murder. And, here's the real kicker – technically, he's not an apparition because Gaston's alive."

"What? How is that possible?"

Dean exhaled loudly. "Sam's best guess in some kind of dark magic-fuelled astral projection. We just don't know how he's making the connection." He frowned as the line went silent. "Doc? You still there?"

"Sorry – yes." Doc rustled some papers. "What did you say the name of apparition, or whatever, is?"

"Gaston. Elias Gaston."

There was another pause, then Doc's voice sped up. "His name's on the list, Dean. He's not a donor – he's an organ recipient."

Dean's eyes darted to Sam, who was listening intently. "Gaston is tied into this; he's a transplant recipient." Sam's eyes widened as Dean pulled the phone back to his mouth. "Hang on Doc, I'm gonna put you on speaker so Sam can hear this." He clicked the button and set the phone on the table. "Go ahead."

Again, the sound of rustling papers came over the phone. "Elias Gaston is an inmate at Pelican Bay maximum security prison. He was attacked in the prison yard, knifed in the abdomen. Surgeons tried to repair his liver but ultimately put him on the transplant registry. He was a perfect match for Nick Haskell. His surgery took place the day before Sam's in San Francisco."

Sam leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "And he recovered?"

"From the records I have here, yes. The transplant was a complete success. His health started to improve immediately. He spent a month under heavy guard at a San Francisco hospital and then was transported back to the prison infirmary."

Dean's jaw clenched. "Nice to know the poor bastard who signed his donor card helped save the life of this piece of scum."

Doc's voice was quiet. "Besides Sam, there are 23 other people on this list who Danny Haskell helped save. He -"

"Wait." Sam stared at the phone. "There were 24 donor recipients?"

"Yes, everything from the major organs to corneal transplants, skin grafts and ligament grafts, like yours."

Sam swallowed. "Are they all alive?"

Doc leafed through the papers. "Other than the three tied into the murders you're investigating and the heart recipient, who died three days after the surgery when his body rejected the organ, yes."

Sam looked up at Dean. "Well, that confirms our worst fears. That's 20 more potential puppets Gaston could use. If he can't get to me, he's just gonna go after them."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dean grabbed the back of his chair, his gaze jumping from the phone on the table to Sam. "How the hell does he know who they are? Who to go after? I mean Doc's treading in a gray area getting this information, and she's a doctor. The hospital's sure as hell not gonna hand over the names of the other recipients to some con."

Doc sighed. "When I tried to call up this information through my usual channels, I kept running into new security protocols. I finally had to call a friend of mine at the National Organ Registry and she told me the system was hacked into just over a month ago. They traced the breach to a public server in northern California but never found the hacker."

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam. "So, what? Gaston hired some hacker to get him the names, and now he's using the transplant recipients as a shopping list for hitmen?"

Sam leaned forward as he processed this latest information. "Gaston somehow knows black magic. Most spell work I know of requires some kind of physical connection with the target."

Dean nodded. "Like witches and their hexbags or voodoo priests and their stick-a-pin-in-me-I'm-done dolls."

"Yeah." Sam subconsciously rubbed his knee. "After his surgery, Gaston realizes he now has a physical connection to every other transplant recipient from the same donor. But he doesn't know who they are. It's like he's got the telephone, but no phone numbers."

"But, once he had the transplant list, he had his own private phone book." Dean sat back and crossed his arms. "Guess he thought that, one by one, he'd reach out to his puppet killers, pull their strings and take his revenge, while he sat in maximum security with a perfect alibi."

He looked up at Sam. "What he didn't expect was that, when he was dialing out, you'd end up listening in, like on some psychic conference call."

Sam nodded. "Guess my abilities somehow put me on the same wavelength. When he reached out, I heard him, even saw what he was doing…"

Dean's expression darkened. "But he saw you too."

Sam nodded again. "And, ever since, he's been hammering away, trying to break through, to figure out who I am…and to take over."

Dean leaned toward Sam. "But there were two wrinkles that screwed up his plans – first the protection ritual Doc used during surgery and, second, your abilities that-" His eyes widened as Sam stood up suddenly and began pacing. "What?"

Sam tapped the side of his head. "The whispers I've been hearing – it's the other transplant recipients. Because of my psychic thing, I actually hear Gaston, but to the others it may just come across as pain or white."

Doc's voice came over the phone. "I've made a couple of calls to the doctors of the other transplant recipients. They say that, post surgery, their patients have complained of sporadic headaches, random sharp pains that don't appear tied in to the actual surgery...symptoms similar to what Sam is experiencing, although not so acute. So far, though, Sam's the only one who has suffered seizures."

