PREVIOUSLY:

Luther set the tray down on the table. Reaching into the deep pockets of her scrubs, "Judy" pulled out a long silver blade. She stalked over noiselessly, feet barely making a whisper on the tile. She raised the knife high above Dean, an evil grin flashing across her face before she heaved the knife downward.

There was a small gasp, a gurgle, and then death.

It must be a nightmare.

That's all Dean could think as his eyelids fluttered open to the sight before him. A long silver blade was rocketing downwards with the intent to kill. Its wielder? A little blonde who looked like she had never harmed a soul in her life.

Dean gasped. Dream or not, he wasn't going to be taking any chances. He rolled sideways, adrenaline heightening his drowsy senses. His fingers felt his own knife in his belt and they closed around it, brandishing it from the pouch. With a lunge and a stab it was done.

The nurse stood dumbfounded, her petite fingers dropping her unused weapon to the floor with a clatter. Her hands went to the gaping hole pierced through her abdomen. Dean was on his feet now, gun drawn and at the ready. But there was no need for the firearm. The woman went to her knees. Blood dribbled slightly out of her mouth. There was a gurgle-barely distinguishable, but the disbelief in her voice was resonating.

And then she dropped.

Blood pooled on the floor. Her life slipped away in the rivulets of the tile. Dean still couldn't think clearly. Less than ten seconds ago, he'd been asleep, and now here he was: Heart racing, blood pounding in his ear, and the blood of his assassin on his hands.

What the Fuck.

It had taken hours, but the body was finally cleared from Sam's room. Dean had needed a few minutes to compose himself, and of course he thoroughly checked his brother to ensure no harm had been done. Once the initial shock was passed, Dean went into the drill: He pulled out the fake ID's, slipped into his FBI persona, and called the cops.

The rest was a blur. Between sobbing coworkers, dumbfounded janitors, and whispering gossipers, the news had spread like wildfire throughout the hospital. All around there was denial…

"Oh, I never thought Judy…"

"Can you believe…?"

"I always knew there was something off about that girl…"

And so it continued. It was to the point where Dean was about to sock one of them in the mouth. He was exhausted, Sam was exhausted, and he wanted to get the hell out of here before he made his way onto the Eight o'clock news. Needless to say, their cover was one hair away from being blown to shit.

But still, cop after cop filed into the room, questioning them and interrogating, cross examining his story countless times. Around four in the morning, Dean decided he had had enough.

"Out." He said sternly, voice unwavering. The cop stopped mid question.

"Excuse me, Agent?" he was obviously a rookie. Dean knew that this would be his only chance to intimidate one of them.

"You heard me." Dean's eyes went cold. "I. Said. Out."

"But sir, you know better than anyone that this case needs to be-" The eyes of the young man went wide as saucers as Dean slowly raised his gun.

"If you don't get the fuck out right now, I will shoot off your balls- Followed by your nose, and then your ears." He smiled wryly. "I. Am. Tired. And. I. Am. Grouchy."

Let's just say the officer was kind enough to let him get some sleep.

Dean stalked over to the bed where his baby brother lay, practically drooling with exhaustion. However, Sam had refused to sleep when Dean couldn't.

"Sam?"

"Ngh."

"We're done. You can go to bed."

"You…f-rst…" Sam was so adamant. Dean smiled, patting his shoulder.

"I'm already asleep Sam. I'm already in bed. See?"

Sam didn't even open his eyes.

"Ohh….k…Yep…I…see…"Sam's head lolled.

Dean chuckled and muttered something about 'the effects of over-exhaustion on a drug-addled brain'.

"Night, Sam."

All he got in return was a snore.

A lamp flew against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. The bookcase was swept off its legs and a thousand antique leather bindings flew from the shelves, landing helplessly and cruelly within the smolders of the fireplace. Before long, the papers caught, sending smoke and flames swirling and dancing around the room. More things toppled and crashed. Larson just needed to hear the sound- he needed the breaking. Sofas were picked up like sacks of potatoes and flung through layers of drywall and cedar beams. Springs and cushions snapped, bookends shattered the French doors, and the umbrella stand splintered into long spikes of shrapnel.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Larson howled, tears and blood streaking down his face.

"NOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He fell to his knees, then, weeping hysterically, breaths coming at random and in heavy bursts. Luther couldn't be dead, he couldn't be. That was impossible, his big brother was invincible….

Luther released another wretched shriek before pounding two hairy and clawed mitts down onto the floor. Their power carried his fists through the planked floor and into the concrete bedding. Larson could have smiled, the irony was so great.

"As weak as your form…" he remembered. "As powerful as your wolf…"

That was their mantra- their family catchphrase, if you would. Of course, the full meaning had never been apparent to them until they both came of age. As Aleki, their powers came from the moon and the beast. Every Aleki was born with a wolf- it was them, their persona, in a raw, powerful monster. The beasts were huge and threatening, often times defeating their prey from simply scaring them to death.

And for a boy who was inferior, like Larson…

Well, his wolf had been a blessing. But Luther, he was…wow. Luther was already so powerful, so perfect. Larson looked up to him more than anyone. He didn't need his wolf, he didn't need anything…or anyone.

Larson felt the tears fall down the tip of his nose-no, his human nose. He refused to be human anymore.

"As weak as your form…"

Luther had taken on the shape of the blonde, whose corpse Larson had dutifully taken back to the house for proper disposal. But in doing so, he became just as weak-just as mortal, anyway-as she had been.

"But Luther…" Larson choked on a sob, not even realizing that he was talking aloud. "You w-w-were always-s s-so car-e-f-ful…" He buried his head in his hands and wept. Images of happier times, back when his brother was proud of him, back when they hunted together, back when they weren't monsters.

Back when they were just two brothers.

They had done everything together. Luther had taught him how to do anything he asked. He had practically raised him. But everything changed when Luther became of age.

"I have no time, brother, for you antics. Now run along and play, or do something useful. Try not to be…you."

The first time Luther had ever said those words, Larson had been hurt badly. They cut him deeper than knives. After the years, though, his skin became leather, and his scars healed faster and faster. He no longer expected his best friend to return; instead, he accepted this new Luther-this new, powerful, intimidating, violent brother.

Larson picked himself up off the floor. He tried to hear his brother's voice in his head.

"Get off the floor, you sniveling rodent. Pain is bitter, but revenge is sweet."

No…not that one, Larson thought. Not that voice…

"It's us against the world, Larson. Remember that. I will never leave you behind." Larson smiled through his tear streaked face. He had been four when Luther told him that. He still remembered. He still held on to those moments. But the grief was too fresh, and Larson felt hit after hit of the memories swimming in his brain. He couldn't handle them all, and he sank to the floor.

"Lutherrrrrrr!" He moaned, rocking himself. He could picture his older brother the way they were as children. He would run to him now and hug him tight, not caring who saw, not caring if their father whipped him for being soft. Luther would comfort him.

He hadn't always been a monster.

A fresh wave of blinding pain coursed through his chest. He clung desperately to the chair. He couldn't deny the hate he felt for the Winchesters, and the pain they had caused him. It is only fair that they receive the same.

"If you ever loved me at all, brother," Luther's cold voice spat in the recesses of Larson's mind, "You will finish what we started."

"Yes, Luther. I will. I swear to you I will kill them. I will bury them. They will watch each other die, and they will realize what they have done to us. The Winchesters must be punished."

"They must be punished. Severely."

Suddenly, something in his mind clicked.

And Larson got off the floor.

His eyes were red, but steely. His voice stoic and his jaw set. This was the new Larson, a killer in every way. Luther's coldness now shone through the eyes of his baby brother, and the hate behind them could stop a planet in its tracks.