Dean glanced from the phone to his brother. "Maybe Sammy's abilities are amplifying the signal, creating some kind of, I dunno, psychic feedback that's triggering the seizures."

"Could be," Doc agreed. "It's like I told you at the hospital, there's no obvious physical cause for them. You sever the connection with this Gaston, and I have every confidence the seizures will stop."

Dean turned again to Sam. "Going back to the voices, what about the one that keeps breaking through, asking for help? Who's that? And why's he able to make himself heard when the others can't?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno, but maybe he has some psychic abilities…can sense what's going on like I can, just maybe not to the same degree."

Doc exhaled softly. "So, how do we stop this Gaston before he does any more harm?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "If there's black magic to create the link, there's black magic to sever it." He looked up at Dean. "Right?"

"I sure as hell hope so." Dean glanced down at the phone. "Bobby's looking into that right now, although he's still working on the assumption Gaston's dead. I need to call him and catch him up."

"What can I do?"

Sam sank slowly into his chair. "Until we stop Gaston, we have to protect the other transplant recipients. Make sure he can't use them."

"How?"

Sam chewed on his knuckle. "Don't have an answer right now, but can you find out where they are so we can get hold of them if we figure out something?"

"Shouldn't be too hard to get a current address on each one," Doc said. "But then what?"

Dean smiled tightly. "We'll get back to you on that as soon as we know. Thanks Doc."

"You need anything – anything – just call."

Sam nodded. "Will do. Talk to you soon."

Dean hit the button to end the call, then picked up the phone and scrolled through the directory to Bobby's number. Their old friend answered on the second ring.

"Still working on it, Dean. I've got spells up the wazoo if you want to exert control over another person but-"

"New wrinkle," Dean interrupted. "Gaston's not dead – he's a transplant recipient, not the donor."

The sound of a heavy book slamming shut came across the phone. "Well, that changes things. If this guy-"

"Gah!" Sam slammed the heel of his hand into his temple.

"Sammy?" Dean stiffened when he saw Sam screw his eyes closed and teeter in his chair.

"I, uh ..." Sam looked up at Dean, pain etched deeply across his face. He bit back a cry as he toppled forward. "It's Gaston."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam would have fallen had Dean not lunged forward to catch him. The pain in his head flared, then subsided, quickly replaced by the sound of echoed whispers swirling in increasing volume until they were deafening. Then through the noise he heard him, the voice he had come to hate.

"Clever boy, Sam. Figured out who I am." Gaston laughed softly. "Still missing a few pieces, but give yourself a pat on the back."

"Get out of my head."

Gaston's voice grew colder. "Can't do that, Sammy. You're up to bat. You ready?"

Sam ground the heels of his hands into his temples. "No."

Gaston laughed again. "Sorry. Rhetorical question."

"I won't…do…it."

Gaston sighed. "Yes you will. See, a big, strapping guy like you – you're a perfect fit for the job I have in mind." He chuckled, then began speaking again, this time in the mysterious words of the ancient, dark language he'd used to make Sam attack Dean.

Sam forced open his eyes, fighting to remain in control, as Dean's worried face blurred in front of him. He reached out, grabbing his brother's shirt and pulling Dean toward him. "Stop…him."

The pain was building again and Sam ground his teeth together to bite back a cry. He focused on his brother, both hands now fisting in the front of Dean's shirt. "Don't… let him use me." His breathing quickened as Dean slid into focus. "Whatever…you have to do."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam fell forward, his forehead slamming into Dean's chest as he fought the pain ripping through him.

Dean instinctively wrapped his arms around his brother. A memory suddenly flashed through his head, from a time shortly after their mother was killed, when their dad was crumbling under the crushing pressure of grief, guilt and the responsibility of protecting his two tiny sons from a now tangible threat of evil.

Sam, still less than a year old, was crying inconsolably. John lifted him out of the small crib they now hauled from place to place, and held him against his shoulder, bouncing slightly at the knees and making quiet 'shushing' sounds as he patted his youngest son gently on the back. Still Sam cried, his face reddening, his tiny hands fisted in his dad's t-shirt.

Seeing his older son looking on worriedly, John had offered a tired but reassuring smile. "It's okay, Dean. Sammy's just missing his mom."

Dean nodded, eyes glued to his brother.

John reached down and tousled Dean's hair affectionately. "We all do, don't we kiddo?"

Again Dean nodded.

John glanced down at Sam, tucking his youngest son's head under his chin. "But Sammy's too little to understand. He just knows things are different and he's scared."

Dean nodded solemnly, then slipped out from under his dad's hand and clambered up onto the chair beside Sam's crib. Standing on the chair, he grabbed his dad's arm for balance, then reached up to pat Sam's back as he lay against John's chest. "Don't be scared, Sammy."

John's eyes were glassy as he looked down at Dean. He cleared his throat. "Sit down, son."

Dean's face crinkled into a frown.

John nodded reassuringly. "You can help Sammy feel better."

Dean nodded slowly, then dropped down into the tub-shaped chair, his legs sticking straight out in front of him. John gently lifted Sam off his shoulder and laid him against Dean's chest, his tiny knees bent in Dean's lap, his head resting on his big brother's shoulder. Dean instinctively wrapped his arms around Sam, patting him gently as he had seen his dad doing. Sam's crying slowed then faded, eventually stopping with a big, hiccupping sigh. He rolled his face back and forth across Dean's shoulder, then nestled his head under Dean's chin. He gurgled softly as he chewed on his fist, his eyes drooping sleepily.

Dean looked up at his Dad, a slight grimace on his face. "I think he just wiped his goober on my shirt."

John bit back a laugh but couldn't quite hide his smile. "Yeah, but he's not crying any more. He knows he's safe with you."

Dean nodded, his face suddenly serious as he looked down at his brother. "I'll always keep you safe, Sammy. Always."

Now, more than 22 years later, the brothers were caught in an eerie echo of that night: Sam again leaning against Dean, his forehead grinding into Dean's shoulder, his hands fisting in his shirt.

Dean's heart hammered wildly as he felt his brother weakening. He tightened his hold, hoping to lend Sam strength to keep fighting this latest attack, but his brother just seemed to slump more heavily against him.

"Dean?...Dean?...What's goin' on?"

Dean started at the sound of Bobby's voice. It was coming from the phone still clutched tightly in his hand even as he kept his arms wrapped around his brother. He pulled the phone up to his ear and swallowed. "Gaston's trying to get to Sam."

xxxXXXxxx

Gaston's voice droned on inside Sam's head, the strange words of his incantations coiling around each thought, each muscle, stealing away control. His eyes refused to open, his limbs were heavy and useless, his mind increasingly fuzzy.

He shuddered, knowing, this time, Gaston wouldn't stop until he had complete command.

Sam fought him but was weakening rapidly, each word of Gaston's incantation chipping away at his defences, breaking through, taking over muscle by muscle, thought by thought.

Sensing victory, Gaston's laughter filled Sam's head. "So stubborn. Why cause yourself all this unnecessary pain? Just give in."

"No."

Gaston sighed, then resumed chanting, but his words couldn't quite block out a second voice, off in the distance, calling out to Sam.

Dean. Sam strained to hear his brother, but couldn't make out his words. But he didn't need to hear them to know that Dean was urging him to fight, to hold on, to do whatever he could to stop Gaston while he did the same.

Suddenly, Sam was moving – not of his own volition, but not under Gaston's control either. Again, he knew it was Dean, hauling him to his feet, moving him over to the bed and lowering him gently onto his side. As his head sank into the pillow, Gaston's voice grew louder and clearer. "Your brother's still alive. You are full of surprises." His laugh was low and cold. "But when I take control, we'll take care of that unfinished business."

"No." Sam's protest echoed loudly inside his head but only Gaston could hear him. His voice was no longer his own.

Gaston laughed again. "I underestimated you last time. That won't happen again, I promise you." He resumed chanting, each word tearing at the inside of Sam's head like razor-sharp claws.

Sam cried out soundlessly, then startled as he felt far gentler hands, calloused and familiar, grip his arms and roll him onto his back. Gaston's voice thrummed on but, as consciousness began slipping away, a chill rippled through Sam, followed by a strange pressure on his chest, pushing down on his heart.

Fighting to breathe, Sam was jolted without warning by what felt like an electrical charge. He arched off the bed, lungs frozen, but the whispers in his head were suddenly silenced.

Gaston stopped chanting. "What the…?"

The electrical charge dissipated and Sam collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air. He was dizzy, exhausted, barely conscious. He had nothing left to fight off Gaston and yet, inexplicably, he felt the spirit's hold on him weaken.

"No….no." Gaston's chanting resumed, now frantic and desperate, his bewilderment quickly turning to rage as he sensed his hold on Sam wane. His voice was venomous as it faded away. "Don't think this is over."