He shot a glance at the books still blazing in the fire place. A sick little smirk teased at the corner of his mouth when the flames licked out and caught the curtains. The walls went up in a blaze of yellow flames. He calmly collected his coat and boots, stepping from the parlor into the foyer, and then the garage. He calmly dragged the nurse's body into the house and threw her down the basement stairs, smiling with every crack and thud her fragile little bones gave. He picked his favorite SUV and pulled away from the smoking mansion. He checked to make sure the house was fully ablaze before steering casually onto the highway.

He had one job now, one task. Revenge was in his blood, he screamed for it. He would not be weak. He had no need for anything, no need for anyone. Fuck the deal with Crowley. He was doing this job for his own sweet pleasure, now, not some deal with the devil.

So, the house?

Let it burn.

Dean knew they needed to leave town. They could finish the hunt later, when Sam was well and things weren't quite so hot around town. He woke Sam up before noon that morning and let him sign the release forms. They left eh hospital with two weeks' worth of painkillers and the crate of sterile dressings.

Plus, Dean grabbed some extra on the way out.

What? Don't judge. You can never be too safe.

So now, Dean and Sam lounged in the motel room. The drive back had been long and tedious, what with Sam cringing at every speed bump, and by the time they reached the motel forty minutes later, a white sheen of sweat was on his face.

Dean struggled to get him into the house, and once Sam was propped firmly against the cushions in front of the TV, Dean forced the pills down his throat.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean had scolded when he resisted the meds. "You know you're in pain, bucko, so do me a favor and don't be a bitch about it."

Sam had shot a glare at him and swallowed the little tablets. The effect was almost immediate, and after five minutes, he was giggling in his sleep. Dean smiled from the kitchen table where he was doing research. His brother could be a bundle of fun when he wasn't being such a little prissy.

It was almost dinner time, and Dean was on his third beer, when a knock on the door sent Dean's hand flying to his sidearm. He shot a glance at Sam, keeping him on the edge of his peripheral vision at all times. If he had to jump between a threat and his brother, he needed to know exactly how many steps.

He could almost hear his brother's nagging voice in his head "Dean, paranoid much? It's probably a maid or something."

Yah, well, with the shit he'd seen in the past 36 hours, Dean had the right to be a tad bit 'on edge.'

The hunter held his gun in two hands, walking SWAT style to the door frame. Quickly, he peered through the peephole. At first he thought it was dark outside already, but then he figured something must be blocking the line of sight.

It wasn't until that distinctive click resonated through the door that Dean realized there was exactly one inch of magnifying glass between his face and the dark barrel of that 12-Gauge.

Dean barely had time to suck in a breath and twist as far out of the way as he could before the gunshot sounded in the air.

BOOOM!

It was a waiting game, really. And Larson could wait. Hell, he'd waited in freezing temperatures in the middle of the woods for that tall one to die, or at least go mad. Sometimes, insanity came first. The forest played tricks on the mind. But they weren't in the forest anymore. This was Suburbia, white picket fences in a quiet northern town. Even the motels were well-kept. Very few tourists came up these parts, and the rooms were almost always vacant. Henrietta Marsh ran the place. She had to be well into her eighties, at least. Sweet old lady, always quick to help a guy in need, always quick to call for help.

Larson sighed.

Alas, that would be a problem, wouldn't it…

Larson evacuated the Dark SUV and walked casually over to the check in. Henrietta looked up at his tired face and gave him her gentlest grandmother smile.

"Larson, dear, it's been a while since I saw you and Luther around town. How do you to keep to yourselves so much? The town is beautiful at this time of year. Christmas is tomorrow, after all." She smiled, missing the twitch in his eye when she mentioned his deceased brother. "Hold on, right there, dear. I think I might have a few candy canes left in the back."

"Oh, really, Ms. March. There's no need for that." Larson felt the shotgun by his leg, easily concealed on this side of the counter.

"Oh, come now. You're still a growing boy. I always say, that growing is growing, even if it's only sideways." She chuckled sweetly.