And then he was gone. Sam's fingers slowly curled into a fist as he startled back to awareness. His eyes snapped open. Dean was at his side, sliding in and out of focus. Sam felt completely disoriented, his chest heaving as he fought to pull in air.

Dean reached down, cupping Sam's face in his hand, eyes studying his brother suspiciously. "Sammy? That just you in there?"

Sam swallowed, then nodded. His voice was weak. "How-"

"Thank God." Dean exhaled in relief, then turned to the side, grabbing a phone off the table. "You still there?...Yeah, looks like it worked…Yeah…yeah…okay, I'll get him to call you."

Sam listened to the one-sided conversation, blinking heavily to bring his vision back into focus. As his brother hung up, he coughed, too exhausted to lift his head off the pillow. "What…d'you…do?"

Dean twisted to stare down at him, offering a worried smile. "We figured out a way to slam the door on Gaston."

Sam nodded slowly. He had so many questions but could barely keep his eyes open.

"Sam?"

Sam heard the worry in Dean's voice, felt he brother's hand leave the side of his face then slide down to his neck where two fingers sought out a pulse. He reached up, grabbing Dean's wrist, as his eyes slid closed. "S'okay…just tired."

He felt Dean give his wrist a gentle squeeze. "You're safe – for now. Get some sleep."

Dean's words spun through Sam's head. So unlike Gaston's, his brother's deep voice was a source of strength, a source of comfort, a lifeline to hold on to as he slipped into unconsciousness.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam peeled open his eyes, blinking in confusion, unsure where he was or even what day it was. He knew only that he had a world-class hangover but no recollection of the drinking binge that caused it. His head was pounding viciously, his stomach threatening rebellion.

"Sam? You alive?"

"Think so." Sam squinted in the direction of his brother's voice, watching blearily as Dean pulled himself out of bed, stretched with a groan and then stumbled across the room toward the window.

"Good to know." Dean yawned, rubbing a hand through his hair as he yanked back the curtain to send bright sunlight spilling into the room.

Sam screwed his eyes closed and groaned loudly, throwing an arm over his face as his headache redlined. "Jerk."

Dean grimaced apologetically. "Oops."

Sam muttered something that would have been rude had it been coherent and rolled away from the door, burying his face in his pillow.

"Seriously, Sammy – you okay? Gaston still blocked out?"

Sam rolled slowly onto his back, but reached up to clap a hand over his eyes. "Yeah. Just feels like I emptied the mini-bar again."

"That bad, huh?"

Sam frowned, rubbing his hand across his forehead as he sorted through his jumbled memories of the night before. "Gaston tried to take control." He squinted up at Dean. "How did you-"

Dean was at his side now, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Relax. You fought him off long enough for Bobby to come up with something."

Sam studied his brother, looking for any sign of injury. "I didn't hurt you?"

Dean grinned. "Nah, I'm not fallin' for that trick twice."

Sam exhaled slowly, then frowned as he sat up and his t-shirt fell open. It was ripped right up the middle. "What the-"

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, had to sacrifice your shirt in the name of a little jury-rigged protection."

Sam's frown deepened as he pulled open the torn t-shirt and discovered an ornate symbol drawn on his chest, just above his heart. Beside it and beneath it were several brownish-red smudges "What the hell – is this blood?" He raised his hand to run his fingers over the marks.

"Don't." Dean moved in quickly, knocking his brother's hand away. "Like I said, it's protection. Bobby's been studying that dark arts book. Found a spell to chase Gaston away. I recited it and it shut him out. Combined with that symbol Bobby gave me to tattoo on your chest, it should keep him out."

Sam stared down at the symbol. "Tattoo?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay, I used a Sharpie. Was kinda thinking on the fly."

Sam was still studying the marks. "And the blood?"

Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, pulling a face as he took in his handiwork. "Yeah, um, part of the symbol had to be drawn in blood. Bobby said it had to be yours."

Sam's gaze jumped to Dean. "It's my blood?"

Dean motioned with his head to his brother's hand. "Cut your finger." He smiled sheepishly. "Would have used mine but, like I said, it had to be yours."

"Dean." Sam had long ago lost count of the number of times his brother had taken a bullet for him, figuratively if not literally. He knew damn well there was no way Dean would hurt him intentionally unless there was no other option. He stared at the Band-aid that circled his index finger, a Band-aid he hadn't even noticed until Dean mentioned it, and snorted. "If this is the price for keeping Gaston out of my head, I'll pay gladly."

Dean cleared his throat. "Good to know. The marker's waterproof but you shower or start sweating and the bloodmarks are gonna wear off. Then you'll have to replace them." He motioned with his head toward the laptop on the table. "Just follow the design in Bobby's e-mail. As long as that symbol's in place, it should keep Gaston out of your head, at least until we can figure out a way to sever his connection for good."

Sam swallowed. "And if we can't – cut the connection permanently, I mean?"

"Then we visit a tattoo parlor – mix a little blood with the ink, make my little art project more permanent."

Sam's eyebrow peaked before he dropped his head and stared again at the symbol. "I guess a tattoo's a better option than more surgery."

Dean sighed. "I told you before, don't borrow trouble. While that thing's working, let's just concentrate on unplugging Gaston from his psychic network."

Sam still felt completely drained, but reveled in the silence inside his head. He looked over at his brother, offering a tired smile. "Thanks – for all this."

Dean grinned. "Don't thank me. When Gaston's history, you're detailing my car – inside and out – and doing my laundry. For a month." His grin faded as he studied Sam. "You still look like roadkill, dude. Don't think I've missed the fact you haven't even tried sitting up yet."

"I'm working on it." With a groan, Sam pushed himself up and slouched against the headboard. "Just gimme a minute."

"I'll give you twenty." Dean began rooting through his duffel, pulling out clean clothes. "I'm gonna take a quick shower, then, while you get ready, I'll walk down to the diner at the end of the block and get us some breakfast; should be back before you shampoo that girly hair of yours."

"Bite me." Sam grimaced as he pushed himself all the way up and threw back the covers.

Dean frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I'm thirsty." Sam massaged his temples as he sat on the edge of the bed, his headache objecting to the change in elevation.

Dean crossed the room to their cooler. "I grabbed some Gatorade from the machine by the office while you were sleeping. That do?"

Sam nodded. "Thanks." He hauled himself out of bed and stumbled over to his duffel, pulling out a clean shirt and jeans. He stared down at the torn t-shirt he wore. "Between you and the hospital, I'm running seriously low on clothes."

Dean smiled as he passed his the brother the drink. "I'd be a lot happier if it was chicks ripping them off you."

Sam snorted. "Yeah." He took the bottle of Gatorade from Dean, nodded his thanks, then crossed the room toward the table by the window.

Dean's smile slipped as he watched his brother's labored movements. "Take it slow, Sammy. Gaston kicked the crap out of you last night."

"Hopefully for the last time." Sam sank gratefully into one of the vinyl chairs. "I'm okay. Go get ready." He smiled tiredly at Dean. "I'm gonna do some research on Gaston. The faster we get rid of him for good, the better I'll feel."

xxxXXXxxx

When Dean emerged from the shower, Sam was in exactly the same position. The sports drink was half gone but his brother was still glued to the computer.

Dean studied Sam intently. He was less gray than he had been when he woke up but was still a long way from healthy. Dark circles underscored dull eyes and his broad shoulders seemed more hunched than usual.

Sensing the scrutiny, Sam looked up.

Dean broke eye contact and crossed to the bed, fighting hard to hide the worry gnawing at his insides. "You find anything?"

Sam sat back. "I'm starting to see why Gaston's so pissed."

Dean, dressed only in his boxers, pulled on a black t-shirt. "Okay, spill."

"Gaston quit school at 15, hooked up with Durrell and Smith shortly after. By the time they were arrested for Smith's murder twenty years later, each of them had a few million in the bank."

Dean whistled. "Nice trick. How'd they manage that?"

"They were partners in a company called DGS Shipping, an import/export outfit that, over the space of two decades, grew from an office in the backroom of a warehouse to a major player on the west coast. From what I've been able to dig up, they bullied their way to the top – making plenty of cash, and enemies, in the process."

Dean stepped into his jeans. "But how'd they get from BFFs to wanting each other dead?"

Sam shrugged. "Greed. Smith was the first to break ranks. He started skimming off profits. Court documents reference a couple of hospital visits for injuries that suggest Gaston and Durrell found out and…"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "…politely asked for their money back?"

Sam smiled. "Something like that. But instead of giving up, Smith got creative – set up his own sideline company and started siphoning off DGS business – keeping 100 per cent of profits for himself."

"Which led to him being 100 per cent dead." Dean grabbed a cotton shirt, pulled it on and began rolling up the sleeves as he pieced together the puzzle. "But Gaston and Durrell were sloppy and got charged with his murder…only Durrell somehow slipped the noose, leaving Gaston to take the fall solo."

"Yeah." Sam reached for the bottle of Gatorade and then sat back. "On top of that, Durrell somehow managed to buy up all of Smith's shares in DGS. As two-thirds owner, Durrell effectively shut out Gaston from any say in how the company was run. He has full control."