Larson almost felt remorse for what he was about to do.

"Ms. March, may I ask you something? "He seems rather distracted, and she mistook his nervousness.

She turned back towards him with a smile.

"You see, ma'am, I heard the other day that, well, there were these bad men in town. Rambling Men, I suppose. I heard they were staying in your motel."

She thought hard for a minute, trying to choose her words carefully. The two boys had seemed very polite, especially the tall one. It had been quite a long time since she had seen a man like that. She though they stopped making those years ago….

"Well," she began. "I can't right say. I have two young gentlemen staying with me currently. They were very chivalrous. Quite handsome too," she giggled. "If you don't mind me saying."

Larson applied his best fake smile, which apparently was quite convincing, because she continued to chatter on. He kept one eye fixed on the parking lot, waiting for that stupid Chevy to pull in. By god, he would torch the damn thing just to kick them while they were down…

"Dear?" Larson didn't notice Ms. Marsh ask him the question. "Dear?"

He snapped back.

"Oh, forgive me, I got lost in thought. What was it you were saying?"

"Well, I was just wondering if there was anything else I could help you with?"

Larson scrubbed a hand over his tired face. "Well, Ms. Marsh, see that's the problem isn't it. You're quite helpful-too helpful, in fact. You would be the kind of woman that would alert authorities of any…conflagrations, would you not?"

It may have been the way he had shifted, or the new tone in his voice, but Henrietta suddenly chose her words very carefully. "Well, Larson," she said slowly. "I would not stand for any violence or wrongdoings under this roof. This is a place for travelers and friends, and I doubt they would ever cause a little old woman trouble." She paused, a new tone of authority rising up. "However, if worse came to worse and a problem could not be handled without help, I would of course alert authorities. I am a good citizen, and I believe in citizen law and such, but here are certain things that I can't handle alone." She allowed herself a cautious smile. "Why do you ask, Dear?"

Larson nodded slowly. "No reason…" He walked around the counter. "But, I was afraid that that was what you'd say."

Larson barely had time to register the terrified look on her face before the barrel sent a bullet between her eyes.

"I do apologize, Ms. Henrietta." Larson cleaned the powder off the 12 Gauge with her handkerchief, now spotted with blood. "But you see, these men killed my brother, and I have to repay the favor. Unfortunately, you would have complicated things. I'm sure you understand."

Larson returned to the car.

He donned his gloves and his ski mask.

And he waited.

BOOOOM!

Shrapnel flew from the entry hole, and Dean felt the shower of splinters. He ran towards his brother's sleeping form and covered him, hoping to keep most of the jagged pieces from hurting him. He was barely on top of Sam when his ringing ears picked up the sound of a door frame being smashed in.

He is in the room.

He has a gun.

He has a bigger gun than me.

How does that even happen?

Dean rose his head up from his brother's shoulder and moved just quick enough to dodge a bullet that landed much too close to Sam. It sunk instead into the wall six inches above the bed frame.

"WOAH, WOAH!" Dean ducked again. The gunman was shooting at him, and at least for this, Dean could be glad. Better him than the cripple.

Sam awoke at the sound of his brother's shouts, and Dean silently cursed when he saw Sam's lids flutter open. Apparently, the lower grade pain meds they had been given didn't have the same side effects as the other ones, because, despite his obvious grogginess, Sam seemed completely coherent for a change.

"SAM!" Dean ducked another bullet. His assailant loaded shot after shot, his black ski mask covering his obviously square jaw and corded neck. He wondered briefly what would happen if the motel owner called the cops, but with a guy like this, the receptionist was probably already dead.

Sam shook his head to clear the cobwebs. When he finally realized what was actually happening, he jumped into action.

Well, he tried to anyway.