"Ouch." Dean sat down on the end of the bed, pulling on his socks and boots. "So Gaston's locked up and shut out of his own company…decides he wants payback." He frowned. "But how does he make the leap to black magic?" Dean reached for the ankle holster that held his silver knife, strapping it into place. "Why not just hire a hitman? Take Durrell out the good old-fashioned way?"

Sam shrugged. "He tried. Durrell did too. Over the years, police records show there were several failed attempts on each of their lives. Gaston ended up in the prison infirmary more than once, thanks to Durrell no doubt, and Durrell now has a car and house with bullet-proof glass and travels everywhere with a posse of bodyguards because of Gaston's attempts on his life."

Dean looked up, shaking his head as he pulled his jeans down over his ankle holster. "So Gaston gets creative; decides to use black magic to get his revenge. We'll deal with the 'how' later. He warms up by taking out the judge, the prosecutor and the jury foreman, who don't have any protection around them, and now he's after Durrell?"

Sam shrugged. "Good bet. Gaston has a lot of enemies. Who knows how many are on his hit list. But I think it's safe to assume Durrell is at or near the top. The others are just bonuses."

Dean grabbed his wallet from the dresser and shoved it in his pocket. "And now he knows the black magic works, that he can control the transplant recipients, make them kill for him, he'll just send one puppet after another on a suicide run. If one fails, he'll just send the next one, and so on…" Dean turned suddenly to face his brother. "And that's why he wants you for this job, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened. "Why?"

"You're a hunter. All his other 'puppets' are Joe Averages – I doubt there's a lick of hunting experience between them. If he's been poking around in your head, he knows you're a trained fighter, a tracker-"

"A killer." Sam looked sick as he said the word.

"Sam." Dean's voice dropped an octave. "I'm not going there, but if Gaston tapped into bits and pieces of what we've done as hunters, he's knows you've got the best chance of taking out Durrell.

"Hey." He took a step closer to his brother once he was sure he had his full attention. "Just know this; whatever his plan is, it's not gonna work. He's not using you."

Sam ran his fingers subconsciously over the protection symbol drawn on his chest. "But if he can't get to me, he'll just go after someone else."

"Not right away." Dean's eyes burned angrily. "Something tells me he won't give up without a fight. But, as long as he can't break through, that gives us time to stop him for good." He studied Sam worriedly. "Any signs Gaston's trying to get in?"

Sam shook his head. "No Gaston, no whispers, nothing."

"Good." Dean pointed to the protection symbol on Sam's chest. "When you shower, use a bandage from the first-aid kit to cover that up. I know the marker's waterproof but it doesn't hurt to be sure. And don't forget to replace the bloodmarks." He frowned. "Maybe I'll just wait here until you're done, then we'll go to the diner together."

Sam pushed himself up, grabbing his clean clothes from the bed and the first aid kit from the dresser. "Go. I'll be fine."

His brother didn't look convinced.

Sam held his hand over the symbol. "No B.S., man. It's working." He offered a half smile. "Seriously, a plain, ordinary headache has never felt so good."

Dean nodded slowly, then moved toward the door, waving a hand to the phone that sat on the table to the left of Sam's computer. "Your phone's all charged up. I won't be gone long, 15 minutes tops, but you get so much as a whisper, you call me."

"Fine."

"Sammy."

Sam made eye contact with his brother. "I promise."

Dean nodded. "Okay. What do you want to eat?"

Sam shrugged, turning toward the bathroom. "Anything – just nothing greasy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, which is it – anything or nothing greasy."

Sam shot him a glare before disappearing into the bathroom.

Dean grinned before opening door and stepping outside. "Got it. Healthy crap it is."

The sky was clear, the sun out in full force despite the early hour. Dean stopped by the Impala to grab a pair of sunglasses then headed off down the street for the easy five-minute walk to the diner.

He pulled out his phone as he walked, dialing Bobby's number.

"Hey, Dean. How's Sam?"

"Protection symbol's still working, so far at least. You find anything that'll help break his connection with Gaston for good?"

Bobby sighed. "Plenty – but nothing that doesn't require destroying the physical link."

Dean's voice was tight. "And that's exactly what we're trying to avoid."

"Don't give up, kid. I'm still digging – it's just a matter of time."

Dean frowned when he realized his hand was trembling. He clenched his fist, fighting the fear, anger and frustration he'd tried so hard to keep hidden from his brother. "I hate this, Bobby. Hate the way Gaston is slowly ripping Sam apart. Hate that I can't do anything to stop it."

Bobby's voice was calm, reassuring. "That's bull. You've been there for Sam every step of the way and, trust me, he knows it. We're almost home – don't you go fallin' apart on me in the bottom of the ninth."

Dean exhaled audibly. "Sorry, it's just-"

"Don't be sorry. Just keep doin' what you're doin'."

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam's worried that if Gaston can't take control of him, he'll go after the other transplant recipients. Any way we can protect them?"

"You mean other than draw a protection symbol on each and every one of 'em?"

Dean snorted. "Can't see how that's gonna fly; going up to each patient and saying, 'You don't know me but, you know that voice in your head? I can shut it up if you let me draw an occult symbol on your body – in blood.'"

"Yeah, there's a few logistical problems," Bobby agreed. "Not to mention the recipients are spread all across the country. Doc called me; she's tracking them down but, even if we could figure out a way to convince them they need the protection symbol, it would be a crap shoot whether we get to them all before Gaston does."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "So what do we do?"

"It's already done." Bobby's voice was matter-of-fact. "FBI Special Agent Robert S. Singer called up Pelican Bay prison this morning; had a chat with the warden. Told him we have a solid tip that there's a hit out on Gaston, and that he needs to toss Inmate 63966 into solitary, under 24-hour watch, until we smoke out the hitman's identity."

Dean had to smile at that. "Good one. Gaston won't be able to do too much black magic if he's under constant watch."

"That's what I'm counting on. It's not foolproof, but most spellwork I know of, at least for something as big as taking control of another person through psychic projection, needs symbols, charms, rituals. He starts doing any of that in solitary, it's gonna raise some eyebrows. Not to mention, getting him out of general population cuts him off from his mentor so hopefully he won't learn any new tricks."

Dean frowned. "Mentor?"

"I got access to Gaston's records since he's been incarcerated. Shortly after landing in Pelican Bay, he started hanging out with a New Orleans-born drug lord named Ti-Jean Leduc, also known as Little John. This guy is into black magic, twisted voodoo, you name it – anything that would scare the crap out of his dealers and competition to keep them in line."

Dean nodded. "And he showed Gaston the ropes?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. "Looks like they formed some kind of unholy alliance; Gaston has the money and the connections to get stuff smuggled into that prison, and stuff done on the outside, so Little John traded black magic secrets for black market perks."

Dean gritted his teeth. "And they didn't shut him down?"

"Typical prison crap; knowing about it and proving it are two different animals."

Dean huffed out a breath. "Anyway, at least isolating Gaston buys us some time."

"We've still gotta work fast." Worry tinged Bobby's voice. "Like I said, Gaston has money; if he doesn't believe there's really a threat, he'll have his lawyers working to get him back into general population by this afternoon. Then all bets are off."

"Damn it." Dean's jaw clenched. "We can't catch a freakin' break here."

"Actually we did catch one. Put me on speaker so Sam can hear this."

"Sam's back at the room – I'm on a food run." Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "But if you've got good news, spill. I sure as hell could use some."

"Knowing this Little John's background, where's he from, what he's into, I now know what kind of dark magic we're dealing with. I've got feelers out to my contacts in Louisiana." Bobby sounded hopeful. "Got my fingers crossed I'll have some way of severing Gaston's link before the day's out."

"Amen to that." Dean pulled off his sunglasses as he neared the diner. "Listen, Bobby, do me a favor. Call Sam, tell him that. The sooner he gets that news, the better."

"The protection symbol will hold, Dean."

"I know. It's just-"

"You're worried about your brother, I get that." Bobby's voice softened again. "I'll call him…And you hang in there, you hear me?"

"Yeah." Dean sighed. He clicked shut the phone and pushed open the diner door.

There was only one other customer inside when he got there. The woman behind the counter was in her late 40s and reminded Dean of what he envisioned his mother might look like now if she was still alive. He turned on his most charming smile and left 10 minutes later with a large container of fruit, another of yogurt and granola, a sausage and egg sandwich for himself, more doughnuts than he paid for and two large coffees.

He glanced around him as he walked back to the motel. Given the early hour, the street was deserted, only one car parked against the curb. It would soon be busy, once the stores that lined his route opened for business, but for now he had the street to himself.

Balancing the bag of food on the cardboard tray that held the two coffees, he dug out his phone from his right pocket, called up Sam's number and lifted the phone to ear.

Sam answered with a resigned sigh. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean grinned. "Good, just checking in. I'm on my way back now."