Sam leapt out of bed, gun drawn from beneath the pillow. His hip gave out the moment he stepped to the carpet and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. His teeth ground into each other with a thousand pounds of pressure; it was all the youngest Winchester could do not to scream. Pain flared up and down his shattered hip, but he managed to raise his pistol with a shaky hand and get off a few shots. None of them hit the target, but Sam accomplished his goal. He distracted the monster from Dean.

DAMMIT, SAM! Dean saw Sam's intent, and he cursed him for it. Still, Dean took that slight hesitation in their assassin to lunge for him. His back was turned to confront Sam, who still held the pistol, when Dean fisted the demon knife and leapt with all the force he had. Time seemed to slow down, and Dean felt himself flying through the air, arms ready to tackle this guy and beat him to shit. But, more rapidly than Dean though possible, the man turned.

Dean's face quickly went from intent to shock as the barrel came up against his chest, knocking the wind out of him. His momentum still carried him into the man, and they collapsed into a heap on the floor, Dean holding his knife with all his strength.

There was a shot, and neither man on the floor moved.

Sam was still slightly dazed, and needless to say in pain, but adrenaline had taken the front seat.

Sam watched his brother kick off from the wall, his jaw set and his shoulder ready for a rough tackle. Dean had lost his gun sometime in the beginning, Sam could see. Otherwise, this would have been over quickly. Dean was a way better shot than this guy.

Fortunately, Dean had his knife stowed in his jacket, and Sam felt relieved when he brandished the weapon. At least he wouldn't be going in naked.

Dean seemed to be shot out of a cannon. He flew silently and hard towards the gunman with the knife expertly pointed to inflict the most damage. Sam felt confident. Dean would end it right here, right now. He was invincible.

But his relief had turned to dread when the shotgun of the man swiveled from Sam to the leaping Dean. Sam saw the look on Dean's face as he collided chest first with the 12-Gauge.

All Sam could do was yell.

The shot sounded the second they hit the ground.

Sam's heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

Oh, god, no. No. Please, Dean, please.

Sam could see no movement from either man. Tears began to well up in his brown eyes, but he forced them back .Crying wouldn't do any good. He needed to check on his brother.

Sam cautiously hobbled and dragged his way across the carpet. The first thing he did was pry the shotgun out of the unmoving fingers of their assailant. He clicked the safety and tossed the gun onto the bed. He felt the man's neck for a pulse.

Nothing.

Assured, Sam turned his attention to the unnaturally still form of his brother.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, fingers hovering over his brother's head. "Dean? Please, man, please talk to me…"

Sam waited.

"Dean?" he placed a calloused hand on Dean's shoulder and shook. Sam's head fell onto his chest and he sat there, struggling to hold back the tears. "No…Dean…"

A low groan pierced the silence, making Sam jump to alert. He would recognize that grumpy huff anywhere. "DEAN! Dean, are you ok? Oh, God." He flipped his brother over and gasped, seeing the crimson pool soaking through his shirt.

"I'm ok, Sammy. Nghhhh…" Dean groaned, bringing a hand up to his chest where he had impacted with the barrel. That was gonna leave one hell of a bruise. "Ser-usly, I'm good."

"But, the blood, Dean!" Sam ran a hand thorough his hair, still panicking slightly, despite Dean's assurances.

"'S-not mine, Sammy. Well, at least, not most of it." He groaned again and that when Sam snapped back to reality. He studied the scene before him.

The man in black was dead, the demon knife lodged deep into his chest cavity. His shotgun was smeared with gunshot residue and blood from the point blank shot.

"Dean? Did he shoot you, man?"

"Nah, I don't think so, anyways…" Dean moaned again, bringing his knuckles to his thyroid. That was gonna leave a HELL of a bruise for sure! He was barely on his feet when he let out a hiss of pain, clutching his side. Blood oozed from beneath his fingers. "Then again," he gritted his teeth into a smile. "I've been wrong before."

"Jesus Dean, lemme take a look at that."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, it just grazed me. We have extra sterile wraps, right? I can do this by myself. Go back to sleep. It's past your bedtime anyway."