"You couldn't wait five minutes to see for yourself."

Dean snorted. "I was only in the shower five minutes the other night. Look what happened then." He kicked himself as soon as the words came out, knowing how guilty Sam felt about the attack under Gaston's influence. "Sorry, Sammy – that didn't come out like I meant it. Bobby call?"

"Yeah. Told me about his New Orleans contacts. It's something."

"It's a good something. You know Bobby. He'll-"

A large blue sedan jolted out of the alley to Dean's right, lurching to a stop in front of him. His right hand holding the phone shot out, colliding with driver's side window as he fought to stop himself from falling forward onto the car.

"What the f…" Dean slammed his fist onto the roof of the car. "Dude, drive with your eyes open."

The passenger door of the car opened and a man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood up, his face expressionless as he reached into his jacket pocket.

Dean's heart ratcheted up a notch. Instinctively he took a few steps away from the car.

The man in the sunglasses flashed a badge. "FBI. We'd like you to come with us."

A chill danced up Dean's spine; he whirled around, the bag of food toppling from the tray, to see two men, dressed much like the man in the car, walking up behind him.

"Dean?" Sam's worried voice came through the phone in his hand. "What's going on?"

Dean's heart was pounding at the now obvious ambush. He offered the approaching men an exaggerated smile. "What seems to be problem, fellas?"

The man in front of him closed the car door and put his badge away. "Just come with us, sir."

Dean turned, so he had the car on his left and the two men on foot on his right, and backed slowly away from both, into the street. He raised his phone hand in surrender, eyes darting back and forth between the two approaching threats, but as the phone neared his mouth, he barked one simple command into it: "Do it now, Hilts."

Then instinct kicked in. Dean dropped the phone and the tray of coffees, spinning to face the two men on his right and decking the closest. As that man reeled from the solid punch to the chin, Dean kicked out his left leg, his boot catching the second man in the gut causing him to stumble back with an audible grunt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the back doors of the sedan opening and two more men climbing out. Shit. That made it five against one.

Dean knew when to cut his losses. He bolted.

But he had covered only a few yards when the man with the badge, a deceptively fast linebacker type, slammed into him from behind. Both men hit the street hard, the impact jarring loose Dean's sunglasses, tearing the knees of his jeans as he hit the road and ripping the skin from the heels of his hands as they slid along the asphalt.

A hand grabbed his hair, slamming his head into the road. Dean saw stars but, with adrenaline fueling instinct, he drove his elbow backwards, taking satisfaction in the exhaled "oof" as bone met the taut abdomen of his attacker.

His victory was short-lived; again, his head was slammed into the road. Pain exploded through his skull, his vision graying at the edges as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. A second man joined in the assault. Dean cried out unwittingly as a knee was pressed heavily into the small of his back. His arms were twisted behind him and held there, while booted feet stood on his ankles, pinning him to the ground.

Dean lifted his head sluggishly, squinting against the bright sunlight overhead to take in the silhouettes of his attackers. The ones he could see were each about Sam's height but easily outweighed his brother by about 50 pounds a piece. He struggled against their hold as one patted him down, then cursed as the stranger found, and took away, the silver knife in his ankle holster. He cursed the fact he wasn't carrying his gun.

Dean's head was now pounding in time with his heart but he offered his best smile. "Listen fellas. We got off to a bad start. How about…ow."

He jumped as he felt the sting of a needle in his neck. His captors relaxed their hold and Dean rolled onto his back, instinctively pushing himself away from the men standing around him. But whatever they'd injected him with worked fast. His body went limp, his vision blurred, the sunlight creating halos around each of the men looking down at him.

"Halos?" He snorted. "No fucking way are you angels." His voice sounded thick and slow, his tongue like it was suddenly too big for his mouth. He frowned when he realized one of the men was talking but he couldn't understand him: his words were all garbled, his voice sounding like a tape playing at the wrong speed. Dean flopped onto his stomach, trying to crawl away, but his body refused to co-operate.

Dean fought to keep his eyes open as he felt beefy arms hook under his and haul him to his feet. He slumped in their hold, rubber legs refusing to hold his weight. The men's grip shifted and he felt himself being dragged forward, his legs trailing uselessly behind as he watched the road blur beneath him. He was vaguely aware of a car door opening, of being shoved inside, his head colliding with the door frame, and then nothing.

To Be Continued………

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. I'm busy tweaking Chapter 7 and it should be up by the end of the week, as long as RL co-operates. If you have a minute or two, I'd love to hear what you think. Cheers and, again, thanks so much for reading.