"Since when do I have a bedtime, Asshat?"

"Since ten seconds ago when I told you you had passed it. Duh."

"Oh, real mature, Dean. You get shot and you're still acting like a mother hen."

"Close your cakehole."

"Close your bullet wound."

"Aw, C'mon, that's not-that isn't even clever!"

"Looks who's talking."

"You calling me stupid?"

"No, not at all. Merely…Intellectually challenged."

"That's it, I'll take you right here. Put 'em up, Loser. Let's go. Even shot and beat to shit I could kick your ass."

"Oh yah, because this is definitely a fair fight."

"You're right, Sammy, you are pretty messed up."

"No, no, I was still talking about you."

"You-You are such an ass."

"Chick."

"Oh, no, you did not just bring my masculinity into this. I pride myself on my masculinity. You might as well have just insulted my Baby."

"Yah, you were always kind of butch, weren't you?"

"You bitch."

"'You sassy Bitch', you mean."

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" Dean threw his hands up in the air and stalked gingerly to the bathroom. Sam's laughter chimed behind him, and he slammed the door shut. He dug through his duffel, whipping out the sterile wraps. He was right. The bullet had just grazed him, but Dean knew how lucky he had been.

He wrapped the wound and stepped back into the living space. Sam had managed to crawl back up on the bed, but the effort of the past few minutes were clear on his face. He was pale and drawn, and obviously in need of some food and water. Dean headed to the kitchen, stepping over the body. He figured he should probably dispose of it somehow, but he had to make Sammy lunch. And hell, the body wasn't exactly going anywhere, was it?

"Excuse me, "He said with sarcasm as he stepped over the corpse. "I just have to make a quick sandwich. Don't mind me."

And Dean made that sandwich. It was the most kickass sandwich he had ever crafted, actually, and he was proud of himself. It was perfectly layered, perfectly proportioned in relation to mustard, mayonnaise, and cutlets. The lettuce, for once, was fresh, and he didn't squish any of the tomatoes trying to cut them. It was magnificent.

"Sam," He sauntered out of the kitchenette, glory-between-bread in one hand and two beers in the other. "Man, this is beautiful. And I made it just for you. So you better eat the whole thing, because if you don't then-" Dean stopped.

Sam was already asleep.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered. He looked down at the beauty in his hand. The temptation was so great. The only thing that would make this better would be pie.

He looked back at his brother, then back at the sandwich.

He tiptoed back into the kitchen, found some plastic wrap, and secured the sandwich within the fridge. Sam needed it more than he did.

"Night, Baby Brother." Dean whispered, stroking the hair lightly out of Sam's closed eyes. Dean was rewarded with a small gurgle and a half smile. "And Merry Christmas Eve." He began to walk away.

"D-n?" A small voice brought him back to the bed.

"Yah, Sam?"

"You…remembered…" Sam smiled wholeheartedly, then snuggled back deep into his pillow.

"Of course I remembered Sam. It's Christmas. Now go the fuck to sleep or Santa won't give you shit."

Dean smiled, and Sam gave a deep, sleepy laugh.

Dean adjusted his pillows and propped up his casts. He also went to the freezer and filled up the ice bags like the doc had told him to. Sam's biggest problem at this point was swelling, and Dean had to be sure that there would be no permanent nerve damage. Wrapping the arctic bags in towels, Dean leaned them against his bruises, bending carefully over the bed as to not aggravate his own injuries. Sam shivered, and Dean hiked the blanket further up his neck, tucking him in.

Dean turned around and noticed that Sam had left the TV on.

The irony made him laugh out loud. What a classic…what a bitch.

"It's a Wonderful Life"

So that concludes the action part, but stay tuned for brotherly fluff when they open presents tomorrow morning. Remember Dean's shopping? Yah, he's basically a shopaholic. Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed and continue to do so. I'm sorry I haven't been faster with this, I usually am! Life is just hectic. Please review, because it makes me sad when you don't…